The Dandelion Seed (17 page)

For a moment Rolly understood. ‘I want to go home,’ he wailed.

Thomas turned to the men who had gathered around. ‘This man is an old servant of mine,’ he said. ‘Take him to my cabin, I will be responsible for him.’

Thomas took off the bonds from Rolly’s ankles and wrists, and fed Rolly in his cabin. There they talked of Betsy and the Duke’s Head, until at last Rolly calmed down and he was once more back to being the docile boy who listened in wonder to the tales of adventure of others.

The crew grew to like this strong, willing man and Rolly asked no more to go home but adapted himself to the life on board ship. During the time that they spent at sea Rolly was always close to Thomas and many times during running battles with the odd Spanish ship Rolly had saved Thomas from many a sharp blade. The rotten food never upset Rolly nor did the bloodshed. Times of pestilence passed over him for he had already survived both the plague and smallpox when he was young. Rolly enjoyed the task of throwing the dead crew overboard and with a good will he meted out punishment to the offenders tied to the mast. When necessary, the whip was put into Rolly’s hand and he beat them whole-heartedly perversely, enjoying the excitement of it.

‘That fellow is the most adaptable member of the crew,’ the captain remarked to Thomas.

To Thomas Mayhew, Rolly was like a pet dog – always on hand to be kicked, cursed or fondled. It was all the same to Rolly. While to Rolly, Thomas was his saviour; he was devoted to him and he was never very far away. When weary of the endless expanse of sea, and homesick for England, Thomas found it comforting to have Rolly squatting near by, bronze skinned and glowing with health. And it gave him a boost to hear Rolly talking of Betsy for it brought Marcelle closer to him in his heart during these lonely months.

So there we have to leave them for a while to their adventures in the New World, where there was so much gold for the taking, the big, childish Rolly and the morose Thomas thrown together in a world as yet unexplored.

9

The Birth

In the quiet rural surroundings in Essex, the year came in and slowly passed. The winter transgressed into spring and dark nights and cosy fires gave way to longer evenings sitting out in the garden and rising early to plant and sow, in a happy anticipation of a warm summer.

At Annabelle’s house the cows were still brought in at sunrise and the milkmaids sang as they worked. The blackbird repaired his nest and searched for a new mate, his throat bursting with song. And Marcelle, looking up from her chores in the dairy, sang too, in a soft, gentle voice because she felt so happy. Her figure was full and round, and her cheeks glowed with good health. She was nearly nine months pregnant and had never felt so well and content in her life. Whenever the healthy babe kicked and writhed inside her, she smiled and put her hand on the spot on her belly. It was a wonderful feeling: she would never be alone again. In her womb was part of her who would grow and talk and be with her always. It made her feel so exhilarated that in spite of the extra weight of her body she wanted to run, jump, dance and sing.

Old Abe whistled sharply from the doorway to let Marcelle know that breakfast was ready. With loving care he had prepared a bowl of oatmeal for her, topped with the best of the cream. Now he watched her affectionately as she ate. ‘That’s right, love, nothing like a good bowl of oats to settle the tummy,’ he said.

Abe had grown very attached to Marcelle and all winter long they had kept each other company. Abe taught the girl to play crib and shuffle penny, and in the evenings as they were seated by the crackling fire, he would tell her strange stories of the lonely Yorkshire moors that had been his home as a boy. Marcelle also learned the secret of Merlin, the crazy healing man, who lived in the attic, and she had been amazed to learn that Abe was Annabelle’s husband and that old Merlin had once been her lover but had lost his wits while working on experiments years ago. She learned that when witches were no longer burned and more humanitarian forms of punishment were sought, apothecaries, of which Merlin was one, were called upon to experiment with different kinds of torture. And they experimented on human beings themselves. It did not take long for Merlin to be badly affected by the horrendous tortures he was expected to inflict on people all in the name of progress. He went quite mad, running amok and killing several people. He spent some time locked in a cage but then Annabelle and Abe had rescued him and brought him to this house strapped to a board, by then a raving lunatic.

‘Did you not mind Annabelle having a lover?’ Marcelle asked Abe, her soft eyes looking sad and bewildered.

‘Aye, ’tis hard to understand, my dear,’ he replied. ‘But circumstances alters many cases,’ he puffed the little black pipe that he had recently taken to smoking. ‘I am more than a score years older than she,’ he said. ‘So when this flightly Scotsman came hanging around, I went back to the coachhouse and left them the freedom of the cottage. Annabelle was mad about him, and a nice-looking chap he was, too, and very clever. He was assistant to that Harvey chap, the one the King knighted. Well, to cut a long story short, they had a bonny bairn, a baby girl, but she died of the smallpox – I reckon that was the real beginning of him losing his wits. He tried to cure the baby with this new idea they got, all to do with the blood but it didn’t work. I don’t know what it was about, it was beyond me.’

Tears of sympathy for Annabelle trickled down Marcelle’s cheeks. ‘How terrible,’ she whispered, ‘to have a child and then lose it.’

‘Here! don’t you go fretting yourself.’ Abe reached out and patted her cheek with his wrinkled hand. ‘It was the will of God and Annabelle has been happy here in this house and so have I. Even that poor devil upstairs is all right now. No one bothers him now. Shut him up in a bloody cage, they did. You should have seen the state of him when we helped him to escape, and it could never have been managed without the help of Frances Howard. She was always fond of Annabelle, would do anything for her, she would.’

‘I am happy here too,’ said Marcelle, ‘and I do hope Annabelle will be back in time – when the baby is born, I mean.’

‘She will,’ Abe assured her, ‘do not worry. It is this damned wedding that is keeping her in London. Waste of money, all them dances and masques. But it is all they think about. She would do better to stay here, it only makes her discontented, all that high society.’

So Abe grumbled away and Marcelle smiled fondly at him. He was such a nice old man, she had never known anyone so kind. She certainly missed Annabelle, but life was a bit more peaceful without her, for she was always chasing them all about.

The wedding that Annabelle was attending was that of King James’ eldest daughter Elizabeth. The wedding was a grand affair with the sixteen-year-old bride in a gown of silver tissue studded with many fabulous jewels and her hair hanging loose about her shoulders to signify her maiden state. The country could ill afford this magnificent display but all the court had been preparing for the wedding for some time. The King himself was still in a depressed state since the death of his son Henry, and the day of the wedding did not help the King’s feelings. In fact, he made a quiet journey through Westminster Abbey where young Henry’s effigy was still on view.

A few weeks later Annabelle arrived home, very smart and full of chatter about the wedding and her stay at Holborn House as lady-in-waiting to her beloved Frances.

To Marcelle she seemed changed, there was a certain tiredness in her eyes and she did not seem quite so responsive to the members of the household. Everything seemed to agitate her – the house, the farm, the servants and she nagged poor Abe from morning till night.

‘I wonder what is eating her ladyship?’ muttered Abe one day as Marcelle sat in the kitchen. ‘She has got something on her mind, you mark my words.’ He nodded his shaggy head and looked so worried that Marcelle put a comforting arm about him. ‘It is the change after living in that fine house,’ she said. ‘Do not get upset, it will pass.’

Once again the great local ladies began to gather in Annabelle’s parlour and the regular pattern of life settled on them all. One afternoon even Frances Howard came visiting again but her face was frozen and her green eyes stared insolently at Marcelle, her gaze coming to rest on the bulge of the girl’s stomach.

Marcelle lowered her gaze and asked to be excused from the parlour. Then she stood a while in the corridor to regain her composure. The cat-like eyes of Frances Howard had disconcerted her. Inside the room she heard voices raised in temper. Annabelle and her beloved Frances were quarrelling. She could hear their shrill voices through the closed door, terror held her very still, and she crouched in a corner of the corridor trying in vain not to listen.

Annabelle’s voice came wailing and tearful. ‘Do not ask me to leave this house, Frances, I have become so attached to it,’ she was saying.

‘Nonsense!’ came the acid tone of Frances. ‘I have bought another house and I need you there, as well as Abe and Merlin.’

‘Oh God! How will I tell them?’ wept Annabelle.

‘Whatever is wrong with you?’ demanded Frances. ‘Have you forgotten how much you owe me? Do not try to back out now or I swear you will regret it dearly,’ her voice trembled with threats.

‘Oh, I am sorry, dear, I do not mean to be selfish, but it is a responsibility that I have to the rest of the household,’ pleaded Annabelle.

‘Well, take them with you, then,’ replied Frances. ‘The house is out of town, so Merlin will be safe there. But that bitch of a girl is not my responsibility. Let that husband she cuckolded so well take care of her. Now, Annabelle, my patience is exhausted. Stop this whining and I will send for you in several weeks.’

As Frances left, she passed so close to Marcelle that the girl could smell her perfume. She almost fainted in terror. And even when Frances had climbed into her carriage and disappeared, she remained in the corner, stunned, her thoughts filled with confusion. So Frances knew her secret; had Annabelle told her? She wanted to run away, to go somewhere, away from everybody, to find a place to have her baby where no unkind voices recalled her crime of being seduced by an unknown man. With her hands hot and clammy, and her body shaking violently, she stood propped against the wall until Annabelle found her.

‘What are you doing out there, Marcelle?’ Annabelle asked. ‘And what is the matter with you? Are you not well?’

Marcelle could not answer. She just stared back at Annabelle, her wide eyes looking tragically at her. ‘Come, my love, I will get you to bed,’ said Annabelle, forgetting her own troubles. She guided Marcelle tenderly to her room and helped her undress.

‘Is it three weeks yet till you are due?’ she asked. But Marcelle did not answer, her face was buried deep in the pillow.

The next day Annabelle sent for the mother of one of the milkmaids. The old crone was experienced in midwifery. ‘She may have the child soon,’ the old lady said, ‘It is very low. I will stay on, just in case, because she seems a funny girl and I do not think she will help herself, that one.’

Annabelle bit her lip. She was not sure what to do. There was an apothecary in town but he might not come all this way out for a childbirth. She took another look at Marcelle who was lying quite still. Oh dear, it had been a trying week . . . Then she decided to take a chance and send to town for the apothecary, in the morning. Then she closed Marcelle’s bedroom door quietly and went off to her own flowery boudoir to rest.

It was a clear cold night and a full moon hung heavy in the sky. The silver light filled the room as Annabelle restlessly watched white fluffy clouds sail past. This was her home and she loved it; it was going to be very hard to leave it, as Frances wished. Then the air was suddenly rent by terrible shrieks – dreadful bloodcurdling screams which came tearing through the night. It was Marcelle! Annabelle leapt from her bed and ran along the corridor to where she found Marcelle lying at the bottom of the short flight of stairs that led from her room. The girl was doubled up in pain, her hands on her stomach, and she was screeching like one possessed. ‘Oh! save my baby!’ she screamed. ‘Oh God! please help me! Send the devil away, do not let him touch my baby!’ Her eyes were dilated and saliva frothed on her lips as though she were in a fit.

‘Abe, come and help!’ called Annabelle as she ran to aid Marcelle who was lying on the floor, her arms thrashing and her head twisting and turning.

‘Oh God, she is demented!’ gasped Annabelle, holding her close to her.

Abe picked Marcelle up gently, soothing her with kind words.

‘I saw him,’ sobbed Marcelle. The tears began to fall as she slowly recovered. ‘He was there, the devil, that young man with the red hair.’

‘Hush,’ said Abe. ‘Remember the little babe inside you. You do not want to frighten him, do you?’

By now Merlin had appeared, a nightcap upon his untidy locks. ‘Get water, hot water,’ he commanded.

Marcelle was gripping her stomach. ‘He will be born soon, I know he will,’ she gasped, and she soon began to scream again as the labour pains started.

Several hours later, strong and gentle hands brought forth Marcelle’s premature child, a little boy with red hair in tight little curls and an odd-shaped mole on his buttock. By that time Marcelle had given up and had lapsed into unconsciousness.

Merlin breathed life into the child’s tiny body, then wrapping it up gently, he handed it to Annabelle. ‘Take care of his Royal Highness,’ he said and went towards his attic.