The Dandelion Seed (6 page)

Together the men got Sam’s heavy body down into the cellar while Betsy cleared up the mess in the kitchen. Marcelle was silent and boiled some water to make them hot spiced drinks.

As they sipped the steaming drinks, the four conspirators sat facing each other round the kitchen table contemplating what they should do. Thomas’ pale calm face contrasted sharply with Betsy’s frightened red visage. Rolly quietly looked from one to the other.

‘What are we going to do?’ asked Betsy.

‘Well, I am not sure,’ replied Thomas. ‘If we say anything they will take you in for sure. I suppose we might say we found him dead.’

Suddenly Marcelle spoke. They had almost forgotten she was there for she had not said a word in all this time. But now she spoke with venom in her voice. ‘He deserved to die,’ she hissed. ‘He killed my mother. I am glad he is dead, and I don’t care if they hang me.’

Rolly gazed around him, goggle-eyed, at the thought of being hung. But Betsy’s shrewd mind was ticking over. ‘Look here, no one knows but us. We must just all trust each other. Rolly will get rid of the body tomorrow. Can we depend on you, sir? I don’t know you from Adam and you wear the Royal Badge, but how do we stand with you?’ she questioned Thomas sharply.

‘I came to see if the girl was all right,’ he said. ‘I dare not be found here, for I carry a letter of Royal Command.’

Noticing the fanatical look in Marcelle’s eyes, Betsy bit her lip thoughtfully. ‘’Tis the lass that’s the problem,’ she said to Thomas. ‘She will tell all. She has religion and won’t be able to help it.’

Thomas gave an understanding nod. ‘She can come with me,’ he said simply. ‘That is, if she will. I will find shelter for her.’

‘That’s it!’ declared Betsy. ‘You take Marci and I’ll take care of the rest. I ain’t letting Rolly get shut up in a cage if I can help it.’ Marcelle sat pale and still on a bench, muttering her prayers. She seemed not to care any more.

Betsy wrapped Marcelle in her warm cloak and made a parcel of the poor girl’s few belongings. A frown creased Thomas’ brow as he had a good look at Marcelle for the first time. She seemed to have become even thinner than he remembered her, and she looked like an imbecile with her eyes staring in front of her and her lips moving silently. Thomas went over and knelt beside her. Taking her hand in his, he said: ‘Don’t you want to come with me?’ His voice was soft and gentle.

Marcelle smiled at him for the first time. ‘I want to more than anything else in the world,’ she said softly. ‘I am praying to thank Our Lady for sending you to help me.’

Thomas wrinkled his forehead. What a strange child she was. Yet she was almost a woman, and not a bad-looking one either. His thoughts were very jumbled. What the hell was he getting into? And where should he take her? Certainly not to his lodgings. It was then he thought of Annabelle Lane’s bright, happy house. Yes, he would ride back to Craig Alva. Annabelle would not turn the girl away, of that he was sure.

At mid-day, Thomas rode back down the road with Marcelle tucked up warm and close beside him. His heart thumped madly, though he was not sure why. As he looked down at her fine, pointed features, she gazed up at him from under a dark green hood. Her bright eyes looked up at him trustingly and he felt a strong urge to stroke that shiny, nut-brown hair. He cuddled the girl close as they rode back down the Lea Valley to Annabelle’s house.

The morning had been fine but was now growing colder, but Marcelle, feeling warm and cosy, neither knew nor cared where she was going. They followed the little brook over the marshland and, once over the wooden bridge that crossed the Lea, the road wound upwards and the air became fresher as they came towards the forest.

Marcelle’s thin nose gave an appreciative sniff. ‘It’s lovely to leave the smell of the town behind,’ she murmured.

‘’Tis a fine place out here in Essex. It reminds me of my home in Dorset,’ replied Thomas.

Soon the thatched roof and the black timbers of Craig Alva came in sight. As they rode towards the house, they passed the old church at Chingford, which stood squarely built with its Norman tower. It had not been neglected as many of the churches in town had been since the Reformation, but was cool and peaceful looking. It was in good condition and even the stained glass windows were still intact. Marcelle stared at it with interest. ‘Is that a Catholic church?’ she asked.

‘No, lass,’ replied Thomas. ‘Now you must forget your Popish religion. Today it is Anglican which is as near to Catholic as you will get.’

Marcelle looked longingly at the church as they passed by. How she would love to go regularly to church once more, as she used to with her parents before they all came to England.

As they drew near to Annabelle’s house, they spied Will sitting on the lawn. With him were two milkmaids in white caps, sitting beside him as he strummed on his viol. They listened to his sweet voice and made garlands of laurel leaves to hang around his neck.

When Thomas rode up, a grin crept across Will’s face as he chanted: ‘The Royal rogue has returned, for the little white fawn he brings, he yearns.’

‘Is that how you earn your keep?’ growled Thomas as they passed.

Abe Lane was busy in the kitchen but greeted Thomas cheerfully. ‘Back so soon, Dour Thomas? And who is this, your mistress?’ From under his bushy eyebrows, he stared at the shy Marcelle.

‘No, ’tis my kin,’ lied Thomas. ‘I want her to stay a while. Can I see Annabelle?’

‘She’s in the parlour at this time of day,’ Abe replied, bringing a glass of cool, foaming milk for Marcelle. ‘Drink this, little one,’ he said kindly. ‘It will refresh you, you look so tired.’

Marcelle thanked this funny looking old man. How kind and thoughtful he was. The gentle atmosphere in this house helped to dispel her fears.

While Marcelle sat with Abe Lane in the cosy kitchen, Thomas went off to find Annabelle. She was in her parlour getting it ready for the great ladies who visited in the afternoons. Annabelle was brought up on the Howard estate and, as a young girl, had been a maid to Frances Howard. Thus she had been under the influence of Frances’ notorious step-mother, the Duchess of Suffolk, who was generally known to dabble in the black magic arts. Annabelle shared the dark secrets of this famous Howard family and now lived in semi-retirement with Abe at Craig Alva. The court ladies came to visit Annabelle because of her knowledge of love potions and evil concoctions. And now in her parlour she stood by the window with the sun shining down on her brassy blonde hair. When Thomas entered, Annabelle was arranging tall sprays of jasmine in a bronze jar. Her dainty artistic hands almost caressed the blooms, but her brown eyes seemed to grow darker and her face grew pale when she saw her visitor. The sweet smile died on her lips and her face was suddenly hard and questioning. ‘Back so soon, Dour Thomas? Is there anything amiss?’

‘Be calm,’ Thomas raised his hand as if to reassure her. ‘There is nothing wrong. I have returned for reasons of my own. The despatch is still safe in my wallet.’

Annabelle visibly relaxed and the sweet dimples returned as she smiled at him. With her little turned-up nose and the snow-white cap on the back of her head, she was an appealing sort of person, whom kind men loved to protect, but under that golden thatch of hair lay a brain of amazing quality. A shrewd bargaining brain combined with a gay appraisal of life that gave her such power over the less intelligent well-brought-up ladies of the land. It allowed her to live comfortably and be independent.

‘Be seated, Dour Thomas,’ she said. ‘If that’s all your mission is, I am content.’

Thomas sat on a low embroidered stool and Annabelle seated herself facing him in a carved oak chair. Her black silk dress with its white ruffs at the neck was immaculate.

Thomas was fond of Annabelle but he never felt quite at ease with her. He often felt that those clever brown eyes delved deep into his mind. ‘I have a special favour to ask you, madam, and then I must be away, for my master will be getting concerned.’

‘Well then, what is it? A love potion or worse?’ Annabelle joked.

‘I have brought a young lady back here and I want you to shelter her for a while.’

‘A mistress, Thomas?’ Annabelle smiled and raised her eyebrows. ‘I am very pleased for you.’

Thomas wanted to keep up his lie. ‘No, just a cousin in distress,’ he said. ‘She is well born but has fallen on hard times. I will pay for her keep, and I can assure you she is trustworthy.’

‘Well, where is she?’ Annabelle asked brightly.

‘With Abe at the moment. Shall I go and fetch her?’

‘No, I will come down. I am finished up here for a while.’

Gracefully, Annabelle led the way down the wide oak stairway to the kitchen where Marcelle was still sitting with Abe. A small kitten lay curled up on her knee, and the colour had returned to her cheeks. As she stroked the little cat’s sleek fur, she looked very calm and content.

When Annabelle saw Marcelle, her brown eyes softened, noticeably. The girl reminded her of her own daughter who had died of smallpox at the age of five. She would be fifteen now, had she lived.

‘Hullo, my dear,’ Annabelle greeted Marcelle. ‘You are most welcome. Your home is with me until Thomas and you are wed.’

Thomas cast a surprised look at Annabelle. She still had the wrong idea but there was no sense in arguing. As a matter of fact, he had no serious intention of ever being married.

Marcelle looked quickly up at Thomas, the same question in her eyes, and he patted her hand. ‘Must be off. I will be in to see you the next trip,’ he said. ‘Farewell for the present.’

So off rode Thomas once more. Now he did not notice the scenery about him but thought only of Marcelle and her warm little body so close to him on the horse when they rode together. He realised that he felt good, warm and peaceful. Something odd was happening to him but he did not mind at all. He turned towards the fields and urged his horse on, to gallop like mad, leaping ditches and fences on their way to London.

The journey seemed much quicker than usual and, when the effeminate Robert Carr snapped and snarled at him for being so late, Thomas only grinned. ‘My mount went lame on me,’ was the only excuse he gave.

4

Craig Alva

After Thomas had left, Marcelle found that she was not alone in this cheerful home. How could she be? The bright surroundings and pleasant people all reminded her of that home in the distant past of which now her memory gave her only fleeting glimpses.

Most of that afternoon, she played with the kittens. There were three of them, all the babies of a big black and white cat called Mini, who kept them warm and snug in a cupboard under the stairs.

Old Abe was clearly very fond of them too, and was pleased to see that Marcelle liked them so much. ‘Don’t let
him
see them,’ he whispered hoarsely pointing at the ceiling. The grave expression on his face made it clear that he was deadly serious.

Marcelle was puzzled. Who on earth was up there? And why was Abe so afraid? Who or what could ever want to hurt his cats?

‘He’ll take them, he will,’ muttered Abe. ‘Torture them, he does. Look what he did to Mini.’ Lifting up the cat, he showed Marcelle a scar and Mini’s tail, which had a piece missing from it.

‘Why does
he
want to hurt them?’ enquired Marcelle, still wondering who
he
was.

‘Can’t help himself,’ whispered Abe patting his head. ‘He’s not quite right.’

Marcelle would have liked to continue the conversation but at that moment the door opened and in stepped a man. With a sweeping bow, he took off his funny hat and said: ‘I greet thee, little white faun from the forest.’

‘Oh, Will’s off,’ grumbled Abe and bustled away to finish his chores.

Marcelle stared half shyly and half aggressively at Will. Was this the odd one who hurt animals? She was not one to like him if he was. But then she looked into his merry grey eyes, and at his foolish grin which she found quite contagious, she was sure that he could not hurt any animal ever. So he was not the one Abe had been afraid of.

Later that evening, they all sat down to supper – Marcelle, Annabelle, Abe, Will and the two girls who worked in the dairy. In the large warm kitchen with its low oak beams the conversation was merry and the food excellent. They sat up until very late, drinking home-brewed wine and swapping stories. After they had eaten, Marcelle sat on the floor near Annabelle’s knee. Annabelle reached out and stroked the girl’s shiny hair over and over again. There was warmth and love here and Marcelle knew she was going to be happy.

In the little room at the top of the stairs, a room which was to be her very own, Marcelle prepared for bed. Annabelle brought hot water for her to wash with and then plaited her hair before tucking her snugly into bed. ‘How old are you, Marcelle?’ she asked.

‘I’ll be fifteen in September,’ replied Marcelle.

‘You look younger, I suppose that’s because you are so small and thin. You have a fragile beauty,’ she remarked, looking intently into Marcelle’s face. ‘I would have had a daughter your age,’ she said, a little sadly. ‘But she died when she was only five years old.’ The sad expression lingered for a moment, but then her quick smile was soon restored. ‘We must fatten you up for Dour Thomas,’ she joked. ‘He has waited a long time to choose a bride. But he has chosen well. Goodnight, love, sleep well,’ she said gently as she blew out the candle and tiptoed out of the room.