The Dandelion Seed Read online

  Soon the call came and he followed the page to the sumptuous apartments of the effeminate Robert Carr. Thomas’ master had hair as golden as a young girl’s. He was slim-waisted and elaborately dressed in velvets, braid and beads, lace and frills. He opened the letter Thomas had handed him and his face paled slightly as he read it.

  ‘Stay around, Thomas Mayhew,’ he ordered. ‘I will have need of you to ride to Essex with me in a few days.’ Then with an airy wave of his hand, he dismissed him.

  Thomas walked to his lodgings. It had been a most depressing day. The image of Marcelle’s little face lingered in his mind; he could hear her weeping and feel the soft brown sweep of her hair, like a sparrow’s wing. That’s it! She had been like a little bird. Would he ever see her again? he wondered.

  When Marcelle had dropped from Thomas’ horse, another terrible fear made her little body tremble. He was in there, that monster who had caused her mother’s death, the pig who had made their lives hell these last three months. She knew she could not face entering that inn again, so she ran to the only person she knew, along a narrow alley, and between two hitching posts where tall wooden houses leaned lopsidedly over the street.

  On the steps, taking in the air, sat Betsy. She was half dazed and clearly trying to get rid of the effects of last night’s rendezvous with the bottle. It had been a busy night for Betsy up in the city. The gentlemen were always ready for a quickie in the alley and never minded paying. But a little drink always helped, and gave her a bit of Dutch courage. She was not a bad-looking girl, but to look at her she would have been taken for about twenty-five, when she was in fact only eighteen. Obliging the gentlemen since she was fifteen had aged her a lot, but she still had that fun, over-blown beauty. Blonde, with china-blue eyes, she had the sort of good looks that fade very quickly.

  Betsy was Marcelle’s only friend in England. They had met at the inn where Sam, her stepfather, employed Betsy when he had a rush of customers, and the two girls had become friends. So in the daytime, Betsy would sit on her steps on call, and when the situation at home became unbearable, Marcelle would seek her out and sit outside with her. With her rough-tough humour and love of life, Betsy was just what the gentle, confused little Marcelle needed. And now in her anguish, she ran to Betsy, jumping on her as she dozed.

  ‘Blimey!’ said Betsy, waking up with a start. ‘That you Marci? You gave me quite a turn.’

  ‘Oh! Betsy, Betsy.’ Little Marcelle hung on to the older girl’s greasy petticoats and laid her head on her lap. Here was a place of safety at last.

  ‘What’s up, love?’ Betsy asked. ‘Old Sam been up to his tricks again?’

  ‘No, it’s my mother,’ Marcelle whispered in a small frightened voice. ‘They have killed her.’

  Betsy jumped to her feet. ‘They haven’t!’ she exclaimed. ‘My God, Rolly come down here!’ she shouted into the hallway behind her.

  Moments later, from the darkness came the tall gangling figure of Betsy’s brother, Rolly. The boy’s head lolled to one side and he drooled from his wide, open mouth, but his physique was magnificent. He was at least six foot tall, with huge shoulders and chest, giant hands and feet. He was truly a formidable figure. As he came outside, he looked sheepish, like a little boy caught stealing apples. One eye was damaged and a piece of flesh was missing from his ear. Betsy looked at him angrily.

  ‘Rolly, what’s all this about Marcelle’s muvver?’ she demanded.

  ‘I dunno, he said.

  ‘What you mean, you dunno? You was here watching out, wasn’t yer?’

  ‘Yus, I saw ’em but I never joined in, honest I didn’t,’ Rolly protested like a small child.

  ‘Why didn’t you wake me up, you stupid sod?’ yelled Betsy.

  ‘It was no good, they took her before you was home,’ he muttered into his chin.

  Betsy, arms akimbo, looked at Marcelle for confirmation of this.

  ‘He’s right,’ answered Marcelle. ‘They took her last night and they drowned her at dawn.’

  ‘The bastards!’ yelled Betsy, her pretty face flushed with rage. ‘The dirty bastards! Rolly, go and find out who rounded them up, and don’t come back till you do,’ she shouted after her.

  Rolly’s tall shape ambled off down the alley immediately. He knew he had to go at once rather than annoy Betsy by hesitating. Theirs was a strange brother and sister relationship. He protected her physically, while she with her brains looked after him.

  ‘Come indoors with me, love.’ Betsy took Marcelle by the hand and they went inside the building. A long passageway led to Betsy’s one room. Children played about and old folk lay in this corridor as if it were the last place to rest from a world that had no further use for them. The air was heavy with the rank smell of sweaty bodies.

  Betsy’s room was very bare, with only a rickety homemade table in the corner and two straw pallets on the floor. A brown jug stood on the table and beside it a tin cup. Betsy poured a drink for herself and knocked it back quickly. Then she poured one for Marcelle. ‘Drink it, love, it will do you good. It’s rum. A sailor gave it to me last week. He didn’t have no money, so I took the goods.’ She started to giggle and Marcelle’s frightened eyes glanced around the poverty stricken room.

  ‘Tain’t much of a place, is it?’ said Betsy. ‘But never mind, it’s better than the river arches. I made do with them till I got this room.’

  She pulled out a little stool for Marcelle to sit on and from the corridor she found a wooden box for herself. As she sat down, she hitched up her skirt to reveal the scarlet quilted petticoat that she was so proud of and settled back with her legs wide apart and her bare feet on the dirty floor.

  ‘You know, Marci,’ Betsy said, ‘you think it’s a terrible world out there, but it’s much worse down in the city, I can tell yer. Me and Rolly came up here when our folks died in the plague. And I ain’t sorry. It might be a long walk down the town to earn a few shillings, but it’s cleaner and safer up here.’

  Marcelle felt warm and fuzzy with the fiery rum inside her. She sat hunched up on the stool, still feeling quite dazed by all that had happened to her.

  Betsy looked at her sharply. ‘For a girl like you it ain’t going to be easy,’ she said. ‘I think you had better stay here.’

  Marcelle looked around the hovel, and felt afraid. It was so stark and squalid, and Rolly slept here as well. Besides, her stepfather would find her soon enough. ‘No, not here!’ she stammered. ‘I can’t, but I can’t go back to the inn, either. I’m too scared. He will get rid of me. I know too much about him.’

  Betsy looked thoughtful. ‘Not if I come with you,’ she said. ‘When Rolly comes back we’ll go and see him. Rolly will stay here, otherwise he will be off down the cockpit and get himself all chewed up again. I have to keep an eye on the bleeder.’

  Ten minutes later, Rolly came sidling in.

  ‘Well,’ demanded Betsy. ‘What have you found out?’

  ‘Sam paid men from London. The villagers never done it. That’s what they say, Betsy,’ Rolly replied.

  ‘Where’s old Sam now?’

  ‘Gone up Brook House to see the lord. Says he’s going to claim damages for the loss of his wife.’

  ‘Bloody old hypocrite!’ Betsy looked down at the frightened girl. ‘Never mind, Marcelle, we will go back to the inn, and you must lock yourself in your room. I’ll settle Sam, the old devil. Now, Rolly, don’t you dare leave this alley! I’ll be watching to see if you do.’

  It took a bit of persuasion to make Marcelle move, but in the end, with Betsy holding her arm and Rolly dawdling along behind them, they walked down the alley towards the inn.

  ‘How can we get in if it’s shut up?’ asked Betsy.

  ‘Through the stables,’ Marcelle replied.

  They crept through the stables to a back door that led to the kitchen. Betsy’s round blue eyes looked hungrily at the food left on the table. ‘Crikey! Let’s have a good tuck-in before old Sam gets back.’

  Betsy busily cut off c
hunks 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.’