The Dandelion Seed (5 page)

Old Abe Lane, the owner of the nightcap was now downstairs in the kitchen pottering about preparing a tray for Annabelle, who liked her breakfast in bed. Thomas had visited this house before but certain things about it always puzzled him, such as the warmth and hospitality of the place and the fact that the Lanes were never short of food. It all seemed to run on well-oiled wheels, very unlike some of the places he had stayed in.

Annabelle was fair, amiable and so obviously a lady that Thomas puzzled about what the attraction between her and Abe. He was so much older and very earthy – a citizen of the North Country, Thomas guessed, by the tone of his voice. Abe spent much of his time below stairs, fixing dainty dishes for Annabelle and waiting on her like a servant. Yet he was supposed to be her husband. And all the while, Annabelle, so gay, pretty and always so smart in her gowns, entertained the ladies who came to visit her in her private sitting room. Annabelle certainly had plenty of friends in the right places. She and Abe chose to live out here, a long way from the nearest town. And now here in Thomas’ wallet lay a letter for Annabelle from the Countess Frances. He could not but wonder what was behind it all.

Another odd feature of the Lane’s house was Merlin, who lived in an attic at the top of the house. He was a strange creature who only appeared occasionally at meal times, as he did this morning as Thomas and Will sat in the kitchen. Merlin was tall and thin, and he always wore a long flapping gown which was covered with paint spots in multitudinous colours, oil and grease and even ink. Indeed, it was impossible to tell what the original colour of the garment was. His hair was long and he sported a straggly beard which was also stained with many colours, while his eyes, shining like black shoe buttons, never missed a thing.

‘Morning, Merlin, got up nice and early,’ chattered Will.

Merlin grunted and examined the shape of Will’s shaven head very carefully, feeling and touching it all over. Then he pulled from a pocket a small trumpet-like object with which he proceeded to listen to Will’s heart. ‘The head’s the same,’ he muttered as he passed over to the stove and helped himself to porridge before toddling off again.

‘I’ll send you my head when I am dead, Merlin,’ Will called out after him.

‘’Twill be sooner than thee thinks,’ retorted old Merlin as he disappeared out of the room.

Annabelle had eaten her breakfast and was now up and about. She came forward to greet Thomas looking very attractive with her wide smile and tip-tilted nose. But she always looked good, a fact that Annabelle was very much aware of. She always flirted with any male she fancied, and it usually worked. Even Dour Thomas had fallen under her spell and liked Annabelle very much.

‘How is my Lady?’ Annabelle now asked Thomas brightly as Thomas handed her the letter.

‘As fair and as far away as ever,’ replied Thomas.

‘Poor unhappy little thing. It’s terrible for her in that great house away from the court and her devoted family.’ Annabelle wiped away an unconvincing tear.

Thomas did not answer. He was not concerned with such things. His task was only to deliver the message, collect Annabelle’s message for Robert Carr, and be away again.

‘I must go to Merlin,’ Annabelle said, turning away from Thomas. She then hurried across the floor with her black silk gown rustling, and her little embroidered cap sitting jauntily on her fair curls.

Old Abe swept the red brick floor of the kitchen with a broom of birch twigs. He did not say a word, merely glancing up from under his bushy brows as Annabelle swept past him.

‘They say the plague is returning to London,’ Abe told Thomas when his wife had gone.

‘I had better stay here,’ said Will caressing a young milkmaid.

‘So you’ll stay here then, Will?’ Thomas got up from the bench.

‘Yes, I’ll stay for the spring fair. Mind how you ride Thomas.’

Astride his mount once more and the precious sealed package for Robert Carr, which Annabelle had slipped him before he left, in his wallet, Thomas rode down into the Lea valley until he came to the familiar little brook. This he followed as it rippled and gurgled on its way through the marshland until the tall tower of Brook House came in view. Then he was on his way to the Duke’s Head in Hackney.

There had been quite a bit of excitement at the Duke’s Head recently. Betsy had not been her usual good-tempered self at all, the reason being that the previous night her brother Rolly had run off. He had seen the Mummers marching by and, like a little child, had gone marching with them. He often did this – the call of the ring was too strong for him – and now he was off to Shoreditch, to the spring fair. Betsy was worried, for although she knew that he would come back, he would possibly be beaten to a pulp from fighting and wrestling for wages which no one ever paid him. Sometimes, on these occasions, he even ended up in the Fleet Prison and it cost a lot of money to get him out. Now Betsy was in two minds about whether to hitch up her skirts and run over the fields to get to town before Rolly did. But Sam, lord and master, had other ideas, and she and Sam had quarrelled incessantly all day long.

Marcelle was looking thinner and paler than ever, as she went about her tasks, trying hard to shut out the shouting and swearing that was going on around her. Over and over again, she recited the Lord’s Prayer as she knelt down on her knees on the steps, scrubbing the entrance to the inn.

By nightfall, after the inn had closed and guests were all asleep, Sam and Betsy had started their fighting again. From downstairs came screams and shouts, and the sound of breaking glass, and thuds as objects were thrown about. Finally Betsy fell into Marcelle’s room beaten to a standstill, since Rolly had not been around to defend her. Marcelle quickly locked the door and pushed a heavy chest up against it. Outside, Sam was drunk and vicious, stumbling down the corridors shouting and yelling.

‘Send that skinny bitch out here!’ he yelled. ‘It’s time she earned her keep. I’ll learn her, she’ll soon know what life’s all about . . .’

With her legs weak and buckling, Marcelle knelt down to help poor Betsy whose nose was pouring blood. One of her eyes was closing, and her clothes were in ribbons. Her whole body seemed to be a mass of bruises from Sam’s well-aimed boots. Sam continued to rant and rave outside Marcelle’s firmly locked door until one of the guests, woken by the racket, called out angrily: ‘Pox on you, landlord. Do I pay good money to listen to your drunken rages all night?’

It was only then that Sam calmed down and finally left them in peace. In bed, Marcelle cuddled the weeping Betsy to her.

The next morning, the bright sunshine shone through the bedroom window and brought in sounds of movement from the road outside – the clatter of carts taking produce to the city, the singing of the flower girls and the cries of the water carriers. Marcelle lay motionless in bed, gazing down at Betsy’s poor battered face. Betsy lay on her back snoring. There was dried blood all around her mouth, her eyes was extremely swollen and her blonde hair, spread out over the pillow, was bloody and tangled. She was not a very nice sight to see so early in the morning, but Marcelle looked at her with pity in her eyes, and only saw her friend’s pathetic, tear-stained face, not blousy Betsy. She turned towards the little statue of the Virgin, which had meant so much to her on those unhappy days. The Madonna had long golden hair and a bright blue dress painted on her wooden form. She seemed to smile sweetly at Marcelle. To this little virgin Marcelle always prayed, telling of her secret fears and kneeling long hours before her when her mind was troubled. This morning, however, suddenly seemed a special day and there was nothing to worry over. The Virgin’s sweet smile on her little wooden face gave Marcelle confidence; there was nothing to worry about.

She crept out of bed and rearranged the little posy of wild flowers she kept beside the statue. As she did so, her thoughts flew back to another place where there were lots of flowers – fields of them – and with her was a woman with shiny black hair and rings in her ears. She could still hear her gay laughter and see the even white teeth as they flashed in a smile. Where was that place and who was the lady? Many times this memory picture came to Marcelle’s mind, and she was sure that it was her old home in France. All she could remember of her journey to England was horses galloping, riding through the night, and a sense of apprehension. That was all. She would never know more now, for there was no one left to tell her. Now trapped in this terrible house, it was the end of her road. For a moment, tears of self-pity welled up in her eyes but then again she was given strength by this strange sweet sense of hope and happiness which returned to her. The little Virgin seemed to be trying to say that all was not lost. Pray, Marcelle, she seemed to say, and you will be guided. Marcelle fell down on her knees, hope and faith seemed to burst from her young heart.

Betsy stirred in the bed. ‘Christ!’ she muttered. ‘I can’t bloody move. I’m stiff and sore all over.’

With a little shudder at Betsy’s swearing, Marcelle rose from her knees and went over to the bed.

‘Got anything to drink, love?’ asked Betsy.

‘I’ll get some water,’ Marcelle replied gently.

‘Gawd!’ groaned Betsy. ‘A lot of good that will do! Sneak down and get a jug of ale or some gin, can’t seem to move. That swine has done for me.’ She sat up holding her head in her hands.

Marcelle was frightened by the thought of going downstairs alone, and she hesitated. But Betsy’s groans were getting louder as she called out: ‘Go on, love, he will be in the bar this time of the day. Creep into the kitchen, there’s a jug down the bottom of the larder.’

Glancing nervously from side to side, Marcelle crept slowly down the wooden stairs. It was very quiet in the kitchen but the room looked as if an earthquake had hit it. The pine table was overturned and stools lay on their sides. Broken crockery lay everywhere, and the walls and towels were all splattered with blood. A dreadful fear gripped her, paralyzing her like a rabbit trapped by the light of the torch. The dramatic signs of the violence of the night before made her feel weak with fear.

Next door in the bar, Sam leaned heavily on the counter. He did not feel too good himself this morning and his eyes were bloodshot. It was with a shaky hand that he served a dark young customer with ale. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he said, ‘There’s no food ready yet, my wife is a bit poorly this morning.’

Thomas Mayhew stared at this brutish-looking man, taking in with disgust the red-veined eyes and the purple bristly chin. He noticed that the landlord’s crumpled shirt was filthy and blood-stained and certainly looked as if it had been slept in. Thomas was disgusted by the way Sam leaned over the counter, with the greasy bare flesh of his fat stomach bulging out of the space where his pants and shirt should have met.

It’s just as well there’s no food, thought Thomas. He never fancied eating in this place anyway. Thomas did not suppose it would be much good to ask after Sam’s step-daughter. Indeed, he scarcely looked sober. Perhaps it was best just to drink his ale and be on his way.

Engrossed in these thoughts, he did not notice that the landlord had left the bar, until a shrill piercing scream came from another room. Thomas jumped to his feet and his hand shot up to his sword hilt. The scream came again and this time he recognized the voice. It was Marcelle. ‘Betsy! Betsy! Help me!’ she was crying, and suddenly two people rushed to her aid.

Downstairs tumbled a half-dressed Betsy just as Thomas vaulted the bar and rushed through the door with his sword drawn. As they entered the kitchen at the same time, what met their eyes was the sight of Sam holding Marcelle by the hair, his great hands jerking her head back viciously. Her dress had been torn from her thin shoulders. It seemed that he had crept in while she was busy pouring out a drink for Betsy, and he had pounced on the helpless girl.

‘Steal from me, would you?’ he had snarled. ‘The law can have yer when I have finished with yer, skinny bitch.’ He had grabbed her and started to tear off her clothes at which point she had screamed with mortal terror. It was this that both Thomas and Betsy had heard.

Arriving on the scene together, Betsy ran up and caught hold of the half-conscious girl, while Thomas, with the flat of his sword and the weight of his body, knocked Sam off balance. Down Sam went with a resounding crash that literally shook the floor, but he was up like a shot with a knife in his hand. ‘A fancy man, aye?’ he snarled. ‘That’s what she’s up to!’ With a roar, he lunged at Thomas.

Betsy screamed insults at Sam and encouragements to Thomas as they both dodged back and forth around the room. Suddenly the back door opened and Rolly’s enormous figure shot in, throwing itself on the landlord’s back and bringing him down with a loud crash to the floor. As this happened, they knocked Thomas’ sword from his hand. There was a loud groan and a squelch as Sam rolled over, the point of the sword buried deep in his fat stomach.

The others all stood staring in silence at the gushes of blood and the little white balls of fat that burst out of the skin where it had been gashed.

Betsy turned from Sam’s lifeless body to her brother. ‘You silly fool!’ she screeched. ‘What yer want to do that for?’

Rolly looked sheepish. ‘Sorry, Sis, I thought he was going to hurt you.’

‘Well, he’s done that for the last time,’ replied Betsy. Now she was down on her knees and helplessly trying to stop the flow of blood with a cloth.

Thomas held the silent pale-faced Marcelle close to him. ‘There’s nothing to be done. He’s dead,’ he said flatly. Feeling somewhat sick, Thomas suddenly remembered the important message in his wallet. He went forward and locked the doors to the inn. ‘We had better get him out of sight,’ he said. ‘Give me a hand here, Rolly.’