The Dandelion Seed (31 page)

Chalky was very shocked by this man’s stories. He had great respect for the late queen and had once seen her riding the forest on a white stallion with all her grand courtiers around her.

Holkin’s loud voice continued:
‘“
’Ere, ’ere,” she says, “does this look like Henry’s arse?” It always worried her, being a bastard, it did.’

Chalky certainly did not know where he got the courage from but, banging on the counter, he called out: ‘Hi! Shut your foul mouth! Don’t want talk like that in here.’

Holkin was on him in a flash, dragging him over the counter like a stunned rabbit and proceeding to give poor Chalky a good beating. He would have made a fine job of it, too, but a pewter pint pot hit the thug on the side of the head and Holkin went down like a sack of potatoes. He sat there on the floor with a ludicrous expression on his face as he stared up at Katy’s tall, splendid figure.

Waving the pot over his head, Katy warned: ‘Keep your dirty hands off me husband or you will get a harder one the next time.’

‘All right, Katy, don’t want to offend you.’ Holkin pulled himself up and backed towards the door, Katy’s entire family was well known for its methods of disposing of enemies, and he, Holkin, was not taking any chances.

But later that night, Holkin returned, louder and viler than ever, with a knot of companions with him. There was the tinker – a dirty sly fellow wearing a bright yellow cravat about his neck and dusty cap on his head. He talked only of the women he had raped and other equally unpleasant matters. One of the members of this foul-mouthed group was a tall young man wearing a black suit with a small white collar. After drinking gallons of beer, he began to spout religion. He was a blood-thirsty, fanatical young man called Robert of York, who listened avidly to Holkin’s lewd stories of execution, the cutting down of men and dismembering of them while they were still alive, and then he would start raving: ‘Repent you sinners,’ he shouted. ‘In the fire of hell you will perish! Kill the Popish bastards!’

‘Bleeding maniac!’ Chalky muttered, regretting that he had ever allowed such a crowd to feel at home in his inn. ‘Think I’ll sell up and get out,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Wonder if Katy would like to go to the new colony.’ Then he remembered Thomas who was asleep upstairs. ‘I will have to ask him about it. And I hope he finds his little woman, he don’t seem like such a bad bloke.’ So reminiscing, he served up the jugs of porter as the customers got louder and more rowdy. His thoughts wandered and suddenly he remembered his walk down by the brook so many months ago when he had seen that frightened young woman with the children. Of course! Chalky clapped his hand to his head. ‘Gawd!’ he cried. ‘Katy, come here, and take over quick!’

Katy came up to him at the counter and stared at Chalky with some surprise as he suddenly darted upstairs as though the devil was behind him.

Thomas was asleep when Chalky knocked rapidly on the door, but the noise woke him up and he sat up quickly. ‘What the devil do you want?’ he shouted irritably.

‘I saw her! I remember now, I saw her!’ Chalky gasped excitedly.

‘Saw who?’ asked Thomas.

‘Why, your little woman! She was at Brook House. I saw her by the brook, months ago.’

Thomas looked anxiously at him. Was this man drunk and sending him on another wild goose chase? Wearily, he got up and began pulling on his breeches. ‘Why did you not tell me this morning?’ he enquired.

‘I dunno, I must have forgotten. It came to me just now, like a flash of lightening. She was dressed as a nursemaid and there were two children with her. I’m sure it was the same girl I saw in the churchyard, but she looked much younger this time.’

Thomas looked doubtfully at him. ‘Can you be sure? Perhaps it was just someone like her.’

‘No! No!’ Chalky shook his head. ‘I am sure of it!’

A lot of noise was coming from downstairs. ‘I’ve got to get back,’ said Chalky. ‘Katy’s in charge down there, and I don’t trust that lot. I’ll go over to Brook House with you when the bar’s shut, or leave it to the morning if you like.’ With that he darted away.

Thomas buttoned up his shirt. He looked very perplexed. Could he rely on what this man said? After all, he might get him out there in the dark and then jump on him and rob him. No, Thomas did not trust anyone these days. He would ignore Chalky for the time being and investigate in the morning. Having made his decision, he turned to Rolly, who was staring at him, open-mouthed. ‘Get back to sleep,’ he ordered.

But on seeing his master lying fully clothed on the bed, Rolly had got up and dressed. Now he was buckling on his trusty sword, and wondering if they were going out to look for Marcelle.

From outside came the sound of fireworks and a red glow appeared in the sky from the big bonfire on the Lea fields. Wild uncanny cries came through the window and the air was suddenly thick with smoke. Thomas felt restless and apprehensive. Something terrible was happening out there. His mind drifted to the burnings in Smithfield, the Bartholomew massacre, and all other kinds of ill-fated memories.

Outside they were celebrating the death of a gallant man. He recalled the awful blood-stained ground around St Paul’s and the screams of the dead and dying. Eight men had been butchered in one day. Was that such a thing to celebrate? He tossed and turned. The smell of blood was in his nostrils. Oh God, he thought, he had to move on tomorrow. His mind was becoming so morbid. He closed his eyes. For a long time he had never felt so afraid.

As the night got wilder, the air thickened. A bright yellow fog floated overhead, and the noise downstairs was becoming worse. Now it sounded like the angry buzz of an army of flies. Unable to get to sleep, Thomas got up and walked around the room and then stared out of the window at the big fire on the fields and the weird, unearthly shapes dancing around it.

‘Go down and get me something to drink,’ he ordered Rolly. ‘I cannot stand being cooped up here. We will move on as soon as dawn breaks.’

Rolly went downstairs. There was nobody in the kitchen so he looked into the bar. There an astonishing sight met his eyes. Tables were upturned, beer was spilt all over the floor and, jammed in the doorway, was a knot of fighting men. Inside the door was Chalky, pushing and puffing with all his might in an effort to close the heavy door on them. His face was red and sweat poured down his brow as he strained to get the combatants outside.

With long strides, Rolly crossed the room in a split second. His huge boot went into action, kicking the fighting men straight out into the courtyard, punching and kneeing them and then hurling them away from the doorway, one by one. The great door then closed and bolts were shot as Chalky collapsed on the floor.

‘Oh dear! that was a close one,’ Chalky gasped. ‘Thank God you came down in time. They ain’t arf in a mood tonight. Look at the bloody damage they’ve done.’ He got up and started to pick up the stools and splinters of glass from the broken lamps. Rolly just stood looking around at him: nothing disturbed him. ‘My master needs a drink,’ he said simply.

‘We all need a drink,’ replied Chalky, reaching for a thick earthenware bottle of spirits.

‘No,’ said Rolly. ‘I must not drink. My master is not feeling so good.’ He snatched the bottle and went.

‘Social sort of sod,’ sniffed Chalky. He got up on a bar stool and looked out of the top of the door to see what the crowd outside were up to. Women had joined their men and there was plenty going on out there. Then his attention was focused on a ring of men in the centre of the yard. He could clearly see Holkin’s great hulk and the small shape next to him of the horse thief, Jenkins. Behind them milling about in the crowd, was the tinker, but the central figure was that of Robert of York, the crazy revolutionist. He was waving his arms and screaming, and the people around him joined in.

‘What are they up to?’ muttered Chalky to himself. ‘They are all there, the whole vile damned crew. I wonder what’s going on?’ He put his head out a little further and saw, to his surprise, leaning against the wall, young Tim, the boy who helped occasionally down in the cellar.

‘Tim!’ he whispered urgently. ‘What’s up? Why are they all hanging about?’

Tim had his cap cocked on the back of his head and he stood nonchalantly against the wall, looking on with a naive curiosity at the antics of this drunken lot of rogues. ‘They are going to do in the old priest,’ he informed Chalky. ‘They’ve gone down to get some more men and torches from the bonfire.’

‘What old priest?’ asked Chalky.

‘The one that’s at Brook House hiding.’

‘But he’s dead,’ replied Chalky in puzzlement.

‘We know that,’ said Tim, ‘but they don’t.’

‘Crikey! Stop them!’ cried Chalky very alarmed. ‘There’s women and children in that house!’

Tim shrugged. ‘I can’t stop them,’ he said. ‘That preacher’s got them all riled up.’

Just as he spoke, a procession of people came along the lane – men and women, even children. Most were drunk, and screamed anti-Popish slogans and all carried lighted torches. Other men joined them and with the crazy preacher leading, they all moved off in the direction of Brook House.

‘Christ!’ shouted Chalky. ‘Quick, Tim!’ he hissed. ‘Get your old man and brothers to help.’

‘Ain’t our business,’ sulked Tim, shoving his hands down into his pockets.

But Chalky was outside in a flash and pulling Tim by the collar. ‘Get moving or you’ll get my toe up your arse,’ he bellowed. ‘Now quick, move! There’s little children over there and the rest of the house is empty. There’s no one to defend them.’

At last realising that the situation was serious, Tim ran off to the line of cottages to get help. Then Chalky began yelling at the bottom of the stairs until Thomas, half-dressed and with a lot of rum inside him, opened his bedroom door. Chalky rushed up the stairs shouting. ‘Quick! Hurry! They’re going to raid Brook House,’ Chalky had almost burst a blood vessel in his excitement. His face was purple as he called out: ‘The mob! They’re attacking Brook House. My Gawd, there’s women and kids in there, and no one to protect them – only the old gatekeeper, and he’s about ninety!’

Thomas stood in the doorway looked disdainfully down at the landlord. He was feeling less depressed now that he had taken a drink and this sprat of a man was becoming a nuisance. ‘What the hell are you jabbering about?’ he demanded aggressively.

‘That lady, sir, your little wife, I’m sure that’s where she is – Brook House.’

Thomas grabbed him roughly. ‘Say that again!’ he shouted.

‘In Brook House! That’s where I saw her some time back, in the grounds, and now a bloody lot of awful villains are heading up there too.’

Thomas was buckling on his sword and Rolly had already gone to get their horses.

‘How many men are there?’ Thomas asked Chalky.

‘All told I should think about fifty, with the women too,’ replied Chalky.

‘Well, three of us, won’t be much good,’ said Thomas. ‘Send for the watch and arouse the men in the cottages around.’

‘I did that, sir, and the boy has gone for the soldiers.’

‘Good, let’s go then.’

With Chalky perched behind Rolly, they galloped down the road to where a knot of men armed with rusty bits of farm implements waited.

‘Right!’ said Thomas as they rode up. ‘We must attack and make plenty of noise so they think that there are many more of us than there really are.’

And so they rode to the rescue, little dreaming that here was the beginning and end of the search for little Marcelle.

16

That Many-Headed Monster

At Brook House the evening had been very long. Elizabeth had not been well that day; she had run a high temperature and been rather restless. Marcelle sat by her bed watching her sweet little face and stroking the golden hair spread over the pillow. Two bright spots of colour had appeared on the child’s cheeks as she tossed and turned, and muttered: ‘Are you there, Miss Mouse?’ Each time she called out, Marcelle took her hot feverish, little hand and held it tight.

The house seemed full of noises that night as though all the ghosts had come out to walk together, and from outside came the noisy sound of fireworks. Her nostrils caught the smell of burning in the air. Marcelle shivered. It must be the anniversary of the Gunpowder Plot. How she hated that night and the dreadful things people did to the priests and their Catholic followers!

In the distance came a buzz of voices floating in through the night. Suddenly the memory of the mob that had come and dragged her mother out of her bed flooded her thoughts. She gasped. ‘Oh God! Please do not let me be afraid,’ she prayed. ‘Give me strength and courage to protect my little son and this little sick girl if the need arises.’

A sweet peaceful feeling wafted into the room like a gentle breeze. The white silk cover upon the bed where Elizabeth slept seemed to have an indentation as though someone were sitting there. There was nothing to see, but Marcelle had the strongest conviction that Father Ben was there giving her comfort. No more was she afraid, but she sang softly to Elizabeth who had now dropped into a peaceful sleep.

While the child slept, Marcelle took a wander along the corridor taking a peep at Roger on the way. Behind her strolled Prince, the great hound, who suddenly darted to the window and leaped up with a loud bark. Marcelle knew that someone was out there, for Prince would not worry over ghosts. Out there was some evil person. She stood quite still and through the garden came that terrible sound of the drunken cries of the mob. Through the window she could see a long line of lighted torches; it was just like the time when they attacked and took her mother away.