The Dandelion Seed (14 page)

‘Chalky,’ yelled Rolly. ‘Betsy! Betsy!’ But no one came to his aid.

The men persisted over and over again and gradually poor Rolly started to get weaker. One enterprising man stood astride the wall with a rope which he sent spinning through the air. It looped down on Rolly and was pulled tight, pinning his arms firmly by his side and in no time at all he was trussed up like a prize carcase. Then they dragged him over the river wall down to a waiting boat and soon they were out to sea.

Chalky had heard all the rumpus as he crouched beside the river bank but did nothing to help. When he saw the boat with Rolly tied up in it, he watched for a time and then stood up to shout: ‘Goodbye, mate, I hope you enjoy the trip.’ And then hands in his pockets, he set off whistling to Dog Row where he was sure there would be a spot of gaming going on.

8

The Proposal

Marcelle’s face was pale and her eyes dark ringed from lack of sleep. But every afternoon she sat in Annabelle’s stuffy parlour sewing endlessly and listening to the foolish gossip of the ladies who called on Annabelle. They chattered and tore to pieces the characters of their absent friends. Today Marcelle was not feeling too well. The heat and the noise oppressed her, and she had seen no more of her lover since he had disappeared over the hill. Still, she managed to keep her secret locked safely in her heart, and one thought remained uppermost in her mind that he would one day return and tell her that he loved her. She hoped and prayed that the mysterious young man would remember their encounter as she did and come back to her. Five weeks had passed and each day was more boring than the one before. It was a hot dry summer and visitors brought stories of the return of the plague. Annabelle made no journeys to town and was quite content to busy herself with her garden and her social afternoons. This past week Marcelle had been worried, for she was convinced that something was happening inside her. She was sure of it, but whom could she ask? No one, without betraying the secret of her love. She sat quiet as a mouse, her head bent to her sewing while the idle gossipers chatted and whispered.

The fair young countess had paid them a visit that day and there was much debate between her and Annabelle. They whispered quickly to each other and Marcelle thought at one point that she could hear them talking of the three visitors who had ridden through and stayed the night. She wished she had the courage to ask who the men were, but whenever this fair beauty was visiting, Marcelle felt as if her tongue clung to her mouth. She could scarcely utter a word when this haughty countess was around. Today the countess had arrived in a flurry of excitement, wearing an emerald green gown with a new kind of collar made of Flemish lace.

‘I have heard a strange story in London,’ the countess told Annabelle, ‘of a certain young man who stayed at a yeoman’s house overnight.’ As she spoke her eyes glowed like dark coals and flickered quickly at Marcelle. Marcelle promptly lowered her gaze, and then, at Annabelle’s request, she dropped her sewing and hurriedly left the room.

The countess seemed to have shown an unusual interest in her and Marcelle had a strong feeling of apprehension. She felt as if the painted and perfumed woman knew of her cherished secret.

After Marcelle had left the room, Frances turned towards Annabelle, her face white with rage.

Annabelle was distressed even before the countess had spoken. ‘What have I done, my lady?’ she begged.

‘Either you are becoming a fool or there is treachery afoot. It seems you know very little of what goes on in your own home, Annabelle.’

Annabelle stared into that beautiful cold face. ‘My lady,’ she protested, ‘I do not know what you mean. Did I not tell you of our overnight guests? Was I wrong to accept them as my guests?’ she enquired tearfully.

‘No, of course not. But listen to me and I’ll tell you of a story that I heard from my cousin Elizabeth, who is a lady-in-waiting to the Queen. She told me that Lord Hay told her of how he had been left to guard his Royal Highness but instead of doing so, he got drunk and slept with the dairy maid in the barn. When he awoke he visited His Highness’ bedchamber to find him lying on the floor. Thinking that His Highness had perhaps had one of his usual nightmares, Lord Hay picked him up to return him to his bed. And under His Highness’ head, he found a little lace nightcap.’ She hissed the words out through clenched teeth.

‘Annabelle’s brown eyes were wide with amazement. She looked at her Ladyship in bewilderment. ‘But, what is that to me?’ she pleaded.

‘It all happened under your roof, Annabelle, that’s what.’ A grim smile crossed Frances’ sculpted face and the threat was clear.

‘But, my Lady, it is not possible,’ burst out Annabelle. ‘It’s a pack of lies!’

‘For your sake, dear Annabelle, I do hope so,’ Frances remarked.

‘But who could have been with his Highness?’

‘Obviously not you, Annabelle, as I can see by your surprise. So it must have been that little mouselike companion of yours.’ Frances’ mouth twisted with hatred. ‘So she’s not quite so shy as she looks, eh?’

Annabelle rung her hands anxiously. ‘I can’t believe it, my Lady. It could have been Ruth, but she could not have dared to come back into the house, and it would seem she was satisfied with Lord Hay.’

‘He has given her the pox,’ returned Frances spitefully.

Annabelle’s lips trembled. ‘Ruth ran away last week,’ she stuttered.

‘Well, so we have only the silent little Marcelle. Thomas Mayhew will get a well-stuffed bride and maybe a pair of cuckold horns on his return,’ continued Frances. ‘And frankly, Annabelle, I am beginning to wonder whether I can trust you . . .’ With a haughty look, she rose from her seat and swept out of the room leaving poor Annabelle in tears.

That night Marcelle was in her room sitting on the edge of the bed when Annabelle came in. The sight of Marcelle’s tear-stained face and her worried expression told Annabelle that something was terribly wrong. She sat down facing the girl and said gently: ‘Where is that nice little lace cap I made for you, dear?’

‘I have mislaid it,’ answered the listless Marcelle.

Annabelle’s voice changed its tone and sounded quite brittle as she replied: ‘No! You lost it, dear, and dare I ask where?’ Frances had been right: Marcelle’s secret was out.

Tears trickled down Marcelle’s face. ‘Please Annabelle, do not be angry, let me tell you about it.’

‘I love you as my own daughter,’ said Annabelle. ‘I want you to clear yourself of the terrible story I heard today.’ She related what the countess had told her and of what she had hinted.

Marcelle shook her head. ‘I cannot clear myself,’ she cried, ‘because it is true.’

Annabelle rushed at her and shook her hard. ‘It isn’t! It can’t be!’ she insisted. ‘Don’t tell me that I was wrong about you, my dear, it would grieve me terribly.’

Marcelle now opened up and told of her lover, of how he had walked in his sleep, how he had been so kind and gentle and how she had surrendered her virginity to him quite willingly. But that was not all, she said, she was sure now that within her was his child.

Annabelle had gone deathly pale. ‘Oh my God, what a terrible thing to happen in my house. What am I going to do?’ Her thoughts were now for her own skin. One word of any of this in the ear of the King and the whole lot of them would go to the chopping block. Old Jamie would have no hesitation about it. Her head was spinning; but she was sure the countess would not betray them, since she had too much to hide herself. Marcelle’s sweet voice broke in on her thoughts.

‘Perhaps if I knew the name of my lover he would return to me, knowing now I am with his child. I am sure he loved me, as I did him. We have not committed such a great sin, have we? Is it so wrong to love?’

Annabelle looked up into her woebegone face and clasped her tightly in her arms. ‘You poor little darling,’ she sobbed. ‘You poor innocent little darling. You must think of your lover as dead and put all thoughts of him from your mind because if the devil was your lover you could not be in more danger.’

Marcelle’s tears fell silently and fast. She looked astounded that Annabelle should say such a thing.

The golden summer had drifted into autumn as Thomas Mayhew rode at a leisurely pace through Epping Forest. He was in no hurry and he wanted to enjoy the peace and beauty all around him. He had been away a long time and was now returning from Dorset where he had been settling his affairs before going to sea again soon. As he rode along the shady woodland path, the leaves were falling and made a crisp sound under his horse’s hooves. Bessy, the chestnut mare, snorted loudly. She was also enjoying the leisure, having ridden many miles these last few weeks. A little red squirrel, seeking a store of winter nuts scuttled up a tall oak tree. He stopped halfway, his tiny paw clinging to the wrinkled grey bark as his bright eyes surveyed Thomas with fear. But as Thomas rode by, he whispered, ‘It’s all right, little one, I won’t hurt you.’ As the squirrel scuttled back down the tree, Thomas thought how fine it would be to be as free as the woodland animals. Well, thought Thomas, thank God he was free of Robert Carr for the time being. Of late he had begun to loathe the man even more and felt sometimes that he wanted to run his sword through his soft podgy body. But with all the padding that Robert Carr wore Thomas doubted whether his sword would even contact his rotten flesh. Thomas urged his horse on and galloped for a while, telling himself that he must not let his hatred for Robert Carr spoil this peaceful day. He had also made a definite decision. He would ask Marcelle to marry him. She was young and would not have minded waiting for him.

And he had other plans for her. His elder brother had promised to help him prepare a ship and sail away next year and to take the entire family with them to the new colony of Virginia, where he intended to buy land. His brother had told him he was tired of the family farm and of this sick country, and he wanted to sail off to the land of freedom, where a man could bring up his family without fear of persecution on any pretext. Thomas was almost sure that Marcelle would join them. His family had been very pleased when he told them about his intentions regarding Marcelle, and he could not see any obvious objections to his plans. She was alone; he was unmarried. He whistled a little tune, well pleased with his thoughts of the future, and rode cheerfully through the forest until he came to the hill and saw Annabelle’s house lying ahead of him tucked cosily into the hillside.

Old Abe came out as Thomas approached and took hold of Bessy’s bridle. Thomas thought that the house seemed unusually quiet as they walked up the drive.

‘I’m mighty glad to see you,’ said Abe, but he did not seem his usual jovial self. Perhaps he is just getting on a bit, thought Thomas.

Now he could see Marcelle in the garden with a basket on her arm which she was filling with late summer blooms. The basket was a blaze of colour contrasting wonderfully with the white cap and apron she wore over her pale blue dress. As she came forward shyly to greet him, he thought how very bonny she looked. She seemed to have filled out and there was a serene look on her face which suited her to perfection. He kissed the hand she offered and together they walked to a seat under the drooping willow tree, the most sheltered spot in the garden.

‘My, ’tis fine to see you looking so bonny,’ Thomas squeezed Marcelle’s hand and admired the chestnut glint in her hair, the aquiline nose and the thickness of her lashes. All the while Marcelle modestly kept her eyes averted from him.

‘Many things have changed since we last met Marcelle, and I have so much to say to you.’

Still Marcelle made no reply; she just picked petals in an absent-minded way off the flowers in the basket.

Thomas decided to get it over with and took a deep breath. Soon the garden would no longer be empty. He slipped to the ground on one knee, and took one of her small hands in his. ‘Will you marry me, my dear? I have loved you since I found you almost a year since. Please tell me that you will.’

Hot tears ran down Marcelle’s cheeks as she pulled her hand away and held it to her face.

‘Don’t cry, my love,’ said Thomas. ‘There is nothing to be afraid of. If you do not love me I will go away and not bother you again but don’t you want to marry me?’ he asked. He was indeed surprised by her reaction to his question.

‘Oh, I do!’ cried Marcelle fervently, ‘and it breaks my heart to have to refuse you,’ she sobbed.

‘There is no need to worry,’ replied Thomas patiently. ‘I will wait for your answer until I come back from sea. I will never marry anyone else, my dear, I can assure you. Only you, Marcelle, will bend this old bachelor to domesticity.’ He smiled as if to console her.

Marcelle took her hands from her face and he dried her tears. But she had an intense look in her eyes as she spoke. ‘I betrayed you, Thomas’, she whispered. ‘I took a lover and now I bear his child in my womb.’

Thomas felt as if he had been struck. He got to his feet, reeling slightly, and gripped her by the shouders so tightly that his fingers dug into her flesh. ‘What nonsense is this, child?’ he demanded harshly.

‘It is true! It is true!’ Marcelle’s sobs rang out across the garden as she broke from his hold and ran up the path.

Thomas watched her retreating figure in a daze. He knew that Marcelle was an emotional and highly strung girl but whatever had possessed her to say a thing like that? It was impossible, right here in the heart of the countryside with Annabelle as such a good chaperone. No, he did not believe what she had said, it was sheer nonsense, a shock reaction to his proposal, no doubt. He had better talk to Annabelle, he told himself.