The Dandelion Seed (3 page)

Betsy busily cut off chunks of beef and pulled away hunks of bread, passing Rolly’s share out of the window to him as he waited in the alley. Betsy wolfed down the food and belched loudly with a wide grin. But Marcelle was not hungry. Betsy shrugged and ate Marcelle’s share as well, so hungry was she.

Marcelle quietly poured herself a mug of milk and took it upstairs. Betsy followed and tucked her up in bed. ‘Now don’t move or make a noise, luv, whatever you hear. Just trust old Betsy. I’ll settle Sam, and I won’t half enjoy doing it,’ she said with a wink.

She closed the bedroom door and locked it, putting the key in her pocket while little Marcelle placed her weary head on the pillow and was immediately asleep.

Down in the alley, Rolly was playing with the children. He may have been very simple minded, but he had the physical strength of two men when roused. Confident of her brother’s protection, Betsy stood in the doorway with her arms folded, waiting for Sam’s return. Her sharp mind was ticking over quickly. At last she had got that old fool where she wanted him, she thought. He often employed her somewhat bizarre talents to amuse his customers, but the bloody old skinflint always took half the profits. Betsy had every intention of getting even with him and of taking care of little Marcelle at the same time. Feeling determined and tough, Betsy awaited the landlord’s return, as she watched the kids chasing Rolly in the dirt.

2

Audley End

In the great dining hall of Brook House Sir Fulke Greville had finished his dinner and was now standing by the blazing log fire with a tall goblet of wine in his hand. He looked exceedingly annoyed. ‘Well, what is all this business?’ he demanded of a terrified-looking lackey. ‘Am I always to be plagued by these devils while I eat a meal?’

‘It’s the husband of the woman Father Ben buried this morning, sir.’ The servant looked nervously from side to side as he spoke. Priests were something one hardly dared mention nowadays since the gunpowder plot, though Brook House still sheltered Father Ben, their old Jesuit family priest. With money and influence most families were able to do this and the Grevilles was one family that had remained Catholic. But priests had to be kept hidden and have contact only with the old devoted family servants who looked after them.

When the body of Marcelle’s mother was carried into Brook House, Father Ben had found a rosary and a locket sewn into her skirt. He had promptly given her a Catholic burial in a secret part of the grounds.

Sir Fulke was furious that now this damned heretic husband had arrived to poke his nose in and cause trouble. He had to be silenced. ‘I’ll attend to him,’ he said, moving towards the door. ‘Bring two men to the entrance hall.’

Sam was grovelling on the black-and-white marble floor as two lackeys stood over him. ‘My poor wife, your honour, dragged from her sick bed. I am left destitute, with no one to help me run the inn. And I have no money to buy help or bury her.’ He crawled like a dog almost to Sir Fulke’s feet.

The nobleman stared at him in disdain. ‘Why did you not take better care of your wife, you rogue?’ Sir Fulke roared at him. ‘I’ve a good mind to have you punished for your carelessness.’

‘They took her from me, your lordship,’ Sam whined piteously. ‘What am I to do, sir? I’m sure you understand that my livelihood depended on her, sir, and I loved her more than I can say . . .’ He wiped his eye as if to clear away a tear.

Sir Fulke stared at this grovelling creature, not quite sure of how to respond. He was a sympathetic man at heart but also shrewd. He guessed that Sam the landlord would prefer a purse of coins to cheer him up rather than condolences or an arm around the shoulder. He was also eager to get him out of the house so that no more attention was brought there with its risks to Catholic sympathisers such as he.

Pulling a leather pouch from his belt, Sir Fulke dropped it on the floor where Sam still knelt. ‘Take that for your loss, you rogue,’ he said. ‘Now, be off. And I never want to see you here again.’

Sam scrambled to his feet, bowing and scraping. He could hardly believe his luck. ‘Thank you, sir, thank you,’ he gasped, backing towards the door. ‘My dear wife cannot be returned to me but your kindness goes a long way towards comforting me . . .’

But Sir Fulke had already turned and disappeared down the long corridor.

Sam stared at the purse for a moment, tossed it up and down gleefully, and then practically skipped back down towards his inn.

At the Duke’s Head, Betsy was serving the customers when Sam walked in. He look astonished to see her in charge and stood by the door speechless for a moment.

Betsy put her hand on her hip and sidled up to him. ‘I heard you was needing a woman about the house,’ she said with a slow smile. She ran her hand over his buttocks. Sam backed away, astonished. ‘I’ll help you out in every way,’ Betsy crooned. ‘I’m very obliging . . .’

Still unable to believe his eyes and ears, Sam grinned stupidly and nodded.

And so it came about that Betsy installed herself as the lady in charge at the Duke’s Head, willing to become Sam’s bedmate in order to be Marcelle’s protector. A kind-hearted girl, was Betsy, even if her method of going about things was a little unorthodox.

Everyone seemed settled and relatively happy, except little Marcelle, who crept about the building like a mouse, a scared look in her eyes, always watching in case she met Sam.

‘Get that bloody girl working!’ he would yell at Betsy, and Marcelle was given the most menial tasks to do. Betsy was kind and kept Sam away from her, but even she had always had a rough life herself and could not understand Marcelle’s aversion to the life she lived.

Marcelle could hardly bear it, scrubbing wooden tables, washing dirty clothes and lighting fires from morning till night, until she fell into bed, often too tired to sleep. Under the thin blanket she would toss from side to side, praying desperately that God would be good to her and take her to her mother in heaven. Her little face got thinner and her shoulders grew rounded as her mind revolved continuously on how to end her life. She could not do it herself; to commit suicide would condemn her soul to hell. So she could only pray that God would be good and somehow let her die. Betsy frequently tried, as did Rolly, to make Marcelle laugh, but neither ever managed to raise even a flicker of a smile on her lips.

‘Like a bloody scarecrow,’ roared Sam when he caught sight of his stepdaughter one day. ‘Just like her old mother, she is, a bit barmy.’

Betsy glared at him contemptuously. She was beginning to get a bit sick of him but her pockets were well lined. And on the nights when old Sam was drunk, Betsy went back to her old profession. Once Marcelle came upon her in a dark corner of the passage. Betsy’s petticoats were up around her waist and a heaving, groaning gentleman was forcing her up against the wall. Poor little Marcelle was terrified and she felt quite sick. She had often heard whispers that Betsy was of easy virtue, but she had never known exactly what that meant. After seeing this sight, Marcelle hid in her room for days, until Betsy came to find her.

‘What’s wrong, darling? Do you feel ill?’ Betsy asked.

Marcelle drew away from her. That terrible heaving image was still in her mind.

‘Now come, love, you have got to pull yourself together,’ Betsy implored her.

‘Oh, how can you sleep with that disgusting man after the things he did to my mother?’

Betsy stroked the girl’s hair gently. ‘Hush, love, don’t worry, I only do it for gain. It’s nothing to me. And I think ’tis better for you to take a man and then you wouldn’t feel so unhappy. I had men when I was thirteen,’ she added almost proudly.

But Marcelle threw herself on her knees beside a little statue of the Virgin Mary. ‘Oh dear good lady, mother of Our Lord, shut my ears from this talk. Help me to come to you.’ She prayed wildly.

Betsy went to the door. ‘Well, you’re a strange one,’ she said. ‘And no mistake, I suppose you want to be a nun, but you can’t, my love. Old King Jamie killed off all the priests and their lady friends as well.’ With that she went off to the taproom, leaving Marcelle to her prayers and her misery.

Sam was down in the taproom and glared at Betsy when she came in. His vicious face was almost blue from the ale he had consumed. ‘Where the hell have you been?’

‘Up to see Marci, she’s not well.’

‘She never is – like that bitch of a mother.’

Betsy filled Sam’s tankard from the barrel. ‘How did you come to marry ’er?’

‘Never did!’ he roared with laughter. ‘But she didn’t know that. She wouldn’t let me have it until I married her, but she had a nice little packet of money and jewels, she did.’ Sam paused for a moment, gloating at his cleverness. ‘So I got the blacksmith to perform the ceremony. Silly old bitch, didn’t speak enough English to know the difference.’

‘What happened to her first husband?’ Betsy wanted to get the truth out of him while he was drunk.

‘They arrived one foggy night about a year ago, just three of them – man, woman and the child. They looked like they had travelled a long way. I gave them a room and after they retired, two strangers came in and asked if I’d seen them.’ Sam’s face assumed a very crafty expression. ‘Well what was I to do? They paid me well and I took up a message for him to meet them. He left his wife and kid here, and rode out and never came back. The watch found his body out on the marsh. Put up a good fight, he had, but he was hacked almost to pieces. So me, with me kind heart, I looked after that little widow, I did.’ As he began to cackle uncontrollably, Betsy looked at him with hatred in her eyes. One day he would get his come-uppance.

Hanging about in Whitehall was getting on Thomas Mayhew’s nerves. For days he had been waiting for that effeminate pimp Robert Cart, and still he was shilly-shallying, changing his mind five times a day. ‘Tell the messenger to stay,’ Carr had first ordered. ‘I’ll go to Essex tomorrow.’

Three days had passed and Thomas Mayhew was still sitting in the antechamber watching the other retainers play dice and go off to spend mornings at the cock-pit. Bear-baiting and cock-fighting were popular sports, as was wrestling between men who would almost kill one another. No matter how much he tried not to, Thomas hated all these cruel sports and refused to join in with the crazed shouting from the excited audiences.

As he sat there, his mind travelled back to those pleasant evenings beside the cool rivers of Dorset, when he fished with his master’s son, Cary. How gently the tiny fish had been removed from the hook, and how glad he had been to see them thrown back into the swift-flowing river. ‘I must be a weak-minded fool,’ he muttered to himself. ‘I’ve no stomach for these blood sports.’ He glanced about him and reminded himself that he had better be careful or one day he would speak his mind about more than blood sports. And undoubtedly it would be regarded as treason. His head would then decorate London Bridge, or perhaps would swing on the gibbet on top of a hill until his bones were bare of flesh . . . Occupied by these morbid thoughts, he stared out of the window and watched the young Prince Henry playing tennis out there in the gardens. The prince was tall and graceful, and the sun shone on his golden hair. He played with quick elegant poise. He was a grand lad, this sixteen-year-old heir to the English throne, and so different from his coarse bawdy homosexual father.

‘Thomas Mayhew!’ called a little page. ‘Thomas Mayhew!’ The words echoed down the stone corridors and Thomas quickly pulled himself together. So at last dear Robert was ready to ride, he thought with relief. About time! With long strides, his sword clanking at his side, Thomas headed towards the fabulous apartments of the King’s favourite, and entered.

Amid the gold and scarlet brocade hangings of an enormous carved four-poster bed, sat Robert Carr. His pale face looked more worn than ever, and his long blond hair, elaborately curled, flowed about his head on to a silken pillow.

‘Oh dear!’ he sighed, sniffing at the bundle of herbs he always had to hand to ward off germs. (Robert Carr was terrified of germs; if someone sneezed he quaked in his shoes, in dread of catching some disease.) ‘Stay there, don’t come too close,’ his high-pitched voice warned Thomas.

Thomas remained just inside the door, with a dour expression on his face. The smell of this room disgusted him. French perfume and some strong smelling herbs hung heavily in the air.

‘Oh dear! I am sure I’ve been taken with something, I feel so ill,’ Robert Carr held the herbs to his nose and lay back on his pillows, his eyes closed. He looked just like a swooning woman, thought Thomas with contempt.

‘Give him the letter, Sobey,’ Robert ordered his secretary, who was sitting in the corner at a small writing desk.

The small dark gentleman handed Thomas a heavily sealed package. ‘It’s very important and very confidential,’ he said. ‘Go straight to your destination. If there is any trouble, you must see that it is destroyed.’ There was an amused glint in Sobey’s eye as he glanced over at dear Robert lying in the bed, for he knew exactly what was wrong with their master. He had annoyed His Majesty and was in the doghouse. But as soon as the news reached the King’s ears that dear Robert was ill, he would forget his earlier irritation and trot in to Robert’s apartment with a trayful of cossets to doctor and fuss his friend as he liked to.

So it seemed that this time Thomas would have to travel alone just to deliver a message. He glanced at the package – it was addressed to Frances Devereux, Countess of Essex, Audley End, Essex – tucked it under his arm, and left with a smart bow.