The Dandelion Seed (22 page)

She staggered through muddy fields, and climbed hedges, and stiles. There was no stopping Marcelle; she had to get to London.

In the cold light of dawn, Marcelle’s rain-soaked body lay huddled in the hedge. The black shawl was bedraggled, and the wooden clogs caked with mud. She felt cold and hungry but inside her was an inner glow. ‘Almost there. More than half way,’ she talked to herself. Getting up with renewed energy, she trotted on. Soon she came to a rickety old bridge which crossed the river Lea. Beside this was the little brook. It left the river and with gay little trickles wended over the fields. Here Marcelle bathed her sore feet and drank the cool water. There was something about this stream that jogged her memory, a vague shadow in the back of her mind as she stared into the clear water and the well-washed stones beneath. There had once been kind hands that had lifted her up and words of comfort spoken in her ear. But, no, it was only a daydream . . . She got up and walked on, following the path of the brook, walking beside it as if some hidden force drew her to the spot where the Duke’s Head Inn stood.

The inn’s tall chimneys and white-washed walls stood outlined by the morning sun. Marcelle hesitated. She was looking cautiously at it when a tousled fair head appeared out of an upstairs window. A shrill voice screeched and a hand waved in her direction.

The shock of hearing Betsy’s voice was just too much for Marcelle’s bewildered mind. She wildly panicked, turned and ran towards the city, away from the brook and the woman who had shouted at her.

As she got into the city, the streets became very narrow and people walking past pushed and jostled her. But scarcely knowing what she was doing, Marcelle walked on and on deep into the heart of London. Then the road widened a little as it wound its way up a hill to where, at the top, were tall stone towers. ‘At last!’ Marcelle thought, ‘the King’s castle. Now to find Annabelle.’

There were many groups of people thronging the hillside and Marcelle could hear snatches of conversation as they talked mostly about a hanging that was to take place later that day. Hangings were always popular. Just outside the castle gates, groups of people stood, held back by soldiers in scarlet uniforms who held burnished pikes. They seemed to be guarding something that the people were staring and jeering at.

Marcelle crept closer to see what it was. To her horror she saw that it was a man who was naked but for a strip of cloth across his loins. He was stretched out and his arms and legs tied to pegs in the ground. Huge weights rested on top of him, his face was distorted with pain, and as he writhed in agony, his bloodshot eyes stared straight at Marcelle. It was Abe! Abe, her poor kind old friend from Craig Alva. She dropped on her knees beside him to pray. Abe’s dry cracked lips moved as if to speak but only a murmer of ‘water’ issued from his mouth as he tried to plead with Marcelle for help. Running to a nearby horse trough, she filled her cupped hands with water and ran back to place them to Abe’s dry lips. As she did so a rough hand grasped her shoulder and dragged her away.

‘Hi!’ said the angry guard. ‘What’s your game? He ain’t supposed to ’ave any food or drink. Hoppit!’ He gave her a hard push. ‘That is, unless you want to join ’im.’

Marcelle fell to the roadside and there she remained, her tears falling thick and fast. Now her mind had become clearer. Oh, poor Abe, whatever are they doing to him? I must find Annabelle, she thought. She will save him. Marcelle stood for a moment looking at the still figure of Abe who seemed to have become unconscious.

A tall young soldier came over to Marcelle. ‘You still here?’ he asked. ‘What’s up? Is he your father?’

‘No.’ Marcelle shook her head. ‘He is my dearest friend.’

‘That poor devil has been there eight days and I reckon he has stuck it well,’ said the soldier callously. ‘And he’s still alive, you know.’

‘What will happen to him?’ whispered Marcelle.

‘Oh, he’ll be hanged. They did his missus this mornin’ .’ The young soldier spoke as if it were just an ordinary conversation.

Annabelle hung? Oh, dear God! Marcelle held her head; she could not believe what she had heard.

The soldier continued. ‘He told me to say you’re to go away. He thinks it might be dangerous. He rambled on about some other thing, the poor old devil – about a brook and a baby.’

To Marcelle’s shocked mind the words came clearly. The brook! It was all connected with the brook. She had to return. She got to her feet and tottered off on her thin legs, with her head to one side.

‘Funny little body,’ the guard said to his mate. ‘She knew that old fellow. How is he now?’

‘Still alive,’ said the other. ‘It’s ten o’clock. We might as well take him in. I expect they’ll do him tomorrow.’

11

The Fall

But what happened to cause the fall of Annabelle and her husband, the harmless old Abe?

Only a few weeks before Marcelle saw Abe stretched out on the hill, he had been at the new home he had grown to dislike so much. Still, he consoled himself, it was a lot better than the Tower of London, that gloomy prison on the hill near the river. It certainly had not been his choice to take on the job of looking after poor old Thomas Overbury. Abe, now a very old man, shivered as he remembered those last days when Overbury’s body had turned black and swollen. And it stank horribly. God, what a death! But how they had managed it, he did not know. On instructions from Annabelle he had destroyed every bit of food the countess had sent in. They had poisoned him all right, but how? That was what puzzled Abe. But there was no sense dwelling on it. He was not going to live for ever so he had better forget the whole sordid affair. He would like to go back to the country but Annabelle had said that he was to stay here. He wondered how Marcelle was and her dear little baby. How nice it would be to see them. He got up from his seat. It was getting cold, for the evenings were beginning to draw in. Poor Abe was beginning to feel his age; the pace of life in these last months had begun to tell on him.

Merlin still pottered about. He had a sort of glass observatory upstairs but came down often to tell Abe of the amazing happenings going on in the heavens. But Abe scarcely listened. Both of them were missing Annabelle. Her gay bright serene presence had ruled them for so long that they were lost without her. At the moment she was on a tour of the royal houses of the kingdom with the Duchess Frances and her weak mamby pamby husband, the Duke of Somerset, the King’s favourite. They had been away for several weeks now.

This very cold evening as Abe coughed over the fire, Merlin left his cold attic and crept down to crouch beside him at the fireside. The veins on his long thin hands stood out like little blue hillocks, and he rubbed his hands together as he stared thoughtfully into the fire.

Watching him, Abe wondered, as he often did, what he did to his hands. The backs of them had a score or more of small pia pricks as though he plunged needles into himself. He could have been such a clever doctor, Abe thought, he had been given the education. It was such a pity that Merlin had lost his wits when he did. Abe’s thoughts went back to those ten years he and Merlin had shared. He supposed he should be jealous of Merlin, really, since he had been originally his wife’s lover. It was strange how time heals everything. Annabelle loved neither of them now. Many lovers had replaced them, though the chief one was her passion for her mistress Frances. Now, as the only two lonely inhabitants of this gloomy empty house, Abe and Merlin seemed to grow closer. Tonight it seemed that Merlin wanted to confide in Abe about something.

Merlin’s hair hung untidily over his head. It was stained in many colours, as he was forever absent-mindedly wiping his hands over his head after some experiment. His eyes were very bright, as usual, as he looked at Abe, and in a jerky tone of voice he announced: ‘I’ve discovered the reason for it.’

Abe, had recently acquired a taste for smoking, a new habit that was all the rage, though rather expensive. He now puffed on the clay pipe which was almost his one interest these days.

‘That will kill you,’ said Merlin, gazing at Abe reflectively.

‘A pleasant way to die,’ replied Abe, puffing more vigorously.

‘Rots the lungs,’ said Merlin, then he went very silent again. He scratched his long hair and put his hands on his thin ankles. He always liked to sit in this awkward position like a monkey.

‘Want some ale?’ asked Abe.

Merlin shook his head. ‘No, I want to go out into the city. You will come with me, Abe. My memory fails me and I might not remember the way.’

Abe stared at him aghast. ‘You know I can’t do that, Merlin, I promised Annabelle to look after you.’

‘We will return. It is important to find Mr Harvey. He is at St Bartholomew’s Hospital.’

Abe shook his head. ‘No chance, sorry, mate.’ He was adamant. He could not let Merlin loose in the streets.

When they had first come to London, Merlin had escaped and pinched a little puppy. He had run back to the house with angry Londoners chasing after him. Those same citizens had lingered outside the house for days, throwing stones and calling for the mad man to come out. No thanks! Abe was not going to let Merlin out of his sight any more until Annabelle came home.

Merlin came closer, his hot breath fanning Abe’s face. He seemed very excited tonight. Abe looked at him with a worried expression in his eyes. He hoped that Merlin would not get violent, as he used to, because he was sure that he had not the strength to manage him now.

‘Listen, Abe, it’s nearly over for us,’ said Merlin. ‘A planet is travelling to earth. It will soon be over. The world will end.’

‘Well, what you worrying over?’ said Abe stoically. ‘If it ends, it ends.’

‘No, it must be written down, the knowledge I have. There may still be time. I want to see Harvey.’

Realising how earnest Merlin was, Abe relented. ‘All right, I’ll go to the hospital for you in the morning. I don’t promise that Harvey will come. He might have forgotten you by now, you know.’

Merlin immediately relaxed. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and write a letter.’

Abe sat up late, still puffing his pipe and thinking of what Merlin had been talking about. He could not make head or tail of it, but he would take the letter to Dr Harvey at St Bartholomews’s Hospital in the morning. It was a terrible place, that hospital, where all the sick and needy gathered. But this poor creature Merlin, as mad as he was now, had once been one of its most brilliant medical students and Dr Harvey had been his mentor. He puffed at his pipe thinking of Merlin’s words. ‘It’s all in a circle. It goes round and round, just like the world.’

Abe was confused. Whatever had he meant?

True to his word, Abe took the letter, which was written in Latin, to the hospital to be given to Dr Harvey. Within days, three very distinguished looking men were secreted upstairs by Merlin. Then towards evening they emerged looking rather pleased with themselves. They took with them a large sheaf of parchment and talked together earnestly as they entered their carriage.

Abe went upstairs to see if Merlin was all right, and found him fast asleep on his little trestle bed, flat on his back like a contented baby.

Merlin had handed over the information about the circulation of the blood, the greatest discovery of the age, to his old master.

12

The Predicament of Chalky

Chalky was in his element, and very pleased with his latest accomplishments. Out in the courtyard under two glowing candle lamps and the silvery moonlight, Katy served the satisfied customers with wooden bowls filled with jellied eels or some other tasty fish. All the while Chalky was trotting in and out. ‘Nice plate of lobster with your ale, sir?’ he would enquire. ‘It goes down lovely, it does.’ And so he touted for more trade, with one eye on Katy and the amorous gentlemen who hung about the stall half-drunk. A real businessman was Chalky.

Katy’s hair was piled high and held in place with jewelled combs. She sold the fishy goods laughing and giggling as the male customers reached forward trying to catch a look down the low neck of her blouse.

Then every night shortly after closing, Chalky and Katy would go off to the day bed in the sitting room to make love before Katy’s big brother came to collect her and find them at it.

It was a very profitable, exciting life for Chalky, and he was thoroughly enjoying himself. There was only one faint shadow on his horizon, and that was poor old Betsy upstairs. So far her legs had not improved, and the apothecary was not too hopeful about her overall condition. The apothecary was a dried-up little man who was much better at attending horses than humans. He had taken off the heavy splints from Betsy’s legs and found that she was still in great pain and her legs still quite stiff. In fact, she could not move her knees at all.

‘Made a fine bloody mess of her legs,’ complained Chalky to the apothecary. ‘I’ve a good mind not to pay you.’

‘It will take a bit of time, these jobs always do,’ replied the apothecary.

‘She can’t stay in bed for bloody ever,’ moaned Chalky. ‘She can’t even get downstairs, and we’ve got a business to run.’

‘Don’t let her eat and drink so much,’ returned the apothecary. ‘She might be able to keep her balance if she were not so fat.’

‘Get out!’ said Chalky, putting his money back into his pocket. ‘Get back to them poor bloody horses. Starve the poor cow? Blimey, even horses have to have their oats.’ So with his homespun philosophy, Chalky chased the apothecary out of his house and saved himself a lot of expense. From then on he tended Betsy himself.