The Dandelion Seed

  The Dandelion Seed

  Lena Kennedy

  www.hodder.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 1987 by

  MacDonald & Co (Publishers) Ltd

  This edition published in 2013 by Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © Executors of the Estate of FG Smith 1987

  The right of Lena Kennedy to be identified as the Author of the

  Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright,

  Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

  stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any

  means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be

  otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that

  in which it is published and without a similar condition being

  imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance

  to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  Ebook ISBN 978 1 444 76738 4

  Paperback ISBN 978 1 444 76737 7

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.hodder.co.uk

  Contents

  Foreword

  1 The Brook

  2 Audley End

  3 The Duke’s Head at Hackney

  4 Craig Alva

  5 Whitehall

  6 Intrigue

  7 Home Sweet Home

  8 The Proposal

  9 The Birth

  10 Abduction

  11 The Fall

  12 The Predicament of Chalky

  13 The Waning Star

  14 Homecomings

  15 Alone at Brook House

  16 That Many-Headed Monster

  Epilogue

  About the author

  Also by Lena Kennedy

  Foreword

  It is strange how a tiny plant seed, so minute and hardly discernible will survive any conditions no matter how much we ignore it, try to destroy it, or even protect it. Regardless of what we do, out of a batch of seeds, at least one will always survive.

  As I sit in a green meadow, the birds are singing around me and the tall grasses rustle in the wind. In the distance I can see a clump of golden dandelions, the most common of our wild flowers. ‘Piddle-beds’ we called them when I was a child and played in this same meadow. ‘Don’t pick them,’ my friends would say. ‘If you do you will wet the bed tonight.’ With the wilful obstinacy of youth I picked a good bunch, and then wondered why I had not wet the bed that night, as my companions had claimed I would.

  Now I sit and dream in this peaceful meadow and watch the tiny dandelion seeds float off on the swift breeze in the direction of the sea, taking their own flight towards the shore where they split up, sending the tiny umbrella-like shapes on to their individual destinies. I began to wonder how far they would float on the waters. Would they soar over the sea to be lost in the ocean or would each one have its own place to rest and take root? Perhaps it would land in some meadow like this one, or in some suburban garden, a clump of golden blooms coming forth to strike annoyance in a dedicated gardener who would dig them up and curse the wind that brought them.

  Dandelion seeds have been in existence for almost as long as man. When and where did they come from? When the Pilgrim Fathers sailed for new lands, did the dandelion seed sail with them? As I lie on my back deep in reflection and chewing a piece of grass, I am inclined to think so . . .

  1

  The Brook

  Over the flat Essex marshland, runs the River Lea. The rider crossing the marsh on this dark February night felt cold and dejected. In spite of his thick warm cloak, the chilly white mist seemed to get to his bones. Even his horse was getting weary and slowing down as if the cold were seeping into its limbs. The rider would not be sorry to get to London. He had ridden from the coast, travelling since early morning through miles of deep forests and tiny hamlets. With a shiver he pulled up the collar of his cloak about his ears. ‘It would have been better if I had stayed overnight at Higham Hall,’ he thought to himself. ‘I would have been made welcome there, but in this desolate waste, there is no place I know.’ Thomas Mayhew had begun to feel quite sorry for himself.

  As he reached the crest of the hill he could see a little brook dancing over the meadow to join its big sister the River Lea. Dismounting, he led his horse to the clear rippling water. As the horse drank, Thomas stretched his legs, only realising then how very saddle-sore and weary he was. For a moment he was heartened by the sight of a dim light to the left. But then realising what it was, his heart sank. ‘Brook House,’ he muttered. ‘No good going up there. Robert Carr and the Brook family were not exactly friends, so they’ll not welcome me.’

  Thomas looked across the wet green fields ahead of him and stroked his black pointed beard. It was dangerous country, this Lammas land, he thought. People talked of witches who danced out there at Lammas Tide. Again he shivered and pulled his cloak tighter around him. Better ride on, he thought, turning to his horse to remount.

  Through the still air came a sound like the whimpering of an animal. Peering towards the long grass at the side of the brook, Thomas suddenly saw a young girl lying there, and sobbing as though her heart would break. He went over and gently lifted her up.

  ‘What’s the matter, lass?’ he asked softly.

  The girl did not answer but her thin shoulders shook with distress. She tried hard to pull away from him but he held her firm.

  ‘What are you doing out here all alone?’ he asked. ‘Has your lover deserted you?’

  The girl struggled under Thomas’ hand. ‘No, no,’ she sobbed. ‘It’s my mother.’

  Thomas took hold of her arm. He held her firmly but continued to speak softly. ‘Come now, let’s go and find your mother. It’s much too cold to be out here.’

  ‘They will kill her when dawn breaks!’ The girl’s voice rose hysterically.

  ‘Who will kill her?’ Thomas felt himself losing his patience. Soon it would be dawn and the air had got colder. All he wanted was a warm bed. ‘I can’t leave you out here, that’s for sure,’ he muttered.

  Reaching out, he lifted her small thin body up on to his horse, and then remounted himself. And with the girl’s shivering body pressed close to him, Thomas turned towards the rising sun.

  As they rode across the wet grass, he glanced down at the tear-stained face at his shoulder. She was not a bad-looking little girl, he thought – thin with long delicate features, which were not at all usual among the common people. She looked about thirteen, and he wondered who she was.

  After a while the girl’s shivers stopped and she began to talk. ‘Oh dear, good sir, please help me,’ she pleaded. ‘They have dragged my mother from our bed and done terrible things to her. They say they will drown her in the pond today at daybreak.’

  Her hazel-brown eyes stared pathetically up at him, and Thomas felt a sudden surge of protective anger. ‘What devils!’ he exclaimed. ‘But why?’

  ‘They say she is a witch,’ the girl wailed. ‘But it is not true. She is the dearest mother in all the world.’ The sobs came forth again.

  Thomas had begun to feel doubtful. Perhaps he should have left the girl where he had found her. He couldn’t afford to get mixed up in a witch hunt.

  ‘Where’s the nearest inn?’ he asked.

  ‘The Duke’s Head at Hackney. It belongs to my stepfather.’

  ‘Well! I’d better return you to him,’ Thomas replied w
ith a feeling of relief. At last he knew what to do with her.

  ‘But my mother . . .’ she begged. ‘Please, you must help her!’

  ‘We will see,’ he muttered soothingly to try to keep her quiet. Luckily, she seemed content at this answer and settled down against his chest.

  Thomas drew her closer and was surprized to realize that he felt a strange affinity with this young maid, who sat waiting so confidently for him to help her.

  At last the sun came up in the east, a huge red ball of fire. They crested the hill and went down into a green valley, which was grey in the misty morning sun.

  ‘Down there! That’s where they are!’ The girl pointed excitedly as they rode down towards a small village.

  ‘What’s your name?’ asked Thomas.

  ‘Marcelle,’ she replied, ‘Marcelle de la Strange.’

  ‘Isn’t that French?’

  ‘Yes, we came here from France last year, but my father’s enemies followed him and killed him, out there beside the brook.’ Her voice wavered as she added: ‘That’s why I ran to the brook, to call on the spirit of my father to help my mother in her distress.’

  They reached the bottom of the slope and there was no mistaking the sound of a mob – the mutters and moans of angry excited voices and above them every now and then rose a piercing scream.

  Marcelle held on tight as Thomas whipped up his horse and charged down the hill. A large group of people stood around a pond screaming and jeering at a woman in the water. As she struggled to get above the water, she was pushed down again with long sticks. Her screams were terrible. The crowd were not only trying to drown her but were throwing bricks and filth at her as well. Marcelle pressed her little face close to his chest as Thomas rode into the crowd, drawing his sword and striking all around him. When he had pushed them back from the edge of the pond, he dropped from his horse’s back to the ground and waded into the water. Grasping the poor bedraggled bundle he pulled her out and laid her onto the grass. But he could see it was too late. The woman’s hair had been torn out in lumps, and her face and body were a mass of wounds. They had tortured the poor defenceless woman literally to the point of death.

  Thomas felt sick, and trembled with rage at the sight of the dead woman. But who had been responsible for this terrible deed?

  The crowd drifted off, still hurling insults at the man who had spoiled their fun. As he turned again to the sodden body on the ground, some manservants, saying that they came from Brook House, offered to help. ‘We will take her inside until someone claims the body,’ said an old man in coachman’s livery. He lifted the poor ragged burden from the ground, but Marcelle clung on to her mother’s arm, which was almost as thin as her own.

  ‘Oh, don’t leave me!’ she cried out. ‘Please don’t take her away.’

  But firmly the old man carried the wet body off and Thomas held Marcelle in his arms until her weeping had died down. ‘Let’s go and find this stepfather of yours,’ he said gently. He lifted her back on to his horse and rode with the sobbing, shivering girl towards Hackney.

  It was a rural village, Hackney, with a Norman church. On the village green stood stocks in which Marcelle’s poor mother had spent her last night.

  ‘It’s here,’ Marcelle whispered. ‘This is where I live.’ They were heading towards an inn lying back off the main track. A big gateway opened on to a cobbled courtyard and above it a sign swung in the breeze. ‘The Duke’s Head’. It was very quiet and no one was about, but as soon as Thomas had lifted her down from the horse, Marcelle gave a terrified glance at the door. ‘I’ll not see him!’ she cried and scuttled off around the back of the house like a young rabbit.

  Thomas Mayhew was astonished and stared after her. Taking off his round flat hat, with Robert Carr’s crest embroidered on it, he scratched his head and rolled his eyes.

  ‘Well, there’s gratitude!’ he chuckled. ‘Well, I’ll need to rest up, anyway.’ He whistled and a bent old ostler appeared to take care of his horse.

  Thomas went inside the inn. It was very dark inside. As his eyes became accustomed to the light, Thomas could make out a long low tap room and sawdust on the floor. Stalls, tables and trestles were dotted here and there about the place. Only two people were there – the landlord and a customer, a small, shrivelled old man wearing a smock. The landlord was big and brawny. Without a word, he served Thomas with ale and then turned back to his other customer. Thomas wondered whether to tell him about Marcelle and the death of his wife, but he decided to remain quiet. From his corner he drank the strong ale and listened to the conversation between the landlord and the old man.

  The landlord looked like a rough customer. He had a recent cut on his head and his eyes were red-rimmed and raw-looking. He was not, Thomas thought, a very prepossessing fellow. He had a full, brutal-looking mouth and his unshaven chin was prickly with bristles.

  The old man spoke in a hoarse whisper that was so loud Thomas could hear every word from where he sat.

  ‘They got your woman.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ the landlord shook his head. ‘Upset me, I can tell you.’

  ‘I thought you wanted to get rid of the missus,’ piped up the old man.

  ‘Shh!’ hissed the landlord, glancing from side to side. But then he spoke in a louder voice. ‘But she were a witch, right enough. See what she did to me . . .’ He touched the recent cut on his head. ‘Threw sawdust in me eyes and pushed me down the stairs. Wonder I live to tell the tale.’

  The old man chuckled. ‘I thought you fell down and she chucked sawdust ’cause you were trying yer old tricks on that little girl.’

  The landlord’s fat face went dark red. He squinted in the direction of Thomas, who was sitting perfectly still and pretending to doze. ‘Shut your great mouth, old Jem,’ he said, ‘or else I’ll shut it for you.’

  Nattering and muttering, Jem made his way to the door. ‘Made a fine mess of her in the stocks, they did,’ he said with relish. ‘I expect they have drowned her by now.’ Shaking his head he disappeared.

  The landlord began to polish the tankards in a fierce noisy manner until Thomas opened his eyes and asked the time of the day.

  ‘’Tis nearly nine o’clock,’ the man replied, all smiles. ‘Would you like something to eat, sir?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ said Thomas. ‘I am on my way.’ He felt a wave of anger at the ugly rogue in front of him, and wondered what had happened to the little girl. But it was not his business and he was expected at Whitehall. So he got his horse from the stables and continued his journey towards London.

  He left Hackney and rode through the pretty hamlet of Kings Hold, passing another great manor house surrounded by green meadows. For some reason he could not stop thinking of that little girl. His shirt front still felt damp from her tears; perhaps he should have stayed behind and tried to find her. He felt sad, but at the same time he knew that it was no good sticking his head into other people’s trouble. In times like these, no one was safe. And if he had not been such a fool in the past, he might have been in a better position today, instead of riding messenger for the despicable Robert Carr.

  Thomas reached Bow Bridge and entered London. A foul smell hit his nostrils. It was disgusting and hung over the whole city. Londoners said it was the plague that brought it, but any foreigner knew that it was caused by the dirt and filth the Londoners lived in.

  Already Thomas was longing for a breath of clean air from his beloved Dorset, for the undulating moors and the golden sands down at Lulworth Cove, where he had first become aware of his urge to go to sea. In the distance was the grey Tower, where Sir Walter Raleigh, his old master, had been cooped up for the last ten years. Thomas’ own father and brother had died in the service of that great man and Thomas knew that he would never have a master like that again.

  The streets were getting narrower and more crowded. Crowds of people were swarming all over the place and ragged little children ran under his horse’s hooves, begging for bread. Thomas felt sickened. What a desperate
place it was by day, this poor part of the city!

  As he approached the Fleet prison, he passed a horsedrawn cart guided from behind by a man carrying a long whip. Tied to the back of the cart was a man whose battered body showed that he was just completing a part of his punishment of being whipped at the cart’s tail for four days. Thomas felt nauseous at the sight of it. There was no such sympathy from the crowd. People ran behind the cart shouting and jeering at the poor fellow tied to it, and each time the whip descended there were roars of delight and screeches of laughter. It was pure entertainment to them.

  Thomas’ strictly Puritan mind was shocked. It was all the fault of that Scottish devil King James! But it had not always been so. He could well remember when he had been a young page in the court of the great Queen Elizabeth. Recalling her last days, he could still picture her sitting propped up on the floor, her face yellow and wrinkled with pain and old age. But that astonishingly dominant spirit still shone out and the greatest of men were reduced to shivering wrecks by one angry look.

  The Queen had been a real sovereign, someone to respect and look up to. But what had they now? This Scottish fellow did not command any respect, with all his pimps and hangers-on. He threw the country’s good money away and toadied up to foreign powers such as Spain. Thomas felt his anger rise welling inside again. He was damned if he would not ask for his release and go off to Virginia again!

  Soon he had skirted Saint James’ Park and entered the Holbein gate of Whitehall. Fantastically dressed courtiers minced past him, Thomas frowned disapprovingly. ‘More like foolish women than men,’ he muttered.

  Jumping from his horse and handing it over to the servants, he quickly went to the anteroom to wait to be called by his master and the King’s favourite, Robert Carr. He sat quietly as other ushers and messengers sat about talking, and pages trotted in and out. The lofty room echoed with the sound of voices. But Thomas did not talk. He had not been nick-named, Dour Thomas for nothing. He had no use for talk of lechery or of the foolishness of the King, the usual topics of conversation at court, so he kept himself to himself.