The Dandelion Seed Read online

  Three days had passed and Thomas Mayhew was still sitting in the antechamber watching the other retainers play dice and go off to spend mornings at the cock-pit. Bear-baiting and cock-fighting were popular sports, as was wrestling between men who would almost kill one another. No matter how much he tried not to, Thomas hated all these cruel sports and refused to join in with the crazed shouting from the excited audiences.

  As he sat there, his mind travelled back to those pleasant evenings beside the cool rivers of Dorset, when he fished with his master’s son, Cary. How gently the tiny fish had been removed from the hook, and how glad he had been to see them thrown back into the swift-flowing river. ‘I must be a weak-minded fool,’ he muttered to himself. ‘I’ve no stomach for these blood sports.’ He glanced about him and reminded himself that he had better be careful or one day he would speak his mind about more than blood sports. And undoubtedly it would be regarded as treason. His head would then decorate London Bridge, or perhaps would swing on the gibbet on top of a hill until his bones were bare of flesh . . . Occupied by these morbid thoughts, he stared out of the window and watched the young Prince Henry playing tennis out there in the gardens. The prince was tall and graceful, and the sun shone on his golden hair. He played with quick elegant poise. He was a grand lad, this sixteen-year-old heir to the English throne, and so different from his coarse bawdy homosexual father.

  ‘Thomas Mayhew!’ called a little page. ‘Thomas Mayhew!’ The words echoed down the stone corridors and Thomas quickly pulled himself together. So at last dear Robert was ready to ride, he thought with relief. About time! With long strides, his sword clanking at his side, Thomas headed towards the fabulous apartments of the King’s favourite, and entered.

  Amid the gold and scarlet brocade hangings of an enormous carved four-poster bed, sat Robert Carr. His pale face looked more worn than ever, and his long blond hair, elaborately curled, flowed about his head on to a silken pillow.

  ‘Oh dear!’ he sighed, sniffing at the bundle of herbs he always had to hand to ward off germs. (Robert Carr was terrified of germs; if someone sneezed he quaked in his shoes, in dread of catching some disease.) ‘Stay there, don’t come too close,’ his high-pitched voice warned Thomas.

  Thomas remained just inside the door, with a dour expression on his face. The smell of this room disgusted him. French perfume and some strong smelling herbs hung heavily in the air.

  ‘Oh dear! I am sure I’ve been taken with something, I feel so ill,’ Robert Carr held the herbs to his nose and lay back on his pillows, his eyes closed. He looked just like a swooning woman, thought Thomas with contempt.

  ‘Give him the letter, Sobey,’ Robert ordered his secretary, who was sitting in the corner at a small writing desk.

  The small dark gentleman handed Thomas a heavily sealed package. ‘It’s very important and very confidential,’ he said. ‘Go straight to your destination. If there is any trouble, you must see that it is destroyed.’ There was an amused glint in Sobey’s eye as he glanced over at dear Robert lying in the bed, for he knew exactly what was wrong with their master. He had annoyed His Majesty and was in the doghouse. But as soon as the news reached the King’s ears that dear Robert was ill, he would forget his earlier irritation and trot in to Robert’s apartment with a trayful of cossets to doctor and fuss his friend as he liked to.

  So it seemed that this time Thomas would have to travel alone just to deliver a message. He glanced at the package – it was addressed to Frances Devereux, Countess of Essex, Audley End, Essex – tucked it under his arm, and left with a smart bow.

  The following morning, at the end of February in the year 1610, Thomas Mayhew rode once more out of London. Dawn was just appearing and the city was beginning to wake. It had become warmer and there was an unexpected spring freshness in the air as Thomas passed through Bishopsgate. The carts laden with winter vegetables had begun pouring into the markets. Soon the streets would be alive with people, and no doubt there would be a prison hanging or a whipping for their further entertainment.

  Thomas was not sorry to be leaving the squalor behind but as he rode briskly along, his thoughts settled back on the inn where he had left little Marcelle. Surely it was somewhere along this road. He wondered again what had become of her, and he felt a faint stirring in his breast as he remembered her soft little body trembling like a trapped wild bird, pressed close to him for comfort. He glanced towards the green fields to his left, noting his route. If he kept to this road he would certainly pass the inn, and perhaps he would call in there. It would hold him up for a time, but Sobey had not said that the letter was urgent. Then he remembered the forest road after dark and changed his mind. No, he would call on the way back. So he quickly turned his horse’s head, aimed it at the stile in the hedge and kicked into a gallop. His horse cleared the stile and cantered steadily over the soft meadows towards Epping Forest. Leaving the flat land behind, Thomas was soon high up on a hill and, looking down, he could see the dim shape of London and the river Lea, with its little sister the brook running alongside. He would definitely return.

  The memory of little Marcelle would bring him back here. Spurring his horse, Thomas shifted his thoughts to Robert Carr. What was he doing writing to the Countess of Essex? Frances Devereux was a well-known bitch. Thomas knew her and had seen her at Whitehall many times, with her white hard face, which was strangely cold and beautiful at the same time. It had been rumoured that Prince Henry had been in love with her, which was why she had been married off so quickly. But still, at thirteen, she had been too young for marriage, Thomas thought. What did a girl of that age know of life? His mind drifted back to Marcelle. She was only about thirteen. He would like to marry a virginal girl, if ever he wed, he thought, but having seen the antics of the married ladies at court, he would have to make sure that he never lost her from his sight. Women were easy enough to get, even in his modest station in life. But most of them were riddled with pox, caught from some high and mighty lord. Thomas shuddered. Perhaps he could do without love.

  He rode furiously through the forest, stopping only to water his horse. The deer ran out and dashed along the path in front of him. Once he spotted a pure white fawn. It was a rare sight and it seemed like an omen. But good or bad, he was not sure.

  The forest thinned and there at last, nestling in the valley, was Audley End, home of the countess’ parents. He rode through the tall iron gates and drew nearer to the beautiful house. It had belonged to one of Elizabeth’s greatest courtiers, and money from the gold they brought from the Indies had been poured into building the house. Clipped yew hedges lined the wide drive. The entrance hall had a flight of marble steps leading to a great hall with a high carved ceiling in gold, red and green. Thomas held his breath. The old master’s house at Sherbourne was impressive, but it was nothing compared with this. He gazed up at the vast oil paintings in the great hall – grave-faced Elizabethans staring down haughtily, in their white ruffs and red and purple velvets.

  ‘Are you well, Thomas Mayhew?’ The young countess greeted him as she sailed swiftly and gracefully down the ornate carved staircase. She was a Devereux by marriage only, if it could be called a marriage. Frances was a Howard from the blue blood of the land. She was tall, slim, and fair, with a dead white face. Her small mouth was set in a grim line, but large dark unhappy eyes stared out mockingly from this pale mask. She was not yet seventeen, but had been married to the Earl’s son, Robert, for nearly four years. The weary look which came from those eyes could have belonged to a woman of forty.

  Thomas knew the countess fairly well. He had known her as a child when she played in the Whitehall Gardens with the King’s children, and he had been in the escort that had taken them to the Queen’s Palace at Greenwich. He had often thought that Prince Henry and Frances Howard made a very good-looking pair. They were almost the same age, and he had a red gold head to contrast with her pale gold one. But the Prince’s marriage into a great Catholic family such as the Howards was unthinkable.
/>   Frances now escorted Thomas to a small side room and told her ladies to wait outside. In the room she turned and held out her slim white bejewelled hands, eager to get the package he had brought her. Thomas stood by the door while she read the letter. The room was a cosy little parlour. It had oak panelled walls, with large carvings of a Tudor rose and the gilded lily entwined. Bowls of freshly picked snowdrops were arranged round the room, and on the central table was a huge oriental vase containing winter jasmine. It was a pleasant, fresh-smelling room, and it reminded him of Frances herself – cool and calm but not sweet. Frances could never be sweet. The still coldness of death hung over Frances. Thomas shivered. He would not be sorry when this job was over.

  ‘My ladies will take you to the servants’ quarters to eat and rest.’ Frances’ bell-like voice rang in his ears. ‘Return before the evening. I have another message for you.’ With an imperious wave of her hand, she dismissed him.

  Thomas went down to the warmth and the chatter of the kitchen, where people were working, eating and laughing. He felt very relieved to be in the company of sympathetic people after being with the iceberg Frances. The kitchen staff had another guest – an old friend of Thomas, called Will. Will was a flute player who sang for his supper. On his travels up and down the country, Thomas often met Will, who was a strange young man – part-preacher and part-minstrel. No one knew his background, but it was rumoured that he had been brought up in a monastery. But since the monasteries had been dissolved, he had wandered the countryside, playing and singing and preaching a strange religion which no one took seriously. He loved poetry that flowed almost involuntarily from his lips and he was known to have some powers of healing. Certainly, many poor people had great faith in his powers. His age was hard to define and his head was shaved so that it was smooth and completely white. And he always wore the same drab garments. Now in this warm kitchen, he sat astride the table and played wonderful songs such as ‘The Merry Month of May’ and ‘Under the Green Wood Tree’. All the serving men and women sang in chorus and Thomas quickly joined in. Warm and safe in this merry company, he soon recovered his good humour.

  3

  The Duke’s Head at Hackney

  ‘Riding through the forest tonight, Thomas?’ asked Will.

  ‘Aye, I’ll be returning to town before dusk,’ replied Thomas.

  ‘Then I’ll ride with you,’ answered Will in a soft gentle voice.

  The kitchen staff found this conversation a great source of amusement. ‘Tis no good, Will,’ said one. ‘Dour Thomas will not ward off the devil, he’s too good a friend of his.’

  Thomas was not too anxious to ride along with Will and his slow-winded old nag, but the man was good company and at night it was a lonely road. ‘You are welcome to join me, Will,’ he said. ‘I’ll be leaving soon.’

  A manservant, in his gorgeous livery, was already waiting to conduct Thomas to the countess Frances who stood in the great hall with its black-and-white marble floor. She had dressed for supper in an emerald green gown that shimmered as the silken folds fell to the ground. There was a snow-white ruff at her neck and the front of her gown was cut very low so as to expose the top half of her creamy bosom. A little jewelled cap held her hair back from her face. Her strange eyes stared at Thomas insolently as she held out a package to him. ‘Have I your attention, Thomas Mayhew?’ she asked.

  He nodded and bowed low over her hand.

  ‘I want you to break your journey to deliver an important message for me. You will be well rewarded.’

  ‘It is my pleasure, gracious lady,’ returned Thomas courteously.

  ‘Do you know a house called Craig Alva?’ she asked. ‘It is on the road to Leaford.’

  ‘I do, my lady,’ replied Thomas. ‘I have delivered a message there before, for my master, Robert Carr.’

  ‘Good, take this package to Mistress Lane and she will then give you a package for Robert Carr. Remember, it is very important and no one else is to know. I hope, Thomas Mayhew, that I have your loyalty.’ She added the last sentence with a warning note in her voice.

  ‘I have ridden as a royal messenger for ten years, my lady,’ replied the unsmiling and rather annoyed Thomas.

  Frances’ lips twitched. ‘No wonder they call you Dour Thomas,’ she said, handing him the package. ‘I’ll see you get your reward.’ Slowly and graciously, she retired.

  Soon Will and Thomas were riding towards the sunset. The sky stretched red and yellow in the west. The sun, a golden ball, gradually sailed out of sight, and a hush descended on the forest as the birds settled in their nests. A blackbird gave its last glorious song of the evening and a young fawn suckled close to its mother’s belly.

  As they rode along Will sang in a soft melodious voice. They were strange tunes that just came into his head, with no rhythm and not a lot of rhyme. But they rolled off his lips like the whisper of a warm breeze.

  It seems to me that the night is long,

  Dreams are mostly what goes on,

  I don’t care, I’m running free,

  I’m the way a man likes to be.

  Thomas seldom smiled but his dark eyes gleamed with amusement as he now listened to Will’s crooning.

  Fair maiden is looking fine,

  Very glad she is no friend of mine.

  ‘If you mean the countess, Will,’ said Thomas, ‘she is no maiden. I think you must have run out of rhyme.’

  But Will only chuckled and went on singing,

  Ain’t love true, go on do,

  Oh! why can’t you?

  ‘So you have heard the rumour,’ said Thomas. ‘She is asking for a divorce.’

  Will’s reply still in rhyme came back:

  Don’t tell me, sire, it ain’t true,

  Why can’t I do what other men do?

  Poor Robert don’t know what to do,

  But my lady knows the right sort of brew.

  ‘Be careful, Will,’ warned Thomas. ‘Remarks like that will likely lose your head for you.’

  But Will just smiled gently and lapsed into silence.

  ‘A son of the great Essex – impotent,’ muttered Thomas. ‘It hardly seems feasible.’

  Then Thomas began to think of the package in his wallet and the break he had to make in his journey to Annabelle Lane’s house. She could well be up to something, he thought. You never could trust these aristocrats. Still, it was not his business, so he cast it from his mind.

  Now Will was singing ‘Drink to Me Only’, and Thomas hummed in tune with him until they left the forest behind them and came to the open land again. The full moon was high in the sky and shone down on the meadows giving them a silvery gown. The trees loomed tall at the road side, but there was not a sound in the still air except the soft drone of Will’s voice and the steady clip clop of the horses’ hooves.

  Turning off at the top of the hill, Thomas asked, ‘Are you coming with me, Will?’

  ‘To sweet Annabelle’s? Indeed I am,’ trilled Will.

  Thomas wondered vaguely how Will knew that he was going to see Annabelle Lane, but then with Will one would always wonder.

  A gibbet at the top of the hill creaked and groaned in the soft breeze as the long-bleached bones swung to and fro in their chains.

  ‘How do you do,’ said Will, raising his little hat to the grim remains. ‘An old friend of mine, he was, a wonderful friar.’

  Thomas laughed with grim humour.

  The large timber house soon came into sight appearing black and white in the silvery moonlight. Two tall chimneys stood guard on either side as the house lay back from the track surrounded by a lovely garden.

  Their feet crunched on the rough path as they led their horses clopping round the back of the house to the stables. For several minutes Thomas then threw pebbles up at the first floor window until a head wearing a red nightcap appeared.

  ‘Is that you, Thomas Mayhew? And is that Will with you?’ a hoarse voice called from above. ‘I will throw out the key and then you can make yourselves comfo
rtable around the fire.’

  A bundle of large keys was thrown out of the window and the head with the long pointed nightcap disappeared from sight.

  The weary travellers let themselves into the tavern. It was warm and cosy in Annabelle’s kitchen, with its well scrubbed tables and brightly polished brass pots. Will poked the dying fire to revive it. On one side of the brick oven they found a pot full of soup. The smell of mutton and onion broth was appetizing and irresistible. Thomas found two wooden bowls into which he ladled the broth and after this warming meal they settled down on the sheep skin rug to sleep.

  In Annabelle Lane’s hospitable home, travellers were seldom turned away. There was always a good fire and some hot food waiting for an unexpected visitor in the cold of winter. At five o’clock the next morning, the house came to life with the chatter of the local milkmaids, who awoke the two men asleep on the sheepskin rugs. While Will went out to the barn to chat to the maids as they did their milking, Thomas washed under the pump in the yard. Afterwards he stood by the window looking down into the sunlit valley towards London. He decided that he would stay for a meal before he set off again.

  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.