The Dandelion Seed (10 page)

Robert of Essex, a hulking, ill-mannered youth of nineteen, had returned from the wars in France and claimed his bride, but now rumour had it that the marriage had never been consummated and, after two years of a terrible married existence, his hard-faced child bride was asking to be divorced. She sat in Annabelle’s little parlour with tears of misery streaming down her cheeks and Annabelle wiped them away gently, just as she did when Frances was a spoilt little girl in the nursery.

‘It will all come right. Did not your uncle promise to see the Bishop this very month?’

‘But it will be useless,’ sniffed Frances, hanging her head. ‘They will not allow a divorce. You know, Annabelle, that I have not been a virgin since I was twelve.’

Annabelle bit her lip. In some way she felt responsible for Frances’ affair with young Henry; she always knew she should have informed Frances’ parents, but her own life would have been worth nothing if she had.

‘They will have me examined by those damned vile Bishops,’ moaned Annabelle, ‘and you know they thrive on things like that.’

‘But surely Robert Carr will protect you,’ Annabelle assured her.

‘He will look after himself, as he always does,’ Frances replied bitterly.

‘This is all very dangerous for you, my dear, for me, too,’ said Annabelle. ‘Would it not be better for you to settle to your married life? The wounds will heal; time erases many things.’

‘No, I will get even with them all! I swear before God and my friend the Devil that they will not beat me!’ Frances’ voice was hard and cruel.

Annabelle looked shocked, ‘Hush, my dear, don’t do anything you will be sorry for.’

‘It is all right, Annabelle, do not worry, but I will need your help.’

Annabelle sighed. ‘My help is yours for the asking, my lady. I cannot help myself.’

When the guest had gone, Marcelle crept back into the parlour and sat quietly in her corner, her head bent over her yellow silk sewing. Without a word she watched Annabelle sitting with her head in her hands as though trying to find some relaxation from the worries and woes of the world. After a while she arose from her chair and came over to Marcelle to stroke the wisps of hair from the girl’s eyes. ‘I’ll be so happy when you marry Thomas,’ she said. ‘At least it will be a match of your own choosing.’

Marcelle’s eyes were inscrutable. She looked down her thin pointed nose and for a moment her lips pursed angrily, but she made no comment for in her mind she was not sure of the truth of Annabelle’s words. On sleepless nights she often turned over the thoughts of a lover. Her French blood and the spring that was upon them made her dream strange dreams about the strong arms of a man about her, but in her dreams the face of Dour Thomas never appeared. Whenever this happened, Marcelle would push these wicked thoughts from her mind, as does a nun in her little cell, and she would repeat Hail Marys until her body felt at peace again.

Now it had grown dusk and the light was getting bad. Annabelle pulled her up from the couch. ‘Come my love, let’s go down to the kitchen; it’s time to prepare supper.’ And so they went downstairs together, as sisters, Annabelle with her arm around Marcelle’s shoulders, to the light and warmth of Abe’s fire.

In the kitchen was Will. Already tired of the city, he had returned to Abe’s fireside to strum and sing. Everyone was in a relaxed mood as they all sat around the big wooden table – master, mistress, maids and guests. There was no class distinction in Annabelle’s kitchen. And Marcelle felt curiously content.

The summer came in with all its glory that year. The hedgerows were sweet with honeysuckle and late apple blossom still adorned some of the trees. On others the green buds were bursting into leaf and the tiny young apples were hidden in the shelter of the cool green foliage.

With a flowered sun-bonnet on her head Marcelle worked in the garden early every morning with Annabelle. Together they would weed and prune the bushes ready for the soft fruit, which, as soon as it was picked, went straight into special preserving pots. She did this important task every year. Last year’s preserved fruit still lined the larder.

In the afternoon, Marcelle would sit under the big oak tree while Annabelle sat stiffly in her stuffy parlour. The pattern of life ran very smoothly that summer at this cosy home in Essex. All was sweet and content. No one was ready for the black storm which lay ahead.

Sometimes Merlin’s tall ragged shape would creep out of the back door and slope off over the fields behind the house, his long coat flying out behind him, his hair waving in the breeze.

‘He’s like a damned March hare the way he goes over that field,’ Abe would comment as he watched Merlin disappear.

But Marcelle was too afraid to look. She knew he would return with some soft wild thing clutched close under his cloak – a rabbit, a field mouse, a starling or a bat and soon the poor animal would be stretched out in pain. She just could not bear to think of it. She would stick her nose back in the little prayer book that had belonged to her mother and put these evil things from her mind. Apart from old Merlin, life in Annabelle’s was one long peaceful dream.

One warm afternoon Marcelle was sitting in her usual spot when she heard the sound of horses and wagons coming over the hill. It sounded as though there were many of them. Then in the sunlight she could see the glint of steel in the distance and then, coming along the road, a long line of armed horsemen, their coloured coats showing up vividly against the dark green background of the forest.

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.