The Dandelion Seed Read online

  ‘Is that how you earn your keep?’ growled Thomas as they passed.

  Abe Lane was busy in the kitchen but greeted Thomas cheerfully. ‘Back so soon, Dour Thomas? And who is this, your mistress?’ From under his bushy eyebrows, he stared at the shy Marcelle.

  ‘No, ’tis my kin,’ lied Thomas. ‘I want her to stay a while. Can I see Annabelle?’

  ‘She’s in the parlour at this time of day,’ Abe replied, bringing a glass of cool, foaming milk for Marcelle. ‘Drink this, little one,’ he said kindly. ‘It will refresh you, you look so tired.’

  Marcelle thanked this funny looking old man. How kind and thoughtful he was. The gentle atmosphere in this house helped to dispel her fears.

  While Marcelle sat with Abe Lane in the cosy kitchen, Thomas went off to find Annabelle. She was in her parlour getting it ready for the great ladies who visited in the afternoons. Annabelle was brought up on the Howard estate and, as a young girl, had been a maid to Frances Howard. Thus she had been under the influence of Frances’ notorious step-mother, the Duchess of Suffolk, who was generally known to dabble in the black magic arts. Annabelle shared the dark secrets of this famous Howard family and now lived in semi-retirement with Abe at Craig Alva. The court ladies came to visit Annabelle because of her knowledge of love potions and evil concoctions. And now in her parlour she stood by the window with the sun shining down on her brassy blonde hair. When Thomas entered, Annabelle was arranging tall sprays of jasmine in a bronze jar. Her dainty artistic hands almost caressed the blooms, but her brown eyes seemed to grow darker and her face grew pale when she saw her visitor. The sweet smile died on her lips and her face was suddenly hard and questioning. ‘Back so soon, Dour Thomas? Is there anything amiss?’

  ‘Be calm,’ Thomas raised his hand as if to reassure her. ‘There is nothing wrong. I have returned for reasons of my own. The despatch is still safe in my wallet.’

  Annabelle visibly relaxed and the sweet dimples returned as she smiled at him. With her little turned-up nose and the snow-white cap on the back of her head, she was an appealing sort of person, whom kind men loved to protect, but under that golden thatch of hair lay a brain of amazing quality. A shrewd bargaining brain combined with a gay appraisal of life that gave her such power over the less intelligent well-brought-up ladies of the land. It allowed her to live comfortably and be independent.

  ‘Be seated, Dour Thomas,’ she said. ‘If that’s all your mission is, I am content.’

  Thomas sat on a low embroidered stool and Annabelle seated herself facing him in a carved oak chair. Her black silk dress with its white ruffs at the neck was immaculate.

  Thomas was fond of Annabelle but he never felt quite at ease with her. He often felt that those clever brown eyes delved deep into his mind. ‘I have a special favour to ask you, madam, and then I must be away, for my master will be getting concerned.’

  ‘Well then, what is it? A love potion or worse?’ Annabelle joked.

  ‘I have brought a young lady back here and I want you to shelter her for a while.’

  ‘A mistress, Thomas?’ Annabelle smiled and raised her eyebrows. ‘I am very pleased for you.’

  Thomas wanted to keep up his lie. ‘No, just a cousin in distress,’ he said. ‘She is well born but has fallen on hard times. I will pay for her keep, and I can assure you she is trustworthy.’

  ‘Well, where is she?’ Annabelle asked brightly.

  ‘With Abe at the moment. Shall I go and fetch her?’

  ‘No, I will come down. I am finished up here for a while.’

  Gracefully, Annabelle led the way down the wide oak stairway to the kitchen where Marcelle was still sitting with Abe. A small kitten lay curled up on her knee, and the colour had returned to her cheeks. As she stroked the little cat’s sleek fur, she looked very calm and content.

  When Annabelle saw Marcelle, her brown eyes softened, noticeably. The girl reminded her of her own daughter who had died of smallpox at the age of five. She would be fifteen now, had she lived.

  ‘Hullo, my dear,’ Annabelle greeted Marcelle. ‘You are most welcome. Your home is with me until Thomas and you are wed.’

  Thomas cast a surprised look at Annabelle. She still had the wrong idea but there was no sense in arguing. As a matter of fact, he had no serious intention of ever being married.

  Marcelle looked quickly up at Thomas, the same question in her eyes, and he patted her hand. ‘Must be off. I will be in to see you the next trip,’ he said. ‘Farewell for the present.’

  So off rode Thomas once more. Now he did not notice the scenery about him but thought only of Marcelle and her warm little body so close to him on the horse when they rode together. He realised that he felt good, warm and peaceful. Something odd was happening to him but he did not mind at all. He turned towards the fields and urged his horse on, to gallop like mad, leaping ditches and fences on their way to London.

  The journey seemed much quicker than usual and, when the effeminate Robert Carr snapped and snarled at him for being so late, Thomas only grinned. ‘My mount went lame on me,’ was the only excuse he gave.

  4

  Craig Alva

  After Thomas had left, Marcelle found that she was not alone in this cheerful home. How could she be? The bright surroundings and pleasant people all reminded her of that home in the distant past of which now her memory gave her only fleeting glimpses.

  Most of that afternoon, she played with the kittens. There were three of them, all the babies of a big black and white cat called Mini, who kept them warm and snug in a cupboard under the stairs.

  Old Abe was clearly very fond of them too, and was pleased to see that Marcelle liked them so much. ‘Don’t let him see them,’ he whispered hoarsely pointing at the ceiling. The grave expression on his face made it clear that he was deadly serious.

  Marcelle was puzzled. Who on earth was up there? And why was Abe so afraid? Who or what could ever want to hurt his cats?

  ‘He’ll take them, he will,’ muttered Abe. ‘Torture them, he does. Look what he did to Mini.’ Lifting up the cat, he showed Marcelle a scar and Mini’s tail, which had a piece missing from it.

  ‘Why does he want to hurt them?’ enquired Marcelle, still wondering who he was.

  ‘Can’t help himself,’ whispered Abe patting his head. ‘He’s not quite right.’

  Marcelle would have liked to continue the conversation but at that moment the door opened and in stepped a man. With a sweeping bow, he took off his funny hat and said: ‘I greet thee, little white faun from the forest.’

  ‘Oh, Will’s off,’ grumbled Abe and bustled away to finish his chores.

  Marcelle stared half shyly and half aggressively at Will. Was this the odd one who hurt animals? She was not one to like him if he was. But then she looked into his merry grey eyes, and at his foolish grin which she found quite contagious, she was sure that he could not hurt any animal ever. So he was not the one Abe had been afraid of.

  Later that evening, they all sat down to supper – Marcelle, Annabelle, Abe, Will and the two girls who worked in the dairy. In the large warm kitchen with its low oak beams the conversation was merry and the food excellent. They sat up until very late, drinking home-brewed wine and swapping stories. After they had eaten, Marcelle sat on the floor near Annabelle’s knee. Annabelle reached out and stroked the girl’s shiny hair over and over again. There was warmth and love here and Marcelle knew she was going to be happy.

  In the little room at the top of the stairs, a room which was to be her very own, Marcelle prepared for bed. Annabelle brought hot water for her to wash with and then plaited her hair before tucking her snugly into bed. ‘How old are you, Marcelle?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll be fifteen in September,’ replied Marcelle.

  ‘You look younger, I suppose that’s because you are so small and thin. You have a fragile beauty,’ she remarked, looking intently into Marcelle’s face. ‘I would have had a daughter your age,’ she said, a little sadly. ‘But she died when she
was only five years old.’ The sad expression lingered for a moment, but then her quick smile was soon restored. ‘We must fatten you up for Dour Thomas,’ she joked. ‘He has waited a long time to choose a bride. But he has chosen well. Goodnight, love, sleep well,’ she said gently as she blew out the candle and tiptoed out of the room.

  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. An
d 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.’