The Dandelion Seed Page 8

  The maids ran excitedly out from the dairy down to the gate calling, as they ran, to the officer leading the troops. Marcelle then heard one of them run to tell Annabelle that the king was passing this way on his way to Theobalds. A new road had been cut through the forest to shorten the trip and he was to pass by some time that day.

  Once Annabelle had heard this news she was not content until all the maids had changed into freshly starched clean bonnets and snow-white aprons, and Marcelle had changed into a pretty, cool cotton dress. A table was placed near the gate with dishes of fresh strawberries and cream, and cool jugs of cider, in case some of the young lords wished to take refreshment.

  Abe flatly refused to change his coat, so he was told sharply that he had to keep out of sight. ‘Anyone would think old King Jamie was coming here,’ he muttered. ‘He’s only passing by. He won’t even look at us.’ And having said his piece, he returned to his kitchen and cooking.

  Annabelle was dressed in a new russet-coloured dress with primrose ruffs and sat at the window of her parlour with the casement window open. There is a strange story attached to this new dress. Merlin made all the starch and other useful things for the household, but one day he had got his colours mixed up and a blue ingredient was substituted by yellow. There had been much distress when Marcelle, whose job it was to starch the dress ruffs, had brought them out a bright yellow. Annabelle was not fussed by this and soon calmed her down and, with her inventive mind, washed the ruffs again and again until a nice pale primose colour was produced. When attached to a russet brown dress, the ruffs achieved a very pleasing effect. So with her new fashion ruffs, Annabelle sat as still as a statue to watch the King pass. She was determined to be noticed, if not by his Majesty then at least by some gay young Lord who would see all her finery. For Annabelle was very vain and this streak of vanity in her otherwise pleasant personality was to be her downfall.

  Will sat under the tree near Marcelle and kept everyone amused with his songs and lyrics as groups of men passed. Marcelle watched in fascination as the crowds passed – wagons of goods and troops of soldiers. Then the young lords came riding by, their steeds all gay with brass and embroidered leather trappings, the riders elegant in their dress even when riding. They were a lusty lot, waving gaily to the maids as they rode by in groups, surrounded by servants and armed men. Some stopped to partake of the refreshing fruit and cream or a jug of cider. One daring young man jumped the hedge on his white steed, scattering the maids, and then he grasped Ruth, the prettiest of the lot, and rested her up on his saddle before kissing her full on the lips and then putting her down again. Then he rode like the wind as the horse jumped back to the track again. The dust rose in the heat of the afternoon as the traffic began to abate, leaving a cloud of chalky white dust which settled over the garden. By now, everyone was tired of waiting. There was still no sign of his Majesty or his Royal Highness Prince Henry, who was a favourite with all his father’s subjects.

  It began to get cool as the sun went down. Annabelle left her post by the window and walked stiffly out into the garden, ‘My, that was a disappointment. He never came,’ she said to Marcelle, who was watching Abe’s kitten and wondering if he was going to disturb the blue tits who were nestling in the honeysuckle. The royal procession held no interest for her.

  ‘Better go down the village, Abe, and see what has happened to them,’ Annabelle told her husband who had emerged from the kitchen.

  Abe obediently went off and Will followed him in the hope that they might visit the village inn. The maids cleared away the trestle tables outside and Annabelle went with Marcelle into the parlour to continue the everlasting sewing.

  It was getting dark when Abe and Will returned. Both were merry and full of porter.

  Annabelle was looking angry as she asked them: ‘Well, what happened to his Majesty?’

  Will sidled off to the barn. He was afraid of Annabelle when she got into such a rage. Abe, however, between many hiccups explained that true to form, old Jamie had changed his mind. Halfway to Loughton he had seen one of the young white deer which dwelt in that part of the forest, and was not content till they had set chase to it. The little fawn had led them a merry dance as it skipped gaily in the path of the King and then disappeared. In its place there appeared a huge stag, his eyes glazed with fear. But as if to protect the little fawn he had led the chase through the forest paths over the green fields. King James on the hunting field was a very different person to the jaded neurotic man at court. He rode well, and once the prey was sighted, he was oblivious to all else. He had chased the stag, Abe explained, over the fields of Essex, and now he and the royal party were somewhere near Romford where they would stay until the morning.

  ‘Stupid old fool,’ muttered Annabelle. Abe was not sure whom she referred to and giggled nervously. Annabelle sniffed and swept from the room. She found Abe disgusting at times.

  In the kitchen, Marcelle quietly prepared the supper. Her sympathy always lay with Abe; she felt Annabelle was so hard on him at times.

  ‘Eat,’ she ordered Abe. ‘You will feel better.’ She handed him some food.

  Old Abe’s blue eyes twinkled affectionately and his wrinkled hand stroked her hair, ‘I don’t know why she worries over them bloody Lords. The King will soon have the old chopping block out when he finds what they are up to,’ he muttered.

  After he had eaten, Marcelle put Abe’s feet on a low stool and he dozed off to sleep. Then she began to clear the table and make ready for the morning. She often wondered about the relationship between Abe and Annabelle. They were so different and she seemed so very contemptuous of Abe. It was hard to believe that they were husband and wife. It was a funny way to live, she thought. Still, they were both so kind and good to her and she truly loved them. She was very happy here, and she loved the fresh countryside and all the little animals to care for. She hoped it would last forever. But in her heart she knew that she could not stay, she knew that Thomas would one day return and ask her to marry him and that she would not refuse him. Deep in her heart something stirred, and in her mind’s eye she saw a loving young man on his knees and offering her his undying love. At sixteen, the world outside lay unexplored. In her mind lay memories of unhappiness and of the disturbed child she had been when Thomas had brought her here not so long ago from the outside world. But then there was something she could never remember, a deep dark mystery which was always in the background. However hard she tried she could not bring it to the fore, though she did know it was something connected with a cat and old Merlin upstairs. She would ask Thomas the next time he came; he would know what it was.

  So with her mind thus preoccupied, Marcelle did Abe’s chores for him while he sat snoring by the fire. Then she bathed and put on a cool white nightgown and crept quietly with lighted candle through the house to her room at the top of the stairs. Inside she knelt beside her lavender-scented bed to say the simple prayer she had learned as a child. As she slipped between the sheets, she heard a movement upstairs above her, a soft rustling sound and she knew it was Merlin. He never slept, but just shuffled about all night in his attic above her head. Marcelle sank down under the covers desperately trying to ward off the fear that Merlin’s noise instilled in her.

  The house was now silent. Only the hoot of an owl in the woods woke up the night as its black curtain descended on the land. Just over the hill, a few miles from Annabelle’s house, the remains of the Royal procession set up camp in a haphazard fashion. No one was sure of what was going on or in which direction to proceed.

  Young Lord Hay, the officer in charge, decided to wait until the morning for news. Just before dusk another troop of men arrived and with them his Royal Highness Prince Henry and David Murray, the Prince’s aid and devoted servant. Immediately there was a noisy scene inside the hastily erected tent, as the huge Scotsman David Murray bellowed with rage, his red beard bristling. ‘What tomfoolery is this?’ he shouted at a worried-looking young officer.

  The Prince was lookin
g tired and weary and was crouching over a charcoal burner which warmed the tent.

  ‘Gad, sir,’ retorted the harassed Lord Hay. ‘I, myself, do not relish the night on this draughty looking hill but we have been left high and dry, with no one knowing in which direction His Majesty went.’

  David seemed concerned as he looked at the Prince’s ashen face and sandy hair which seemed to increase the paleness of his skin.

  ‘The laddie isna too weel. He should ne’er ha’ come,’ he relapsed into his broad dialect as he did in times of stress.

  In a lower voice Lord Hay asked: ‘Shall I send a messenger to Newly to say you will spend the night there?’

  ‘It’s ten miles away!’ roared the angry Scotsman. ‘His Royal Highness has had enough riding for one day.’

  ‘There’s a yeoman’s house in the valley. It’s clean and respectable and would certainly be better than this windy hill,’ suggested Lord Hay.

  David went slowly to his charge and spoke softly in the boy’s ear. The only response he got from the young prince was a nod of the head. The boy seemed exhausted. Fetching a plain heavy riding cloak, David placed it gently on the young prince’s shoulders and helped him to remount his horse. Then the three men rode off into the night, down the valley towards Annabelle’s house.

  Lord Hay was the young lord who had leapt the fence and had kissed Ruth earlier on in the day, so he knew exactly where to find the house tucked away in the trees.

  The sound of heavy knocking on the door woke Abe as he slept before the fire. But the noise echoed through the still house and both Annabelle and Marcelle woke with a fright, for there was always an element of danger in any knocking at the dead of night.

  A bleary-eyed Abe went to the door and two men pushed past him, escorting a third who was muffled in a big riding cloak.

  ‘We crave your hospitality for the night.’ The red-bearded man towered over Abe and spoke haughtily to him. ‘You will be well paid. Our friend is fatigued with riding. We need hot food and clean beds.’

  ‘Come inside, and you are welcome,’ old Abe said, opening the door wide. His keen eye caught a glimpse of the auburn hair and the deathly pale face of the young prince. ‘Go to the fire. I will soon rouse the house, and your wants will be attended to,’ he said.

  Soon the candles were alight and a huge fire was roaring in the guest chamber on the first floor. Annabelle was now up, and her lace gown fell gracefully about her shoulders as she served hot spiced drinks to the travellers.

  Marcelle was called to put warming pans in the beds and fair rosy Ruth, the dairy maid, was hustled from her bed to help in the kitchen. In less than no time, hot soup and braised chicken in wine with various other delicacies were served.

  Annabelle’s eyes were very bright as she flitted and fluttered about. For she had recognized Prince Henry, the royal lover of her young mistress in those days at Audley House where both she and Abe had been servants. With his heavy lidded eyes and sunken cheeks, the young prince looked very ill, but Annabelle did not comment. She dared not let anyone else in the house know that they were entertaining the Crown Prince of England.

  To Marcelle they were just another lot of guests who had come in late, not an uncommon occurrence at this inn, so she just went about her work helping Ruth in the kitchen. The other two male guests seemed to have cheered up a bit, now that the younger one was asleep. They had gently got their young master to bed and now they sat in the next room talking and drinking. The bearded one seemed to be quite upset and he drank some evil-smelling wine that he took from a flask he carried with him.

  As Marcelle and Ruth cleared the dishes, the young Lord Hay looked at the golden-haired maid appreciatively as he remembered the sweetness of her lips earlier that afternoon.

  With her eyes lowered modestly, Ruth demurely carried the tray from the room. She did not dare look at his lordship while Annabelle was present.

  ‘Och mon, I am right tuckered oot maself. Been riding since this morning.’ David Murray stretched and yawned.

  ‘Get to your bed, then. I’ll ride back to camp,’ said Lord Hay, still eyeing Ruth.

  ‘Mon, I daren’t. He might wake in the night, and he’ll be terribly scared.’

  Lord Hay looked at him with disbelief.

  ‘Aye,’ returned David. ‘It’s these terrible nightmares he has. Goes walking off in his sleep. I have brought him in many times from the grounds in the middle of the night.’

  ‘Poor devil, his mind must be going,’ said Lord Hay, shaking his head sympathetically.

  ‘Nay, it’s his nerves. But it will go, all he needs is a mate.’

  As David spoke it was obvious that he was exhausted. His head nodded and his eyes were almost closed.

  ‘Come on David, old lad. Get off to bed. I’ll guard your baby.’ Lord Hay had a kindly way about him, so David Murray gave in and went to bed while the younger man sat by the fire to guard the royal guest. But as Lord Hay sat back in his seat, in his mind’s eye was a vision of golden-haired Ruth with her pearl-like teeth and cheeks like rosy apples ready for picking. The more he stared into the fire, the more vivid this vision became. He fidgeted uncomfortably; it was going to be a long night. ‘Oh, to hell with the royal baby,’ he decided finally, when the temptation became too great for him.

  Down in the kitchen Annabelle had just finished clearing up. ‘Well, that’s over,’ she said. ‘Now we can all retire for the night.’

  Abe took a candle and lit up the path for Ruth to guide her to her sleeping quarters which she shared with the other dairy maids. The heavy front door closed with a click, and as Ruth skipped merrily through the orchard, a tall slim shape climbed down the ivy and a voice whispered: ‘Don’t go, darling, let me kiss you goodnight.’

  Ruth was not afraid. She had half-expected his Lordship to be there, for she had a way with men and had had plenty of experience. So, with an attractive little giggle, she raced straight towards the barn with the young Lord Hay following her like a whippet.

  Marcelle could not sleep. For hours she lay restless, tossing and turning from side to side. Unlike Ruth, whose instinct it was to give way to the urge of nature, Marcelle had no understanding of why the sight of the young men disturbed her sleep. The young visitor she had seen had been so pale, she felt quite sorry for him. As she thought over the events of the evening, a strange sound reached her ears. It sounded like a tiny cry for help, perhaps from an animal in distress. Almost immediately she thought of the kitten. Had Merlin come down in the night to steal yet another kitten? The thought horrified her but she was too terrified to move. Then again she heard it. It was a deep sob, something or someone was crying. Her soft heart had to know. Creeping from the bed, she opened her door silently. Her bedroom was at the top of a small flight of stairs and down below was a long corridor which ran alongside the guest chambers. As she stepped noiselessly down into the corridor she saw that the door to one of the guest rooms was open and through it emerged a slim figure walking, his hands stretched out in front of him. As he moved, violent sobs convulsed him. Even in the dim light, Marcelle caught a glimpse of the auburn hair. The young man was walking towards the blind end of the passage. When he reached it, he seemed to wake up, for now he was beating his fists on the wall.

  Without a word, Marcelle ran silently up to him and gently turned him to face her. ‘Come sir,’ she said. ‘This way. You have been walking in your sleep, I think.’

  The man clutched at her convulsively. ‘Franci!’ he exclaimed. ‘I knew you would come.’ His words ended in a mutter.

  Marcelle guided the man along the passage to his chamber and tried to coax him through the door. But he held on to her tight, his tears streaming down her bare arm. ‘This way, sir, just a few more steps.’ She piloted him along, humouring him as a nurse would a child. He went quietly holding tightly to her arm and every now and then pressed his burning lips to her bare flesh, now exposed since the bedgown had slipped down from her shoulders.

  ‘Franci, my love,’ he mu
rmured. ‘Don’t leave me ever, not ever again.’ He said these words over and over again.

  Marcelle got him to the bed, but he would not go any further. Instead he knelt on the floor beside the bed and pulled her down with him. Marcelle felt overwhelmed with pity for this young boy; she felt strange flickerings of emotion as he held on to her. She opened her mouth to speak but he covered it quickly with his hand. ‘Hush, my darling, they will hear you and kill you as they are going to me.’ He pulled her closer, covering her with kisses, and Marcelle relaxed as they lay down on a rug of sheepskin beside the bed. Her gown came apart and he pressed his body against her, pouring words of love in her ear. The hot sensuous blood of the Stuarts consumed his body and Marcelle had no chance, not even for a protest. What was happening was wonderful; she could not resist. After a while she began to return his love with equal passion until they tired. Then they curled up and slept close together like two young puppies on a rug.

  The crowing of the red rooster awoke Marcelle in the early hours as it did every morning. But this morning it was different. She had had a strange dream, and what was wrong with her arm? She could not lift it. Turning her head sleepily, she saw to her amazement, a young man’s head with a wealth of red hair resting on her arm. Suddenly she was horrified. It was no dream; it was all true! She had forsaken her virginity for a strange young man. She shuddered and her eyes looked down at her bare white limbs stretched out before her. ‘Oh, Holy Mother,’ she whispered. ‘Dear Virgin, don’t let it be true.’ She pulled out her arm from under his head and reached for her bedgown.

  The young man stirred in his sleep. ‘Don’t go, Franci,’ he whispered.

  Tears trickled down Marcelle’s cheeks as she bent over him and gently pressed her lips to his brow. Taking the rug from the bed, she covered him up and went silently from the room.