by Lena Kennedy
Wanda sat beside Marcelle. ‘I will look after you, my love,’ she murmured reassuringly, ‘and when you are better we will go and look for Roger. Whoever has taken him must have had a good reason, I’ll be bound.’
As the days passed, Marcelle got better but her mind was very disturbed. She would sit staring into space, her eyes glazed, and calling out: ‘Go away,’ or ‘Give me back my baby. Oh please, devil, if you want me, take me, I am no good without my child.’
Wanda would stare at her in puzzlement. Who was this devil she thought had taken the baby? ‘Tell me, Marci, darling,’ she begged, ‘Who took Roger?’
‘He did,’ whispered Marcelle. ‘It was his and he came back and took him. I am a very wicked woman.’
‘Marci, dear, don’t say such things,’ begged Wanda, looking about her nervously.
Marcelle’s health gradually improved, but her obsession still did not leave her. She looked such a pathetic little creature with a slight twist in her neck which kept her head always tilted to one side, her beaky nose and bright little eyes, she had the appearance of a frightened bird.
The loyal Wanda remained close to her side. She never left her and was always on the ready with a heavy stick in her hand in case of any further intruders.
The winter passed and spring came in all its sweet-smelling glory. But the red hawthorn blossom had no interest for Marcelle now as she still sat all day in a chair by the fire nursing a little bundle, which was only a towel tied in a knot which Wanda had given her to cuddle in her moments of undue stress.
The night the three horsemen had ridden through the village with Marcelle’s baby tucked inside the riding cloak of one of them, the men had ridden like the wind, without stopping and barely uttering a word to each other. With a final protesting whimper, Roger went back to sleep, as babies are apt to do even in moments of danger. They rode swiftly through the Hundreds of Becontree, passed the village of Waltham and down into the Lea Valley. As they crested the hill they saw a strange light in the sky. A comet had appeared and hung down low over the city, giving out an eerie blue glow.
One of the riders pointed upwards to it. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.
The other two pulled up their horses and stared skywards. They were three brothers – in flesh and in crime – and they drew close together in fear as they stared up at the comet hanging so low in the heavens. ‘’Tis a sign,’ said one, crossing himself. ‘We did devil’s work this night.’
‘Hold your tongue,’ said the ugliest and the oldest brother. ‘’Tis not only us who sees that star hanging low but the rest of the world can see it.’
The younger and the smallest of the men opened his mouth to speak but no words came – he was paralysed with fear.
‘Oh, get going!’ said the elder with impatience. ‘Let’s deliver the child and return to Flanders. I will feel a damned sight safer there.’
Picking up speed again they galloped off into the city where hundreds of people stood out in the streets just looking up at the sky. Beneath the tall columns of Holborn House, the trio halted. One carried the sleeping child up the steps while another pulled the massive chain of the door bell which could be heard clanging and echoing through the house.
A footman answered their call and on opening the door held up his hand in dismay. ‘You cannot call here tonight,’ he said. ‘His lordship is very ill.’
But the brothers pushed the servant aside and strode into the marble-tiled hall. ‘Tell his Lordship that the business is done. We have brought the child,’ one said gruffly, holding the sleeping Roger towards the footman.
The old man backed away. ‘Come tomorrow,’ he urged looking a little panic-stricken.
Down the carved oak stairs swept the Duchess of Suffolk, Henry Howard’s sister-in-law. ‘Hush, hush,’ she commanded. ‘What is going on down here? Be quiet, there is death in the house.’ Her voice was loud and imperious.
‘Sorry, my lady,’ apologised the elder brother. ‘We did our job, and now we wish to be paid and get on our way.’ He laid the sleeping babe gently down on an oak chest which stood beside the huge doors.
‘What job?’ demanded the Duchess. ‘And whose child is that? Take it away. Lord Howard has just left this world. Have you no respect?’
‘No, madam,’ he replied. ‘That’s not our business. We want the money we are owed, and then we will leave.’
The Duchess hesitated for a moment. God only knew what devilment old Henry had been up to. She had better settle with these men amicably, she decided. Drawing from the finger of her right hand a magnificent ring, she handed it to the man. ‘Now go! And don’t let me ever see you again.’
A thin, claw-like hand grasped the ring and held it to the light. ‘This will do for now,’ he said. ‘I can’t promise that it is enough – there are three of us to share, but be sure I will be back.’ He said this in a threatening manner and then swiftly turning on his heel, he went out of the door with his brothers following behind him.
The aged footman came forward and looked down at the tiny bundle which had begun to stir. His tiny legs were kicking vigorously.
‘Go and get the maids,’ the Duchess snapped, looking down at Roger disdainfully. By now the baby had opened his large brown eyes, seeing that he was among strangers, he let out a terrific yell.
A maid came buzzing in, picked up the baby and took him to the servants’ quarters, where they changed this cold wet little babe and fed him, fussing over this little mite who had so recently been taken from the comfort and love of his mother’s arms.
For the next few days, the Duchess received hundreds of relatives and visitors who came to pay their respects to old Henry Howard. And all thoughts of the strange babe she had taken in were forgotten. What with the excitement of the comet in the sky and the superstitious ones foretelling bad tidings, it was a time of great turmoil. For the Howards, the death of the head of their great family was devastating, even though Henry had been of a great age. But once the clamour had died down and life returned to normal a little, the Duchess remembered the babe at last. She broke into a cold sweat at the thought of him. Oh God, who were those evil-looking men who had threatened her in that fashion and the child they had brought into the house just as Henry’s spirit had departed? What did it mean? She had to get rid of that baby – he could only bring bad lack. Almost quaking in her shoes, she consulted her cousin Elizabeth.
‘What do you think, Elizabeth? Whose child could it be? From whence did it come? It is all so very strange, what with the comet appearing at the same time!’
Elizabeth Brook was only married into the Howard family and scoffed at the idea of evil coming into the house. She had also taken to little Roger. ‘He is a dear little soul,’ she said as she patted his curly head. ‘I will take him out to Uncle Fulke. There are several children out there, and he does love children so. Mrs Powell, his housekeeper, has brought up his little girl well. She is so marvellous with children.’
So little Roger was washed and wrapped up warmly, and sent off in a carriage with cousin Elizabeth and her maid to Hackney to stay with Sir Fulke Greville in the warm hospitable Brook House.
It was true that Sir Fulke Greville loved children. When he was not in his study writing or reading the works of his best friend, the famous Philip Sidney, he was playing in the garden with his ‘family’ – his adopted nephew Robert and illegitimate daughter Elizabeth. He would sit with them telling them stories or teaching blind little Elizabeth how to feel the beauty of the great books of coloured paintings, works in gold on parchment drawn by the old priest who lived at Brook House. Elizabeth’s tiny dainty hand would pass gently over the page, and she would tell him the number of the page and the name of the picture.
He would kiss her gently on the top of her fair head and say, ‘My dear, if only I could leave you my eyes so that you could see the great beauty of these pages.’
As a young man, Sir Fulke had been a bit of a gay courtesan but now as an old man he was kind and studious, only ever
leaving Brook House to attend parliament, where he was known as a wise and elegant speaker. To the family he was the well-loved Uncle Fulke but to the world outside he was very proud, vain and slightly parsimonious.
So to this home came Roger, Marcelle’s baby, as a new little brother to the other children. No one knew where he came from, for none knew or cared. Sir Fulke would look after him. But by some great twist of fate, the baby had in fact come to the home of a great ancestor. His father’s grandmother, the Duchess of Lennox, had lived and died mysteriously in this house, while dining with the Earl of Leicester. Her ghost was supposed to be seen often, trailing about the corridors. So to the warm cosy nursery went little Roger and there the spirits of his Tudor ancestors smiled down on him.
Wanda stood in the doorway watching the black stormy clouds roll over the weald. Her eyes focused on the distant skyline, and the setting sun threw a replica of her wide figure on the cobbles. She screwed up her eyes to get a better view of the black-and-silver lined clouds as they drifted overhead.
‘’Tis a fine night, Marci,’ she called. ‘Come and look.’
Marcelle crept timidly beside her and Wanda put a protective arm about her. ‘That’s right, my love, some nice fresh air will do you good.’
Lately Marcelle’s health had improved a great deal. She no longer sat cuddling the towel but wandered across the meadow picking little daisies to make a daisy chain, her lips moving as she talked to herself. Wanda still watched her very carefully. Of late, she had not uttered a word about the baby she had lost or of that strange devil that used to haunt her. She just smiled constantly, a secret little smile, with her head to one side, giving herself an odd appearance. The village folk would cross themselves when they passed by her and the little boys on the farm would run past her with their fingers crossed as if their behinds were on fire.
It had been very quiet down at the farm cottage, that day. It was Whitsuntide and the farmer had taken his wife to Waltham Fair, leaving their two young boys in charge of the farm. In the distance Wanda could hear Daisy the cow lowing frantically in the barn. Wanda knew that the cow was in calf and hoped it would not give birth before the farmer came back.
Suddenly the storm broke and a torrent of rain came pouring down.
‘Let’s go in. There’s no sense in getting wet,’ Wanda said to Marcelle. ‘Close the front door,’ she called and went back to the unfinished business of making the bread. She was up to her elbows in a bowl of flour when a cry was heard, rising above the noise of the thunder.
‘Did you hear that?’ Wanda glanced at Marcelle.
‘It’s the boys from the calling,’ Marcelle replied.
Wanda went to the window and saw the two boys standing on the path. The rain was beating down on them but they were too scared to come any nearer the house.
‘Drat the buggers!’ swore Wanda. ‘What the hell is the matter with them?’ She ran quickly out down the path towards them.
‘It’s Daisy,’ they blustered. ‘Come quick!’
Wanda plodded along beside them to the barn where the brown-and-white Daisy lay in the straw. The calf was half born, and wedged partly out of her body. Wanda rolled up her sleeves and knelt down beside the animal. With kind coaxing words and her gentle hands, she manipulated the calf out into the world. It stood up on spindly legs, and toppled over once or twice, its soft wet body and great doe-like eyes seeking its mother. Wanda helped the cow to rise and placed the young one near to her. Soon the mother was licking her calf and the young one had found the udder and was sucking healthily.
For a while Wanda completely forgot everything else and stood there wondering at the miracle and the wonderful spectacle of a new life coming into the world which she had witnessed and taken part in, but suddenly she remembered that she had left Marcelle alone and that in her haste she had left the front door open. Frantically she ran all the way back to the house. The door was still open. She called out, but got no reply. The kitchen was empty and the black shawl which usually hung behind the kitchen door was missing, as was a pair of clogs. She ran out into the grounds calling out Marcelle’s name. The wind whistled around her and the rain drenched her clothes. There was no sign of Marcelle anywhere; she had disappeared into the wide open countryside.
Wanda walked to the village and then to the church where she saw some people sheltering in the porchway, but they said they had not seen anyone go by. By nightfall Wanda was back in the house, wearily waiting for Marcelle to return.
Marcelle’s small elf-like figure was almost five miles away by now. Even as darkness descended, Marcelle walked on, her eyes turned towards the towers of London which she had seen in the setting of the sun. In her deranged mind, the fair Countess lived in that big town. It was she who had taken her friend Annabelle away, and so now Marcelle must go to find Annabelle who would know where her baby Roger was hidden.
She staggered through muddy fields, and climbed hedges, and stiles. There was no stopping Marcelle; she had to get to London.
In the cold light of dawn, Marcelle’s rain-soaked body lay huddled in the hedge. The black shawl was bedraggled, and the wooden clogs caked with mud. She felt cold and hungry but inside her was an inner glow. ‘Almost there. More than half way,’ she talked to herself. Getting up with renewed energy, she trotted on. Soon she came to a rickety old bridge which crossed the river Lea. Beside this was the little brook. It left the river and with gay little trickles wended over the fields. Here Marcelle bathed her sore feet and drank the cool water. There was something about this stream that jogged her memory, a vague shadow in the back of her mind as she stared into the clear water and the well-washed stones beneath. There had once been kind hands that had lifted her up and words of comfort spoken in her ear. But, no, it was only a daydream . . . She got up and walked on, following the path of the brook, walking beside it as if some hidden force drew her to the spot where the Duke’s Head Inn stood.
The inn’s tall chimneys and white-washed walls stood outlined by the morning sun. Marcelle hesitated. She was looking cautiously at it when a tousled fair head appeared out of an upstairs window. A shrill voice screeched and a hand waved in her direction.
The shock of hearing Betsy’s voice was just too much for Marcelle’s bewildered mind. She wildly panicked, turned and ran towards the city, away from the brook and the woman who had shouted at her.
As she got into the city, the streets became very narrow and people walking past pushed and jostled her. But scarcely knowing what she was doing, Marcelle walked on and on deep into the heart of London. Then the road widened a little as it wound its way up a hill to where, at the top, were tall stone towers. ‘At last!’ Marcelle thought, ‘the King’s castle. Now to find Annabelle.’
There were many groups of people thronging the hillside and Marcelle could hear snatches of conversation as they talked mostly about a hanging that was to take place later that day. Hangings were always popular. Just outside the castle gates, groups of people stood, held back by soldiers in scarlet uniforms who held burnished pikes. They seemed to be guarding something that the people were staring and jeering at.
Marcelle crept closer to see what it was. To her horror she saw that it was a man who was naked but for a strip of cloth across his loins. He was stretched out and his arms and legs tied to pegs in the ground. Huge weights rested on top of him, his face was distorted with pain, and as he writhed in agony, his bloodshot eyes stared straight at Marcelle. It was Abe! Abe, her poor kind old friend from Craig Alva. She dropped on her knees beside him to pray. Abe’s dry cracked lips moved as if to speak but only a murmer of ‘water’ issued from his mouth as he tried to plead with Marcelle for help. Running to a nearby horse trough, she filled her cupped hands with water and ran back to place them to Abe’s dry lips. As she did so a rough hand grasped her shoulder and dragged her away.
‘Hi!’ said the angry guard. ‘What’s your game? He ain’t supposed to ’ave any food or drink. Hoppit!’ He gave her a hard push. ‘That is, unless you wa
nt to join ’im.’
Marcelle fell to the roadside and there she remained, her tears falling thick and fast. Now her mind had become clearer. Oh, poor Abe, whatever are they doing to him? I must find Annabelle, she thought. She will save him. Marcelle stood for a moment looking at the still figure of Abe who seemed to have become unconscious.
A tall young soldier came over to Marcelle. ‘You still here?’ he asked. ‘What’s up? Is he your father?’
‘No.’ Marcelle shook her head. ‘He is my dearest friend.’
‘That poor devil has been there eight days and I reckon he has stuck it well,’ said the soldier callously. ‘And he’s still alive, you know.’
‘What will happen to him?’ whispered Marcelle.
‘Oh, he’ll be hanged. They did his missus this mornin’ .’ The young soldier spoke as if it were just an ordinary conversation.
Annabelle hung? Oh, dear God! Marcelle held her head; she could not believe what she had heard.
The soldier continued. ‘He told me to say you’re to go away. He thinks it might be dangerous. He rambled on about some other thing, the poor old devil – about a brook and a baby.’
To Marcelle’s shocked mind the words came clearly. The brook! It was all connected with the brook. She had to return. She got to her feet and tottered off on her thin legs, with her head to one side.
‘Funny little body,’ the guard said to his mate. ‘She knew that old fellow. How is he now?’
‘Still alive,’ said the other. ‘It’s ten o’clock. We might as well take him in. I expect they’ll do him tomorrow.’
11
The Fall
But what happened to cause the fall of Annabelle and her husband, the harmless old Abe?
Only a few weeks before Marcelle saw Abe stretched out on the hill, he had been at the new home he had grown to dislike so much. Still, he consoled himself, it was a lot better than the Tower of London, that gloomy prison on the hill near the river. It certainly had not been his choice to take on the job of looking after poor old Thomas Overbury. Abe, now a very old man, shivered as he remembered those last days when Overbury’s body had turned black and swollen. And it stank horribly. God, what a death! But how they had managed it, he did not know. On instructions from Annabelle he had destroyed every bit of food the countess had sent in. They had poisoned him all right, but how? That was what puzzled Abe. But there was no sense dwelling on it. He was not going to live for ever so he had better forget the whole sordid affair. He would like to go back to the country but Annabelle had said that he was to stay here. He wondered how Marcelle was and her dear little baby. How nice it would be to see them. He got up from his seat. It was getting cold, for the evenings were beginning to draw in. Poor Abe was beginning to feel his age; the pace of life in these last months had begun to tell on him.