The Dandelion Seed
The Dandelion Seed
Lena Kennedy
First published in Great Britain in 1987 by
MacDonald & Co (Publishers) Ltd
This edition published in 2013 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © Executors of the Estate of FG Smith 1987
The right of Lena Kennedy to be identified as the Author of the
Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any
means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be
otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that
in which it is published and without a similar condition being
imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance
to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
Ebook ISBN 978 1 444 76738 4
Paperback ISBN 978 1 444 76737 7
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
Contents
Foreword
It is strange how a tiny plant seed, so minute and hardly discernible will survive any conditions no matter how much we ignore it, try to destroy it, or even protect it. Regardless of what we do, out of a batch of seeds, at least one will always survive.
As I sit in a green meadow, the birds are singing around me and the tall grasses rustle in the wind. In the distance I can see a clump of golden dandelions, the most common of our wild flowers. ‘Piddle-beds’ we called them when I was a child and played in this same meadow. ‘Don’t pick them,’ my friends would say. ‘If you do you will wet the bed tonight.’ With the wilful obstinacy of youth I picked a good bunch, and then wondered why I had not wet the bed that night, as my companions had claimed I would.
Now I sit and dream in this peaceful meadow and watch the tiny dandelion seeds float off on the swift breeze in the direction of the sea, taking their own flight towards the shore where they split up, sending the tiny umbrella-like shapes on to their individual destinies. I began to wonder how far they would float on the waters. Would they soar over the sea to be lost in the ocean or would each one have its own place to rest and take root? Perhaps it would land in some meadow like this one, or in some suburban garden, a clump of golden blooms coming forth to strike annoyance in a dedicated gardener who would dig them up and curse the wind that brought them.
Dandelion seeds have been in existence for almost as long as man. When and where did they come from? When the Pilgrim Fathers sailed for new lands, did the dandelion seed sail with them? As I lie on my back deep in reflection and chewing a piece of grass, I am inclined to think so . . .
1
The Brook
Over the flat Essex marshland, runs the River Lea. The rider crossing the marsh on this dark February night felt cold and dejected. In spite of his thick warm cloak, the chilly white mist seemed to get to his bones. Even his horse was getting weary and slowing down as if the cold were seeping into its limbs. The rider would not be sorry to get to London. He had ridden from the coast, travelling since early morning through miles of deep forests and tiny hamlets. With a shiver he pulled up the collar of his cloak about his ears. ‘It would have been better if I had stayed overnight at Higham Hall,’ he thought to himself. ‘I would have been made welcome there, but in this desolate waste, there is no place I know.’ Thomas Mayhew had begun to feel quite sorry for himself.
As he reached the crest of the hill he could see a little brook dancing over the meadow to join its big sister the River Lea. Dismounting, he led his horse to the clear rippling water. As the horse drank, Thomas stretched his legs, only realising then how very saddle-sore and weary he was. For a moment he was heartened by the sight of a dim light to the left. But then realising what it was, his heart sank. ‘Brook House,’ he muttered. ‘No good going up there. Robert Carr and the Brook family were not exactly friends, so they’ll not welcome me.’
Thomas looked across the wet green fields ahead of him and stroked his black pointed beard. It was dangerous country, this Lammas land, he thought. People talked of witches who danced out there at Lammas Tide. Again he shivered and pulled his cloak tighter around him. Better ride on, he thought, turning to his horse to remount.
Through the still air came a sound like the whimpering of an animal. Peering towards the long grass at the side of the brook, Thomas suddenly saw a young girl lying there, and sobbing as though her heart would break. He went over and gently lifted her up.
‘What’s the matter, lass?’ he asked softly.
The girl did not answer but her thin shoulders shook with distress. She tried hard to pull away from him but he held her firm.
‘What are you doing out here all alone?’ he asked. ‘Has your lover deserted you?’
The girl struggled under Thomas’ hand. ‘No, no,’ she sobbed. ‘It’s my mother.’
Thomas took hold of her arm. He held her firmly but continued to speak softly. ‘Come now, let’s go and find your mother. It’s much too cold to be out here.’
‘They will kill her when dawn breaks!’ The girl’s voice rose hysterically.
‘Who will kill her?’ Thomas felt himself losing his patience. Soon it would be dawn and the air had got colder. All he wanted was a warm bed. ‘I can’t leave you out here, that’s for sure,’ he muttered.
Reaching out, he lifted her small thin body up on to his horse, and then remounted himself. And with the girl’s shivering body pressed close to him, Thomas turned towards the rising sun.
As they rode across the wet grass, he glanced down at the tear-stained face at his shoulder. She was not a bad-looking little girl, he thought – thin with long delicate features, which were not at all usual among the common people. She looked about thirteen, and he wondered who she was.
After a while the girl’s shivers stopped and she began to talk. ‘Oh dear, good sir, please help me,’ she pleaded. ‘They have dragged my mother from our bed and done terrible things to her. They say they will drown her in the pond today at daybreak.’
Her hazel-brown eyes stared pathetically up at him, and Thomas felt a sudden surge of protective anger. ‘What devils!’ he exclaimed. ‘But why?’
‘They say she is a witch,’ the girl wailed. ‘But it is not true. She is the dearest mother in all the world.’ The sobs came forth again.
Thomas had begun to feel doubtful. Perhaps he should have left the girl where he had found her. He couldn’t afford to get mixed up in a witch hunt.
‘Where’s the nearest inn?’ he asked.
‘The Duke’s Head at Hackney. It belongs to my stepfather.’
‘Well! I’d better return you to him,’ Thomas replied with a feeling of relief. At last he knew what to do with her.
‘But my mother . . .’ she begged. ‘Please, you must help her!’
‘We will see,’ he muttered soothingly to try to keep her quiet. Luckily, she seemed content at this answer and settled down against his chest.
Thomas drew her closer and was surprized to realize that he felt a strange affinity with this young maid, who sat waiting so confidently for him to help her.
At last the sun came up in the east, a huge red ball of fire. They crested the hill and went down into a green valley, which was grey in the misty morning sun.
‘Down there! That’s where they are!’ The girl pointed excitedly as they rode down towards a small village.
‘What’s your name?’ asked Thomas.
‘Marcelle,’ she replied, ‘Marcelle de la Strange.’
‘Isn’t that French?’
‘Yes, we came here from France last year, but my father’s enemies followed him and killed him, out there beside the brook.’ Her voice wavered as she added: ‘That’s why I ran to the brook, to call on the spirit of my father to help my mother in her distress.’
They reached the bottom of the slope and there was no mistaking the sound of a mob – the mutters and moans of angry excited voices and above them every now and then rose a piercing scream.
Marcelle held on tight as Thomas whipped up his horse and charged down the hill. A large group of people stood around a pond screaming and jeering at a woman in the water. As she struggled to get above the water, she was pushed down again with long sticks. Her screams were terrible. The crowd were not only trying to drown her but were throwing bricks and filth at her as well. Marcelle pressed her little face close to his chest as Thomas rode into the crowd, drawing his sword and striking all around him. When he had pushed them back from the edge of the pond, he dropped from his horse’s back to the ground and waded into the water. Grasping the poor bedraggled bundle he pulled her out and laid her onto the grass. But he could see it was too late. The woman’s hair had been torn out in lumps, and her face and body were a mass of wounds. They had tortured the poor defenceless woman literally to the point of death.
Thomas felt sick, and trembled with rage at the sight of the dead woman. But who had been responsible for this terrible deed?
The crowd drifted off, still hurling insults at the man who had spoiled their fun. As he turned again to the sodden body on the ground, some manservants, saying that they came from Brook House, offered to help. ‘We will take her inside until someone claims the body,’ said an old man in coachman’s livery. He lifted the poor ragged burden from the ground, but Marcelle clung on to her mother’s arm, which was almost as thin as her own.
‘Oh, don’t leave me!’ she cried out. ‘Please don’t take her away.’
But firmly the old man carried the wet body off and Thomas held Marcelle in his arms until her weeping had died down. ‘Let’s go and find this stepfather of yours,’ he said gently. He lifted her back on to his horse and rode with the sobbing, shivering girl towards Hackney.
It was a rural village, Hackney, with a Norman church. On the village green stood stocks in which Marcelle’s poor mother had spent her last night.
‘It’s here,’ Marcelle whispered. ‘This is where I live.’ They were heading towards an inn lying back off the main track. A big gateway opened on to a cobbled courtyard and above it a sign swung in the breeze. ‘The Duke’s Head’. It was very quiet and no one was about, but as soon as Thomas had lifted her down from the horse, Marcelle gave a terrified glance at the door. ‘I’ll not see him!’ she cried and scuttled off around the back of the house like a young rabbit.
Thomas Mayhew was astonished and stared after her. Taking off his round flat hat, with Robert Carr’s crest embroidered on it, he scratched his head and rolled his eyes.
‘Well, there’s gratitude!’ he chuckled. ‘Well, I’ll need to rest up, anyway.’ He whistled and a bent old ostler appeared to take care of his horse.
Thomas went inside the inn. It was very dark inside. As his eyes became accustomed to the light, Thomas could make out a long low tap room and sawdust on the floor. Stalls, tables and trestles were dotted here and there about the place. Only two people were there – the landlord and a customer, a small, shrivelled old man wearing a smock. The landlord was big and brawny. Without a word, he served Thomas with ale and then turned back to his other customer. Thomas wondered whether to tell him about Marcelle and the death of his wife, but he decided to remain quiet. From his corner he drank the strong ale and listened to the conversation between the landlord and the old man.