The Dandelion Seed (9 page)

Robert Rich was a pleasant young man of about twenty-four. He had spent a long time out in Virginia, and his skin was tanned brown. His eyes were very bright, and shone as he told stories of a land of gold where untold treasures were to be found, of Indians, a race with a strong sense of honour even though they were savages, and he told of a certain captain who had brought home an Indian princess and introduced her to the Queen.

Thomas listened fascinated. Other young men had joined them in the room and there were now about twenty in the room all sitting in little groups. One thing they all had in common was that they were young men of good families, whose fathers and grandfathers had always had a place in the court of the English king. Now they were being elbowed out by the hordes of Scotsmen who came south with Jamie. There were no wars to fight or occupy their time, so they hung about the town spending their money and getting into fights with Jamie’s followers. All these young men were interested in getting away, with youth’s urgent need of adventure. So they listened to Robert Rich with fascination. Each one was determined to get a slice of the fabulous treasure he spoke of, probably more for the adventure it promised than the riches it would bring.

‘’Tis a pity the king will not free my father,’ Cary said. ‘I’d be off soon enough.’

‘It is rumoured that Prince Henry is very interested in the sea,’ another young man said.

‘That is true. He spends long hours with my father learning the art of navigation,’ Cary informed them.

‘Well, here’s to a new sailor King, God bless him,’ said Rich, raising his glass.

All stood with glasses raised high to the Crown Prince Henry, who would never live long enough to be king.

‘I am off to sea again this year. Is there anyone here wishing to join my venture?’ cried Robert Rich.

All hands went high and even Dour Thomas got carried away by the excitement of it all, and waved his hand in the air.

‘Good, we will meet again to discuss details. Now I propose we continue to enjoy ourselves.’

In the early hours of the next morning, Robert Rich’s servants threw Thomas into bed. At the time, Thomas was completely unconscious and much the worse for drink. But he had had a very enjoyable evening and his worries had been well forgotten.

Old Sam’s body was safely disposed of. With bricks and flat irons attached to his limbs, he now lay snugly beneath the waters of the Thames. In the dead of the night Betsy and Rolly had wheeled a little cart with the lifeless body on it through the back streets, a big red cross painted on the cart to keep the watch from stopping them. Had they been stopped they could only say that Sam died of the plague and they were taking him to Moorfields to the communal burying pit. This manoeuvre passed off without a hitch and these last few months they had drowsed in luxury. For Betsy was now the owner of the Duke’s Head Tavern which she immediately set out to make more popular. She encouraged the young gentlemen to drink there and provided entertainment for them with Rolly’s feats of strength which he would perform outside on the cobbled courtyard, lifting heavy weights and challenging bystanders to bouts of wrestling.

And if Betsy had the time and the inclination she would perform with a nice young gentleman upstairs in bed. Betsy’s ideas were changing. She no longer needed the money, so sex was just a biological urge. Betsy was becoming almost respectable.

One bright sunny morning, while Rolly raised many peals of laughter from the folks outside, Sir Fulke Greville from Brook House came riding by on his way from Epping with his hunting party of young gentlemen. They stopped their horses to watch Rolly’s antics, and then they all dismounted and went into the inn to drink some ale. This was a special occasion which Betsy rose to. She spread a snow-white cloth on the table and provided plenty of food and hot spiced punch. Sir Fulke was a handsome man, now in his fifties, and was still very partial to a pretty woman. That morning inside the inn, he lounged by the large red brick fireplace, and observed the attractive Betsy. For her part, Betsy took him in, with his clear-cut aristocratic features and his smart attire. From then on all Betsy did was in aid of his Lordship, and Sir Fulke and his followers frequently dropped in for some extremely enjoyable evenings, when much of the entertainment was put on especially for the pleasure of the local lord who resided at Brook House.

For the first time in her nineteen years Betsy knew the meaning of prosperity. Her business thrived, and she often thought of her youth when she and Rolly had begged for money and food in the streets – she in her ragged dress with her bare feet all blue and frozen and, tagging along behind her, the muddy, bewildered little Rolly who was all of five years old. As the crowds had milled around them, no one looked or even cared as the little girl with a mop of fair curls held out her hand for pennies. Betsy once stole some oranges from a woman outside the playhouse at Shoreditch, but the woman caught her and beat her. Betsy could still hear her shrill voice now: ‘Steal from a poor working gel, would yer? Plenty of damned pockets to pick off those who don’t work so ’ard for it.’ Then with a sudden change of heart the woman had taken them home, washed and fed them. Orange Molly introduced Betsy to prostitution while her brother Rolly was hired out to a local sweep master. Rolly’s was a hard and dirty job climbing up those big chimneys to clean them, and his master was often brutal and unfeeling. All the young boys were bound to their masters so there was no way they could escape. So at such a tender age, Rolly was pulled away from the protection of his loving sister to be a small slave to a cruel sweep master.

Orange Molly had a heart of gold really, and Betsy grew to be very fond of her, so what else could she do except help Molly to entertain her gentlemen? And later, poor Molly died of the smallpox and left nothing but a basket or oranges. Meanwhile, poor Rolly had grown up daft from the bashings his sweep master had given him for running away. One day Betsy had found Rolly in a ditch where the sweep master had left him, black with soot and utterly naked. She bathed him and cared for him until he was able to breathe properly again, she clothed him and then they had fled deep into London town and got lost in the big city. But Rolly was never the bright little brother he had been. He grew up big and strong enough, but his brain remained like that of a child. But Betsy loved him deeply; he was all she had to care for.

That was the year the Black Death stalked London and people were dying like flies. It had been for Rolly’s safety that Betsy tried to leave the town along with a great horde of other refugees. As they fled they came to the borders of Essex but the soldiers of the Earl had lined the roads and beaten them back. The aristocrats in their carriages had flown but the little people were trapped, driven back into the disease-ridden city to die like rats. It was old Sam who had befriended Betsy then, allowing her and her brother to hide in the stables until the way was clear.

Betsy felt a twinge of conscience now, for he had not been so bad to her, old Sam, even though he had been a rogue. But after all, she didn’t kill him, and it was about time that she and Rolly had things a bit easier. Now Betsy had the great Lord of the Manor as her patron and things were really looking up.

His Lordship was very interested in inns and taverns, having just been granted the monopoly on the wines and spirits sold in these establishments. It was a nice little extra income, of the kind old Jamie always rewarded those who were useful to him. Although Sir Fulke Greville came from a Catholic family he was no stickler for religion and he knew which side his bread was buttered. The wily old king appreciated that.

‘Where’s that slovenly old swine who used to own this place?’ Sir Fulke asked Betsy one day.

Betsy’s face paled but her ready wit found an answer. ‘Oh, you mean Sam, my poor husband. He passed on a short while ago, your Lordship,’ she said, looking sad.

Sir Fulke gave her a shrewd look. ‘I thought his wife was dead. He came to me whining about something like that last year.’

‘That was his first wife,’ said Betsy, very subdued.

‘Good, so the tavern is yours, then. Pay your rent regularly and keep it fairly respectable, and don’t bring those stiff-necked Puritans down on you, wench, and you and I will get on fine.’ He pinched her cheek.

Looking coy, Betsy curtsied low. ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said.

To Rolly later, Betsy was loud in her praise of his Lordship. ‘We’ve dropped in a bit of luck this time, love,’ she told him.

‘Why?’ he asked like a small child.

Betsy had to explain. ‘This ground underneath belongs to the great Sir Fulke Greville, so if he says we can stay no one can interfere with us.’

‘He wants me to go running over the marsh on Sunday morning,’ said Rolly, with a proud expression on his big face.

‘Well, you do that, dear,’ said Betsy. ‘Run fast and he will make a wager on you and it will all be in our favour.’

Every Sunday morning, sporting events were held out on the Hackney Marshes, the flat green marsh that stretched from the banks of the Lea out to Epping Forest. There was usually a running contest and bull- or bear-baiting, cock-fighting and wrestling were the choice of sporting events. Many young gentlemen rode out from London town to place wagers on their favourite sport. This was the way in which Rolly spent most of his time now. His fine physique made him a popular figure amongst those who wanted to lay wagers on him. It didn’t matter that he had such a childish mind; to please them he would run or wrestle his heart out.

6

Intrigue

There was an air of excitement at Annabelle’s house for her friend and former mistress was paying her a visit, travelling to Craig Alva
in cognito
. All day long, Annabelle fussed and fidgeted.

‘What is the matter with Annabelle?’ Marcelle asked Abe.

‘She gets like this sometimes,’ replied Abe calmly. ‘I expect the great one is coming.’

In the afternoon Marcelle was sewing in her usual corner, when a Madam Weston was announced. Frances Howard always insisted on having false names when she travelled in case there were spies about. A strong waft of perfume followed her in, and she seemed to fill the small parlour with the wide stiffened folds of her beautiful garments, a lovely fur-trimmed tan-coloured, velvet coat and dress, and a large hat from which a long white plume drooped.

Sitting quietly in her corner, Marcelle did not dare look up at Frances, but instead she kept her head down, rapidly pushing the needle in and out of her work. There was an air of tension in the room which made her feel extremely nervous. But every now and then she did quickly glance up to catch a glimpse of the elegant figure in the room, spotting the Countess’ set little white face, her ash blonde hair which hung down in long curls on her shoulders. Annabelle ran to greet her and the two women embraced as if they were sisters.

‘Oh, my dear!’ burst out Frances. ‘It is getting terrible. It is more than I can stand.’

Suddenly she realized that they were not alone. Her face went cold as she stared at Marcelle.

‘It’s all right,’ said Annabelle, noticing her hostility to the girl, ‘Marcelle is my companion.’

‘Dismiss her!’ ordered the Countess in a hard voice.

‘Leave us for a while, dear,’ said Annabelle kindly.

Marcelle got to her feet, inclined a quick curtsy towards the countess and obediently left the room. Outside she shuddered. For some reason the fair, beautifully-dressed gentlewoman gave her the cold shivers, as if a grey goose were walking on her grave.

Inside the parlour, Frances unburdened her unhappy soul to Annabelle whose china-blue eyes filled with tears as she listened sympathetically to this well-to-do madam, whose family was one of the most ill-starred of England. Their greed and ambition were always their downfall and every generation sent a lamb to the slaughter. Under Henry VIII, Anne Boleyn had gone to the block, followed by Katherine Howard. Now members of the younger generation were being thrown like dice around the political court in an effort to regain prestige and power behind the throne.

At first the target had been the Crown Prince, who had had eyes for no one but Frances ever since they had played together as children in the gardens of Greenwich, and then later became secret lovers. But the Protestant King James was no fool and he did not intend to be over-run by a Catholic family like the Howards. So his first step had been to lure the two rival families, the Essex and Howard families into a marriage settlement.

‘They will be too busy doing battle with each other to worry over me,’ the canny Scot had thought as he blessed the union between Robert, son of Lord Essex, and Frances Howard. Both were very young – Frances not yet thirteen and Robert not fourteen, and from the beginning the marriage had been disastrous. The newly-weds hated each other and fought like cats every time they met. So they parted, Robert to the war in France and his child bride to the fabulous home of the Howards at Audley End.

It was here earlier that Annabelle had become the first real friend and confidante of little Frances. Annabelle had been first maid to Frances, having been promoted from the nursery when the children had grown up. There were not many secrets in the great house that Annabelle did not know about, what with her husband in the coachhouse and Annabelle in her lady’s chamber. She had helped dress Frances in her bridal clothes and had comforted her when Frances’ irate parents brought her sobbing and screaming back from court. Once Frances was married, it was made very difficult for her to meet her lover, the Crown Prince. And young Henry was too proud to dishonour his royal house, now that his father’s feelings were clear, so each young heart moped and pined for the other, Henry at Whitehall and Frances at her ancestral home.