The Dandelion Seed (7 page)

As Annabelle went along the long polished corridor to her own chamber, her thoughts were upon the new guest in her home. Why was it that this child reminded her so much of herself at that age? It must be because she had been fifteen when she married Abe. Her mind drifted back to her childhood and the lodge where she was born. She undressed and climbed into her lovely bed with its lavender silk hangings. It had been a wedding present from her mistress, the Duchess of Suffolk, mother of Frances Howard, now the Countess of Essex. But it was a lonely bed now, occupied only by Annabelle. Where Abe slept, she was not sure – probably in the communal guest room on the bottom floor. He no longer shared her bed and had not done so for many years. As she tossed restlessly in bed, she recalled her wedding night. How terrified she had been and how awkward and embarrassed Abe had been. He had been forty-five and she fifteen. It was a big age difference, and they did not choose each other. Abe never liked women much and Annabelle had seen few men in her young life as a lodge-keeper’s daughter at the Howard country estate. The Duchess had thought it best for servants to marry, believing that they settled down and were more easily controlled, so every effort was made to get Abe the coachman, a wife. He was getting on a bit and his cottage was meant for two not one. So it was that little golden-haired Annabelle, the children’s nursemaid, was chosen. Naturally, she rebelled but it made no difference; her father was too much under the influence of the great Howards.

It seemed a very long night to Annabelle as she continued to lie awake, with her thoughts going back down the road of her life. She pulled up the bed covers impatiently. What the hell was the matter with her? She was not usually one to get so moody. Perhaps she was a bit jealous of this youthful little girl, Marcelle. Had she fancied Dour Thomas herself so that seeing him with this young girl had been a shock to her? No, it could not be that. No, that was not the problem. Thomas was too humourless to interest her. A man must be gay and debonair to attract her, just as Donald had been. Her dearest, handsome, Donald . . . She had been seventeen when she had fallen in love with him. Little shivers ran up and down her spine as she remembered those lovely long hours they had spent making love under the tall pines in the woods near her home. She had already been married three years but had been starved of true sex, so her affair with Donald had been wonderful and unforgettable. All the happiness and even the tragedy that followed, were worth it all – that is, apart from losing the child. And the memory of that would never go, particularly of that charming Donald with his smart kilted outfit and his lovely smile. But their love had brought with it so many tragedies before she was even twenty-one. Her affair with Donald had been discovered but she was already pregnant and had given birth to a daughter. Outraged, the Duchess had Donald shut up in prison for daring to interfere with the wife of her coachman. It was already well known that there could be no children from that union, so Annabelle was trapped. But over the years the Duchess made fine use of Donald’s clever brain and his extraordinary knowledge of medical matters and allowed him the means to experiment in her black magic cults. Imprisoned thus, Donald’s mental state had deteriorated, and then Annabelle’s little girl, the love child, died of smallpox. When he heard of this Donald collapsed and never recovered. And he announced that he was only to be called Merlin from then on. Soon the Duchess tired of him, and when Abe and Annabelle moved away, they took Merlin with them. Merlin now lived in the attic at Craig Alva, where he was always busy experimenting with medicines and black magic. He was frequently made use of by Annabelle and Frances Howard who had much need of the poisons and evil potions which were relied upon in those days before sophisticated medicines.

In her room, Marcelle slept peacefully, knowing nothing of the sleepless fears of Annabelle. She awoke the next morning to fresh spring sunshine and the song of the birds. Suddenly she felt so different, light, free, gay and happy as she stood at the window in her long white bedgown and watched old Abe bringing in the cows from the meadow to be milked. It is lovely here, she told herself, looking over the long sweep of meadowland to the dark green forest in the distance. On the hill stood a church with a square tower. ‘That is what I would like to do,’ she said out loud. ‘I would like to go to church and thank God for this haven of rest and sanctuary.’

She dressed and went downstairs. Abe was back in the kitchen washing his hands at the pump. He was a queer-looking old fellow, grey and bent, but full of vitality. With his bulbous nose and pink-lined face, he reminded Marcelle of a pet rabbit she had once owned, particularly when he hopped and jumped everywhere as he tended to do.

‘Morning, darling,’ Abe greeted her. ‘There’s porridge on the fireside.’

‘Let me help you,’ she offered. ‘I am used to being busy.’

Abe’s bright eyes gleamed under the bushy eyebrows. ‘Aye, there’s plenty to do, lass,’ he said. ‘What with the garden and the house, I would be mightily glad of some help.’

And so it was that Marcelle and Abe became very close friends. Between them they cooked the meat and picked and prepared the vegetables and carried trays of food to the guests who frequently stayed. Marcelle was quick, bright and always willing, and Abe grew very fond of her.

Annabelle usually appeared about lunchtime when all the chores had been done, only to disappear again to her pretty little parlour where several visitors would arrive, mostly in great springless coaches but some arrived in sedan chairs carried by uniformed lackies who, having delivered their burden, would proceed to the kitchen to await the laborious journey home.

It was always lively and interesting down in Abe’s kitchen, with lively conversation, plenty of good food and gossip. Within a few weeks, Marcelle’s cheeks had filled out and her skin had lost its yellow pallor.

‘How do you like our pretty new lass?’ Abe would ask of the young men who idled about his kitchen.

‘She be sweet. Is there a chance for me?’ one asked.

But Abe shook his head. ‘Betrothed to Dour Thomas, she is, and a royal messenger, he is.’

Listening to this exchange, Marcelle wondered whose idea it was that she should marry Dour Thomas, for so far they had never discussed it, and she had certainly not been consulted.

A week later, Thomas paid them a short visit. He and Marcelle walked in the woods together and stopped by the stile, where he looked at her strangely, his dark eyes soft for a moment as the hardness around his mouth disappeared. Marcelle would have loved to put her arms around his neck but a strange shyness possessed her. Their eyes held that look just for a second, but then Thomas said: ‘Come on lass, it is getting late,’ taking her hand. They walked back together to the cheery warmth of Abe’s fire. ‘I am very glad to see that you are happy here,’ Thomas said before he left. ‘I’ll not be coming this way for a while. The King takes a hunting trip soon, so I expect Robert Carr will command me to go along.’

‘Will you be away long?’ asked Marcelle, trying to hide the disappointment in her voice.

‘Several months,’ replied Thomas. ‘But don’t worry, you will be safe here, little one.’ He spoke gently as he caressed her cheek. Then he mounted his horse and rode away.

Will rode with him and Marcelle was doubly sad. She was going to miss Will’s lively company. It was Will who sang all day and kept everyone merry. And the previous week he had taken her to the village fair. It had been a wonderful, exciting event, with Morris dancers and bears and all sorts of performing people and beasts. Crowded stalls had sold gingerbread and brandy snaps, and the local people had had a wonderful time. Then at nightfall Will had sat in a big tent strumming on his viol and everyone had sung and danced together – old, young and even the children. For Marcelle it had been a grand thrill all day. And then when they came home on the back of an old donkey, Will was much the worse for drink and kept falling off, at which point the donkey would immediately turn around and head in the other direction. Marcelle, who had known only tears and sadness in the last year, giggled and laughed until she was quite exhausted.

But when Annabelle found out about this outing, she had been furious, lashing out with her tongue at both Will and Marcelle. ‘Young ladies do not go to fairs,’ she said angrily. ‘Whatever would I say to Dour Thomas if anything should happen to you, Marcelle?’

Marcelle had no idea of what was likely to happen, but she dropped her head meekly and said: ‘I am sorry, Annabelle but it was all so funny and after all, Will was with me.’

After that, Annabelle clearly decided to keep a closer eye on Marcelle, so every afternoon the girl was taken up to the parlour to accompany Annabelle while she gossiped and passed round drinks to her friends. Marcelle was made to sit amongst them all and sew pretty dresses for her trousseau.

In the recess behind a silk curtain in Annabelle’s room there were many dresses made from lovely satins, brocades and fur. They were all mostly gifts, cast-offs from Annabelle’s more wealthy friends. ‘I’ll never wear this lot out,’ she had told Marcelle one day, ‘I’ll tell you what we will do. We will cut them to fit you and make them fashionable, so that when Dour Thomas gets quarters for you at court you will be smart and pretty, and we will all be proud of you.’

Annabelle had a heart of gold, and was always so generous with her love and possessions.

‘Everybody loves Annabelle,’ said Abe. ‘She has not a mean streak in her anywhere.’

But from her vantage point, Marcelle, often saw a different side to Annabelle, a side hidden from the rest of the household. As she sat quietly sewing in the corner of that bright little parlour, Marcelle would observe all the grand ladies with their high-pitched cackles who discussed in whispers some choice scandals and were entertained by a smart, alert, very hard and brittle Annabelle. And when all these smart ladies had all gone, Annabelle would put an arm around Marcelle’s shoulders and say bitterly, ‘Those bitches, they are damned stinking bitches. Come on, darling, let us go downstairs.’

There was one place in the house that Marcelle hated and that was on the top floor, where she seldom ever went. For she was terrified of old Merlin. Her first trip to his quarters had been a great shock. She had seen this tall thin man in a long smock down in the kitchen several times. He never spoke to her but would tilt her chin up and gaze directly into her eyes pinning her, she felt, like a trapped animal. It was enough to make anyone terrified. Then one day, she had been forced to see him upstairs.

‘Merlin has not been down today,’ said Annabelle. ‘Take his food up, will you Marcelle, dear?’

With a heavily laden tray she climbed the gloomy stairs up to the big attic where Merlin lived. It was dark and dismal up there, dust and cobwebs were everywhere. By the time she had reached the heavy oak door to Merlin’s room, she felt as if her heart was in her mouth. She gave a gentle tap on the door. No reply. With her foot she pushed open the door which swung open slowly with a protesting whine. Marcelle stood and stared open-mouthed at the sight which met her startled gaze. Before her was a great dingy room with lots of dark corners from which strange faces stared at her. In the middle of the room was a large table from which a very strange blue light came and there, holding a smoking glass bowl, stood Merlin. His hair was hanging over his face and he was muttering wildly as he stirred the smoking glass. Suddenly he became aware of her presence. ‘Enter!’ he called irritably. ‘And shut the door. You are making a draught.’

Marcelle was dumbstruck. She grasped the tray tightly and then, on shaking legs, she crept towards the centre of the room looking for somewhere amongst all the debris to put down the tray. Then the next sight sickened her. For on the table were two young starlings. They were alive but pegged down by their wings as they gasped and struggled to release themselves. Behind them was a headless rat and next to that lying very still was one of Mini’s black kittens. The tray crashed to the floor as Marcelle grabbed the kitten’s lifeless body and fled screaming hysterically down to the kitchen and straight into the arms of Abe.

Having heard the crash and Marcelle’s sudden descent Annabelle came running in and tried to comfort the girl. But no one could console Marcelle as she hugged the dead kitten to her breast. ‘He killed it,’ she sobbed. ‘There are birds being hurt up there, too, it is terrible.’

‘The kitten died in the night,’ Annabelle explained, ‘so I gave him to Merlin. He did not hurt it.’

‘But why did you give it to him? What is he doing to those poor wild things?’ cried Marcelle. She was still trembling.

Annabelle looked at Abe but he was flummoxed, too. ‘She’s a sensitive girl, all right. She ain’t going to let no one fool her. She’s too fond of animals,’ he told Annabelle quietly.

Annabelle looked down at him disdainfully, and then turned back to Marcelle. ‘Listen, Marcelle,’ she said. ‘Merlin is a clever man. He makes sick people well, just as Our Lord did.’

‘Oh, do not say that!’ begged Marcelle. ‘It is evil what I saw up there,’ she cried. ‘Horrible faces looked at me. Demons live up there, I saw them.’ Her sobs became relentless. ‘My mother,’ she cried. ‘My poor mother, they killed her, poked her under the water with long sticks, they did, the evil ones.’

Abe and Annabelle looked at each other in puzzlement. What preyed on this child’s mind? Whatever it was, Dour Thomas might have given them some warning.

Marcelle was still clinging on to the limp body of the kitten and sobbing as if her heart would break. Abe knelt down beside her. ‘Come little one,’ he said gently. ‘Don’t take on so.’