‘Surely the big trial will end soon,’ they muttered to one another, and gossiped fervently about the scandal of the King’s boyfriend who had married a whore and poisoned his best friend.
Down in the Strand Frances was under close arrest. She had spent the stormy night like a caged animal, walking back and forth along the gallery of her uncle’s house. Dressed in a heavy house coat of purple velvet trimmed with white ermine she paced the shiny marble floor. The portraits of her long dead ancestors looked down at her and seemed to her to sneer.
‘Your time has come,’ some seemed to be saying. Frances shivered. The beautiful young duchess wanted very much to live. Inside her she could feel the next Howard kicking. Biting her full lower lip, she gave vent to her misery, continuously twisting the golden girdle of her house coat. Not one word did she utter or cry but paced back and forth like a tawny-haired cat. ‘There must be a way,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Surely James will not convict Robert – there would be too much at stake if he tells all. James will not risk that.’ She was trying hard to convince herself. Today they would bring her husband from the Tower to the Star Chamber and tomorrow it would be her turn to appear before that great Judge Coke on a murder charge.
Frances hoped that the sentimental old fool, King James, would not allow her to be put in prison because of her pregnancy. She was pretty sure of the old King, and very sure of the support of the Howards. But would Robert betray her? His attitude had changed towards her since she had become pregnant; perhaps he doubted his ability to become a father. A twisted smile crossed her lips and she tossed her head defiantly. She would beat them all in the end. No – she would not die the way her cousins Ann and Katherine had done. There had to be a way out, there had to be.
Later that morning two visitors were shown into the hallway. Peering from the balcony, Frances recognised them as the King’s men, Lord Fenton and the Earl of Montgomery. Perhaps it was good news. She hurried downstairs. The men greeted her with low sweeping bows with hats in their hands. Dressed in their flowing capes of bright glowing colours, the King’s courtiers were certainly a magnificent sight. But Frances only had to look at their faces to know that things were not going well with Robert.
‘We do not bring you good news, Frances,’ said the young Lord Fenton.
‘Did he plead guilty,’ she demanded.
‘No, my Lady, he denied any knowldge of the death of Overbury and placed all the blame on you.’
Frances drew in a quick deep breath. Her eyes flashed and her lips paled. ‘Come this way, my lords,’ she said, directing them to the library. ‘I intend that you should witness my confession. I shall appeal to His Majesty for mercy.’
The following day the trial continued and a demure Frances appeared dressed in a black velvet gown and her ash blonde hair about her face to hide her real expression. As a courtier recounted the torture of old Abe and the death of Annabelle, Frances suddenly saw her friends before her eyes, and hid her face in her hands.
But Frances was not to die, nor was Robert Carr. At the end of the trial, they were both convicted but sent to the Tower, to await the King’s pardon.
In 1616 Sir Walter Raleigh was released from the Tower and Frances and Robert, the Duke and Duchess of Somerset, moved in to his vacated apartments. There they fought each other every day for a whole year until they were finally reprieved. All the little birds had suffered, but predictably, the big ones had got away.
With Abe’s tortured face burning in her mind, Marcelle ran from the terrible scene on the hill. ‘Got to get to the brook,’ she muttered to herself as she ran. Down the hill she went, away from the river scene, with people thronging about her dressed in gay colours and in a jolly holiday mood. There was talk of hangings and burnings and the excited crowds pushed their way through the dirty streets. Marcelle heard very little of what they said, seeing only a sea of strange, blurred faces before her. On and on she ran through the market place. Raucous voices roared out as stallholders advertised their wares. ‘Hot pies! Soup! New bread!’ they called. It was then the smell of food assailed her nostrils – the delicious aroma of hot soup. She had not eaten since she left home the previous day, and the smell was almost too much. Slowing down at one stall, she pulled her shawl tightly about her and gazed ravenously at the hot soup being ladled into bowls and handed out with big chunks of bread to dip into it. Various people sat around enjoying their meal. The huge red-faced woman serving the soup gazed suspiciously at her. ‘Hi! You want some soup or don’t you?’ she demanded.
Marcelle did not answer, she just stood watching the soup bubble over the fire. ‘Well, if you ain’t got no money, be off with you. I can’t afford to have beggars around.’
But Marcelle still did not move. She continued to stare wide eyed at the nourishing soup.
‘Hoppit!’ the woman yelled at her, waving the ladle. ‘Hoppit! I said.’
Like a startled rabbit, Marcelle turned and ran. With her head dropping to one side as she went she looked a strange sight, hobbling quickly through the market, her wooden clogs clip-clopping over the cobblestones. Men called out obscene comments to her and the rough women laughed uproariously as her funny little figure stumbled past them. There were tears on Marcelle’s eyelashes that refused to fall, and her feet were sore and blistered as the confused little creature ran away from these loud-voiced people.
‘Where is the little brook?’ she cried. ‘Please God, let me find the little brook.’
By nightfall, Marcelle was still wandering the dusty streets weary and hungry and not daring to ask the way. At last she came to a tall church surrounded by a graveyard. It was the church of St John at Hackney, but Marcelle neither knew that nor cared. She just crept behind a tall gravestone and laid down her weary head to rest. The dark night covered the gravestones and only the dead knew that Marcelle lay huddled there among them.
Chalky was up bright and early that morning. He had much to do that day but first he had to see the parson and arrange for Betsy’s funeral. He felt quite holy as he walked crisply up the long path leading to the church. ‘Got to get her buried proper,’ he told himself. ‘She wasn’t a bad sort, old Betsy, and, after all, I am a very responsible citizen with a good little business which might even improve after I’m married.’ As he walked along with his hands in his pockets and that particular rolling gait reminiscent of his old days at sea, he stopped suddenly in his tracks as his attention was drawn to the little figure of Marcelle sitting on the edge of the path. Her figure was bent double as she clutched her stomach against the cramps of hunger that gripped her. She looked like a hobgoblin from another world.
‘Cripes!’ exclaimed Chalky. ‘Who’s this?’
A little moan came from the figure and as Chalky got nearer to her he recognised the signs of starvation, having suffered similarly himself – the stomach gripped with pain which would not allow the body to straighten out. He gazed down at this pathetic figure and his soft heart melted in sympathy. ‘Gawd, blimey, you ain’t half hungry, love. Here . . .’ He held out a coin to her.
Marcelle’s hurt, soulful eyes gazed up at him. She made no attempt to take the money but started muttering something about a brook.
Oh dear! thought Chalky. The poor cow’s potty. She must have escaped from some place. ‘Here you are, mate,’ he said, trying to put the coin in her hand. ‘Get some grub.’ But still there was no response. ‘Wait a bit,’ he suddenly said, and went running back down the path. Along the road came a girl with the milk churns, her broad shoulders erect as they swayed each side.
‘Quick, give us a can of milk,’ said Chalky panting with exertion and handing her a coin. ‘Lend us a can. I’ll be back with it in a tick.’ He went over the road to a stall that sold buns and bought a bag of them, and then he ran back to the churchyard where Marcelle still sat.
Gently he put the can of tepid milk to her lips. ‘Come on, love,’ he said softly. He persuaded her to drink the milk and then, sitting down beside her, he broke a bun into small pieces. ‘Take it slow, ducks, that’s it, not too quick.’
Slowly and surely Marcelle sat up as the slightly warm milk eased the cramp in her stomach. She sat nibbling the bun looking at Chalky with a grateful expression on her face, unable to speak her thanks.
‘That’s it, mate,’ Chalky chattered to her. ‘Feel better now?’ he asked. He suddenly remembered his original reason for being in the churchyard, and he got up. ‘Got to go now, love, must see the parson. Why don’t you take a little walk and sit outside my inn? You might get a nice meal later on, and you can kip in the stables.’ Saying this to her he was reminded of the day he himself had arrived in Hackney, cold and hungry. He helped her to her feet and pointed in the direction of the inn. ‘I won’t be long. I’ve got to go and see about burying me poor old stepmother.’ Then having done his good deed, Chalky set off to the parson’s house to do another, while Marcelle set off on stiff cold legs and swollen feet in the other direction towards the inn.
Across the fields at the end of a path stood the black-and-white structure of the Duke’s Head Inn. Seeing it ahead, Marcelle hesitated. She was afraid of that place and of an unknown terror that lurked there. Limping quickly past, she headed towards the green pastures and then, to her utter joy, she came to the little brook which she had tried hard to find. Hurrying towards it, she knelt down as if in prayer. Taking off her shoes, she then splashed her feet and her face with the cool water. Afterwards she walked along the bank following the rippling brook as it wended its way over the fields. It ran under a little wooden bridge and there ahead of her was a magnificent park with soft rolling lawns and great trees. Marcelle decided to sit on the bank and dabble her feet in the brook, staring towards the big house with its turrets shining green and gold in the morning sun. ‘At last,’ she thought. ‘I’ve found the little brook.’ It was so cool and peaceful there, she decided to stay in this place. When night came she would lie down in the clear water to rest forever. She could go no further; this was the end of her journey. Suddenly she felt drowsy. And as sleep overcame her, she sat there with her head nodding only to be awakened by the sounds of children laughing and playing. It was like sweet music to her ears.
Marcelle opened her eyes and there they were, three children running over the hill towards the very place where Marcelle sat. As she watched them, a lovely smile came to her lips, and her pale, sad face lit up. They came running towards her – a sturdy little boy of about nine and a girl slightly younger who held a tiny toddler by the hand. The little one tripped along on chubby legs and the sun shone on his lovely red gold curls. The girl was very pretty – tall and slim with waist-length hair, the colour of golden sunshine. The older boy forged ahead a little; he carried a fishing net. Behind them and moving very slowly was a woman carrying a picnic basket. All the time she called out to them, urging for them not to get too far ahead. The boy with the fishing net had reached the brook just a few feet away from Marcelle. Kneeling down, he put the net into the water. The baby suddenly pulled away from the girl and came racing as fast as his little legs would carry him down the slope towards the water, quite unable to stop. Marcelle moved as quick as lightning to catch him. Jumping in, she waded waist deep into the centre to grab the little boy just as he reached the bank. Then she stood, holding him close. ‘Roger!’ she whispered. ‘My baby has come back to me.’
Thinking it was a good game, the little boy twisted his fingers in her hair and smiled charmingly at her.
Soon the girl arrived followed by the woman who was very profuse with her thanks to this stranger who had saved little Popsi from falling in the brook. The strange lady was crying and holding on to Popsi but he seemed to like her.
‘Thank you my dear,’ said Mrs Powell, the lady in charge of the children. ‘Every day I have dreaded that Popsi would do just that and my legs are so bad I find it hard work trying to keep up with these youngsters.’ She produced a towel and gave it to Marcelle to dry her legs. They then ate beside the brook – cakes, sandwiches and sweet cider.
Marcelle spread her skirt out to dry in the sun while they watched the children at the water’s edge. With the hot sun drying her clothes and warming her body, Marcelle suddenly felt supremely happy. She had known she would find her baby by the brook, and she had.
This was her son, she was sure, and with that thought in her head, her mind began to clear and her memory return.
The children rolled about with each other in the grass and the boy with his net fished for minnows.
‘Who is that lady?’ he asked Mrs Powell. ‘Why is she so poor?’
‘Hush, Robert, you must not be rude,’ said Mrs Powell.
The golden-haired girl looked at Marcelle and demanded imperiously: ‘What is your name?’ And she held out her hands towards Marcelle’s face. It was then that Marcelle suddenly realised that this beautiful little girl was unable to see her. And as the child pushed aside her long hair, Marcelle saw that one eye was sightless while the other eye was sunk deep in its socket. Marcelle gently took her hand and placed it against her cheek allowing the girl to feel the contours of her face. ‘My name is Marci,’ she croaked in a strange voice.
‘Mousi,’ giggled Elizabeth. ‘Now that is a funny name. But I like you, you have a nice face just like a mouse. I will call you Miss Mouse. Do you mind?’
‘Behave, Elizabeth,’ remonstrated Mrs Powell. ‘Do not pester the lady, she is very tired.’