The innkeeper sent a boy on horseback to see what the parson was up to, creating such a racket and upsetting everyone.
The old folk pulled their shawls tighter about them and began to drift home. The party was over for them.
Ten minutes later, the messenger returned to say that the noble Prince Henry had passed away. And the remaining guests at the wedding party wept and wailed.
Thomas listened to the noise of the chatter and the weeping in stunned disbelief. It could not be true. A black cloud of guilt seemed to pass through his brain. Oh God! He had cursed this young prince every day and had wished him dead. Surely it had nothing to do with him! No, by God, he was not going to let such nonsense sway him. He had heard of black magic, but he was not going to let himself be influenced by it. It was simply as God had willed. It had been time for the prince to die; he would have gone anyway, whether it had been battlefield or in bed. There was a time to die and a time to live. Thomas shook his head. He would go up to see his bride. At least she did not know that the father of the child she carried had left this earth and, please God, she never would, he thought.
In Annabelle’s best guest-chamber, Marcelle lay sleeping, mentally and physically exhausted by the events of the long day. Thomas crept quietly into the room and knelt beside the bed, taking her hand, which lay on the coverlet, gently in his own. Strange emotions disturbed him, as he felt an over-whelming love for this young girl. It suffused his whole being, but was mixed with a hatred for the fate that had caused this to be such a futile wedding night.
As he gazed at the tiny hand, he remembered the words of a poem in a play he had recently seen: ‘Her fair hand of perfect white, Lay as an April daisy on the grass.’ As he gently toyed with the dainty fingers, he allowed his gaze to travel to her face. Long lashes lay upon her rosy cheeks, ‘Like marigolds they sheathed the light, Canopied in darkness sweetly, Till they might open to adorn the day.’
Thomas pressed his head on the coverlet. His feelings had gone beyond the power of his will, and he wanted only to get close to her and press his lips on that sweet rosy mouth. Grim despair overcame him as he pressed his hot aching body against the frame of the bed. He knelt there, touching her hand with his hot lips, and his tears fell on the white daisy-patterned quilt. Like a sleeping flower Marcelle clenched her fingers tight. With a deep sigh, Thomas pulled away gently, picked up his bag and left the room. He went downstairs to the kitchen where he found Abe, snoring in his usual seat at the side of the fire. Outside, from the barn, he could still hear the sounds of music. It would seem that Will and his friend were still cavorting with a few young guests. With a pale set face, Thomas sat at the long kitchen table for a while, his head in his hands. Rising wearily, he went to the dresser where he found a quill pen and an ink horn. Then he sat at the table, and wrote a farewell to his young bride.
The letter was long and entirely personal and scraps of it Marcelle was to remember for the rest of her short young life.
He wrote:
I love you dearly. God’s will that on my return we will sail for the New World where I will do my utmost to make you and the child happy. Take care, and do not, if you can help it, leave the shelter of this pleasant home until I come back for you, my love. ’Tis better I leave now before you wake to spare you the anguish of parting.
Money is available if you have need. The address is enclosed. Do not go alone. Take Annabelle to the Inns of Court with you, and take the marriage certificate. Goodbye, my love, I have waited a long time for you. A year will soon pass, take care.
Your affectionate husband.
Thomas Mayhew
Then sealing the letter with wax and his heavy signet ring, he placed it on the dresser and silently went out to collect his horse from the stable. Before the dawn light streaked the sky, he was on the road to Harwich to join the company of the seafaring young men who were to sail to the New World with Robert Rich. It would be several years before Essex or Marcelle saw Thomas Mayhew again and much water would have flowed under the bridge in that time.
On that eventful day when the Crown Prince of England met his death, as the bewildered Marcelle married Thomas, some miles across country in the great manor at Audley End, the young Frances Howard sat hunched up in a window seat, staring out at the magnificent park land and over the undulating Essex weald. The huge cedars in the park stood as solidly as they had done for centuries, growing more broadly and stronger as each year passed since the Howard ancestors had brought them back as saplings from Lebanon on their way home from the Crusades. Their roots, like live snakes, seemed to rise above the ground as Frances stared listlessly at them, through the tiny leaded window panes.
She had been there for several hours, hunched up in a crouching position as though waiting for something, just as a cat waits patiently for a mouse. Dressed in a dark sombre dress and wearing no jewellery, her ash-blonde hair hung down straight to her waist. In her hand she clutched a little lace night cap. Her green eyes were flashing with hate, and her face was so white that the only splash of colour came from her scarlet lips as she bit them in tormented anguish.
‘Goodbye, Frances,’ her cousin Elizabeth called up to her from the bottom of the stairs. ‘I must take my leave, but I must say that you show little gratitude for the favour I did you. And how much longer are you going to sit up there?’
But Frances merely gave her a languid wave of the hand and continued her vigil, with the little cap screwed up in her hand. Soon her husband would be leaving, and to hell with him. She would be well rid of him for a while. Why, the audacity of that stupid boyish husband, to think that she might return to that gloomy dark castle again! Nobody was going to get her to move from her father’s home until she got her own way. She would mope and pine and then perhaps old Uncle Thomas might interfere and help her to divorce that oaf they had tied her to.
Her mind throbbed a tune of hate, and twisted and turned in the direction of her lover Henry. ‘He is dying,’ she murmured. ‘I know he will die,’ miserably she tried to blot out the image of that noble face and the curling auburn hair. They had been so young and gay, but what went wrong? Henry had been so weak and had gone cold on her when Robert returned to claim her. And now her sweet lover was about to die, she was sure of that. To think that she might have been Queen if they had not forced her into marrying Essex. Her nails dug into the lace cap, tearing it slowly to shreds. Well, it was no good now, but at least no one else was going to get him. And there was still dear Robert Carr. A strange smile crossed her lips as she began to think of the night when she had seduced Robert in order to make Henry jealous. It had been a most pleasant shock when Robert had gone to pieces in her embrace. Poor Robert. He had been a little page at the Scottish court, and sexually abused by those wanton earls. But now he was a favourite of the King and could ask for anything he wanted as long as he let old Jamie fuss and pet him. Frances’ smile became more pronounced as her thoughts dwelt on him. After all, everyone had thought that Robert didn’t like women until Frances convinced him that he did, and now, having become aware of his heterosexual feelings, he longed for Frances and wrote her love letters in which he swore that he could not live without her. Well, if she could get rid of her damned ugly lout of a husband, Robert could have the pleasure of her company for life. And, looking on the bright side, if Henry died, Robert would be on the way up. And Frances intended to share in his glory. After all, they shared too many guilty secrets to be parted now. So the complicated world of the fair countess revolved about her as she sat by the window. At dusk when the doom-laden bell boomed out, Frances relaxed. While the servants and villagers ran out into the night to hear the sad tidings, Frances rose with stiff limbs, and climbed the rest of the grand stairway to her room to sleep. Tomorrow the Howards would be riding for London, for the court mourning and to make a grand display at the young prince’s funeral.
In the morning, as the Howard retinue rode in, King James rode out, in an effort to get as far away as possible from the sight and smell of death. A nervous man with a morbid fear of death, not even feelings for his own son could make him stay to face the funeral.
Before the Lying-in-State, the noble Henry was stretched out on a cold marble slab, his body cut up and probed while learned doctors endeavoured to find out the cause of his death. But in vain: the cause of his death remained a mystery.
The court was in mourning and the prince lay in state until December, when with great pomp and ceremony, the beloved Crown Prince was escorted to his final resting place in Westminster Abbey.
London buzzed with excitement, and many flocked to the city to the funeral of the young prince. The four-hour procession was watched sadly by rich and poor alike for this young prince had been very popular. The people wept at the sight of the black plumed carriage and the wax effigy of Henry on top of the coffin dressed in the state robes. Even his horse was draped in black, as were the drums of the drummers and they beat the slow mournful beat all the way there.
From the window of Holborn House, Frances Howard sat and watched the banners held by the heralds go by and saw the young Prince Charles on his thin wobbly legs being escorted by her uncle as Chief Mourner, followed by Frances’ brother. There was no sign of Robert Carr, for he was with the timid King at Theobalds. All the other great ladies, dressed up in their black mourning gowns, sat near to Frances and glanced sympathetically at her, for many of them had known about her love affair with young Henry.
Frances, in fact, did not feel too bad, just a little remote and sad that Henry should die so young, when there was so much to be gained from life if you knew how to face up to it. Sentiment had never been for her. She looked over at her stepmother, Catherine, who looked sad and demure with her head bent and her face covered with clouds of black veiling. ‘Bawdy bitch,’ Frances muttered under her breath. Her stepmother was as treacherous as the rest of them; they were like rats scraping and chewing, all with the same purpose – their own survival. Frances’ lips were set in a grim line. Thank God by tomorrow this weary period of sitting mourning would be over, she thought, and the gay court life would soon begin again. She would ask Annabelle to come up to live in town. She was a person she could trust. Annabelle would help her to get divorced. Her thoughts settled on an unpleasant matter. ‘I wonder how that lily-livered girl who lives with Annabelle is. It would be a strange trick of fate if Henry had left her pregnant,’ she thought. She ought to find out what the situation was, she decided. Slowly and gracefully she rose and went out of the long dark chamber as the order was given to retire. ‘Thank God that is over,’ said the noble but insincere Frances.
Out in the Channel the sea was calm and a huge four-masted sailing ship was riding at anchor, her white sails hanging loose waiting for the wind to fill them out and to carry her out past the coast of England towards the great Atlantic Ocean. Thomas Mayhew leaned over the rail and sighed. He could see the dim line of chalk cliffs in the distance. That was Dover. It was nearly three months since his wedding and still he had made very little progress. The ship had waited at Flushing in the Low Country for stores but a fever had raged in the port and many young sailors had died. So Sir John Smith, the Captain, now roamed the South Downs searching for more men to replenish his crew, while at the same time waiting for the wind.
The inactivity bored Thomas. He had no time for gambling and steered clear of the fencing bouts which always ended in real battles. He had no taste for any of these things. The fresh salt breeze blew over his head causing his black plaited hair to blow out from his neck. He held up his hand. The wind was rising, thank God. At last they would be off, away before daybreak. A longboat drew alongside, and someone hailed the skipper. Thomas turned to watch as the pressed men were driven aboard. Poor devils, he thought, so cold and shivering. Some were cursing and swearing, but they all looked dejected. There were even small boys, half tipsy with wine. The last victim on aboard was trussed like a sucking pig ready for roasting. He was a huge fellow and although well trussed and gagged he still struggled hard. Thomas watched with interest as they removed the fellow’s gag and a roaring voice yelled: ‘Betsy! Betsy! Help me!’ Thomas started. That voice, he knew it! Into his mind flashed the image of a blonde woman and a man dying on the floor of an inn. Surely it was not that woman’s brother Rolly? Thomas went forward and looked down into the scarred and battered face of Rolly who lay there blubbering like a baby and calling out for Betsy as loud as he could.
‘Stand back, Sir!’ said the bosun, standing ready with a rope end. ‘He’s vicious, that one. Look what he done to the men . . .’ He pointed towards a row of men who stood looking shame-faced, their noses still bleeding as their eyes gradually became puffed up and discoloured. They certainly looked a sorry sight.
But Thomas only wanted to comfort this poor boy, this childlike man, whose body was badly bruised by the kicks and blows of his captors. He knelt beside him and loosened the rope that held Rolly’s hands. Rolly immediately started to struggle again.
‘Stand back, sir!’ urged the bosun. ‘He is as strong as an ox.’
Thomas looked down at the youth and said: ‘Hullo, do you remember, me?’
Rolly’s eyes rolled with fright and he did not seem to recognize Thomas. Thomas helped him sit up. ‘Don’t worry Rolly,’ he said. ‘You are with friends.’