The Dandelion Seed

by Lena Kennedy

  As Thomas watched and waited for the arrival of that little ship called Destiny, he thought of Raleigh’s son Cary, who had been his own best friend, and of how good a master Raleigh had been to him. At least he was here to lend support to Sir Walter now.

  Thomas’ face was well tanned by the sun, his body hard and virile after two years at sea. The travel had been well worth it; many Spanish prizes had been taken and there was plenty of money to share out when the crew of the privateer ship disbanded. Now all he wanted to do was to find his wife and sail away again back to Virginia far from the injustice of this English way of life.

  In the room behind him, not two feet away was Rolly. In the last two years he had never been far away, sticking as closely to Thomas as his own shadow. Many a knife thrust and sword length Rolly had taken instead of his master, but it seemed that Rolly’s wounds healed very quickly and he always returned to full health, hale and hearty as ever. Thomas was eternally grateful for Rolly’s loyal protection of him and had kept him by his side.

  Now Rolly stood, his long body propped against a table as his strong white teeth crunched the fine red skin of an apple. In appearance Rolly was now a very handsome fellow, and well-dressed in a black satin suit trimmed with gold braid. His tremendous feet were shod in a long pair of highly polished boots with wide tops, Spanish style, his hair bleached almost white by the tropical sun and the gold rings in his ears made him look part of the swash-buckling pirate he fancied himself to be. There was still a remote look in his eyes and often, for no reason at all, his mouth would hang open, but mentally and physically Rolly had improved immensely. The ship’s crew had known that Dour Thomas’ man was a fellow to be reckoned with in any battle. His life at this time and his only love was his master, Thomas Mayhew, who understood perfectly that just the bat of an eyelid would bring Rolly to his side, always ready and able to serve or defend. Thomas and Rolly had a great respect for each other.

  It caused much amusement among the other servants that Rolly liked to dress up and would be decked out like a bird of paradise while his master had no taste for fancy clothes and was likened to a dowdy little sparrow. But they were a grand team together and their adventure had been very profitable. Life had bound them very close but now they were back in the homeland. Marcelle was uppermost in Thomas’ mind while Betsy was in Rolly’s.

  Thomas turned from the window. ‘Watch for Destiny to come into view,’ he instructed Rolly. ‘I’ll attend to the mail.’

  On the table was a large pile of correspondence, parcels and letters newly arrived from the trading company that had collected the mail during his absence. Thomas sat inspecting them, turning the papers over and over as he searched for letters from Marcelle in her neat handwriting. But there were none, only bills and pamphlets concerning all sorts of legal matters but not one letter from Marcelle. His face showed his disappointment as he picked up one big legal document and broke the seal. It contained news from his solicitors at the Inns of Court, and the legal draft of a will that contained a small legacy from a departed uncle. Thomas put this aside with little interest. He was more interested in a letter from Mr Spenser, the clerk who had been left in charge of Marcelle’s affairs while Thomas was away. He read this letter with puzzled bewilderment which showed on his face.

  I have been many times to your wife’s home in Essex. The whole place is empty and dilapidated. I cannot glean any information from the villagers, as they appear to be afraid to talk. Both your wife and child have disappeared from their home. It is as if they have left the face of this earth, for I can simply find no trace of them. I am indeed sorry to be the one to have to give you this information but I do assure you I have not given up my search for them and may have better news for you on your return to England.

  Blood rushed to Thomas’ head and he covered his face with his hands. In a loud voice he cried out: ‘Oh God! What has happened to her?’

  Hearing the anxiety in his master’s voice, Rolly came over to his side. Now Thomas was reading the letter from Betsy, written just before her death. He had come to the postscript. In strange uneven writing, so different from the neat hand of the clerk, the words seemed to dance before his eyes: ‘I saw Marci. She was walking by the brook.’

  The mystery deepened. Why should Marcelle be walking by the brook in Hackney more than ten miles from her home? Thomas began to sort out the rest of the mail with his brow puckered in puzzlement.

  Rolly came to stand beside him and looked at him quizzically. ‘What is it?’ he enquired.

  Thomas looked at him. ‘I have received a letter from your sister.’ He handed Rolly the sheet of paper but Rolly only grinned from ear to ear and stared at the missive in wonder. ‘You know I can’t read,’ he said. ‘And Betsy can’t write either.’

  But Thomas was not listening. He was staring at a pamphlet which lay open on his desk. He had gone pale under his tan and looked a sickly yellow. Staring up at Thomas was the face of Annabelle standing on the gallows with a rope about her neck. It was a life sketch, the artist had coloured yellow the ruffs and frills of her dress and underneath the illustration was a foul and very detailed description of the way in which poor Annabelle had died.

  Rolly had returned to his post looking out of the window. Suddenly he called out: ‘She’s here! Just caught sight of her, but it’s the Destiny all right.’

  Thomas gathered his papers quickly. ‘We cannot wait for the Destiny,’ he said grimly. ‘Our own destiny is at stake. We must go quickly to London now. Go saddle up, and hurry.’

  Within an hour they were galloping along the west country roads. They were miles away when Sir Walter Raleigh finally stepped ashore only to be arrested instantly by the King’s men. Thomas Mayhew was not there to try to save him, for he was away out on the moors riding as if the devil was behind him, scared for the wife and child he had left in the care of Annabelle whose distraught face had stared out at him from the news sheet.

  By dawn they had entered the deserted city streets and arrived at the Temple to await the clerk outside his offices. Thomas and Rolly were dusty and saddlesore, and the sight of them was a shock for Mr Spenser when he came from his lodgings to work. He greeted them and he begged them to take breakfast with him but Thomas gruffly refused. He had to know at once what all this was about and he would not rest content until all the facts were laid before him. The clerk fussed and fidgeted with an eyeglass which he wore hanging round his neck and was trying hard to fit it into the front of his eye, while at the same time keeping a wary eye on Rolly, who in turn stared aggressively back at him because he sensed that this red-faced little man was upsetting his master.

  ‘Wait by the door, Rolly,’ Thomas ordered.

  Rolly immediately took up a position by the door with his hand on his sword hilt as if he were expecting Mr Spenser to make a bolt for it.

  Then with a rustle of papers, Mr Spenser began to explain. ‘This is a very sad business, sir,’ he said. ‘I suppose you have heard of the case of Mistress Annabelle?’

  ‘All right, get on with it,’ Thomas retorted abruptly.

  ‘Having thoroughly investigated the case I fear that the report I had from the village in Essex is true.’ Mr Spenser was sweating and seemed ill at ease.

  Thomas’ voice rose in temper. ‘Well, what is it man?’ he bellowed.

  ‘That your wife lost her wits and did away with herself and the child,’ Mr Spenser said timorously.

  Thomas drew in a deep breath of horror. ‘What proof have you of this?’ he demanded.

  ‘I was fortunate enough to trace a servant who was with her on the day she disappeared. Her name is Wanda – a nice homely girl.’

  ‘Well, where is she? I would also like to talk to her.’ Thomas got up impatiently, ready to go.

  ‘In her old home in Essex. The poor girl has just recently recovered from smallpox so I would not advise you to go there, sir. There has been quite an epidemic in that part of the country.’

  But Thomas held out his hand for the w
ritten address. ‘You don’t seem to have made much progress so maybe I will do better,’ he muttered hoarsely, choked with emotion. He knew that once outside this office he would have to give way to the grief which had suddenly assailed him.

  With Rolly at Thomas’ side, they rode east, stopping only to change mounts and to eat a quick meal, then on they went over the Weald to the little village where Thomas had first taken Marcelle.

  The day was still young when they came to the forest. Leaves had already started to fall from the huge horse chestnut trees and hissed and crackled under foot. Still and silent, the forest shaped a tall, tree-lined avenue. Thomas was engrossed in thought as he rode but Rolly beside him had his eyes on their surroundings always on guard, for those days in the Spanish colonies had taught him to be forever alert.

  Thomas was day-dreaming of Marcelle, of her nut-brown hair and rosy cheeks, remembering the feel of her young body pressed close to him when they first rode out to Essex from the inn at Hackney. Could she really have gone crazy and destroyed her own child? No, it was quite impossible, she was too like a child herself. Marcelle had been so timid on her wedding day – perhaps he should have stayed a while to unite themselves closer, but the thought of that child in her womb had sickened him. Poor little Marcelle, she never had a chance. She had been so young and her life, apparently, was finished. He had to try to put that thought from his mind; it did not bear thinking about.

  At last they came in sight of Craig Alva. The black-and-white timbers seemed to stare desolately at them as they rode up the weed-covered drive. The once bright windows were dirty and drab and the lawn grass was waist-high. It did not take much to know that the house was empty. They searched the stables but found nothing there but a family of rats. And the farm cottages were deserted too. They rode on a mile or two down the road to the little village of Beauchamp Riding where Wanda lived, and pulled in at a small inn called the Red Lion. Leaving the horses with the groom, they went inside.

  Inside it was cool and dark. The low ceiling with its blackened oak beams told its age. The wide polished bar was welcoming and Thomas would have liked to have stayed. But at the moment his mind was preoccupied and the hospitality of the inn would have to wait.

  The landlord was fat and of florid countenance. Thomas knew he had met him before at his own wedding. At first the landlord did not recognise Thomas but when the younger man mentioned Craig Alva and Abe and Annabelle, the landlord’s face turned a sickly white. He lifted the little flap in the counter. ‘Come through,’ he whispered hoarsely, looking from side to side. ‘Who are you, sir?’ he asked furtively once they were inside.

  ‘I am Thomas Mayhew. I am seeking information regarding my wife. This you should know, since you were a guest at my wedding.’ Thomas spoke in a clear cold and precise tone looking angrily at the quivering landlord around whose neck rings of fat wobbled like jelly.

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear!’ he replied. ‘Terrible business, that was, and not over yet,’ he added nervously. ‘Denouncing people as witnesses every day they are, indeed, sir.’

  ‘What’s that to do with my wife?’ demanded Thomas.

  ‘Oh, you don’t know, sir? It was terrible – corrupted that little girl, they did. She killed herself and done away with her own baby.’

  Thomas’ fist crashed down on the table. ‘Stop this nonsense!’ he yelled. ‘I came here for facts, not some damned yokel’s ravings.’

  ‘It’s true, sir, I swear it’s true! I went up to London to the trial. Made contact with the devil, he did, that crazy fellow who used to live there.’

  Thomas had drawn his dagger and with its point at the landlord’s throat he held him against the wall. ‘Oh, shut your damned foul mouth!’ he snarled. ‘Tell me, where does the servant girl Wanda live?’

  The landlord pointed with trembling hands to the shack down the road. ‘Down there, sir, that old wooden place on the corner.’

  Thomas released him, put his dagger away and strode out with swift step down the dusty village street to where a slated dwelling leaned crazily to one side. In the doorway with her arms folded stood Wanda.

  Life had not been very kind to Wanda over the last few years. For many nights she had waited at Craig Alva for Marcelle to return, quite heartbroken at the loss of her beloved mistress. Then one night the king’s men came and arrested her along with the farmer and his family, and they were all shut in the courthouse for a night. The next day, they were questioned about the activities of the family that had lived at Craig Alva, but then were released the next day. Although they were innocent, rumours of black magic and witchcraft gripped the village. With righteous indignation, the villagers waited outside the courthouse ready to aim stones and filth at Wanda and the farmer’s family. Then they put the farmer in the stocks. The following day, the whole lot of them were driven out of the village, these blameless people whose only fault had been to live in a cottage on the land belonging to Craig Alva, now reputed to have been a den of iniquity. A stone had hit Wanda in the eye and she had gone screaming to her mother, who hid her until the wrath of the villagers had died down.

  Wanda had never been much of a beauty and now she had a vivid scar above her eye as a result of the injury. Then, to add to her trouble, came the smallpox epidemic. She lost her poor old mother but survived the epidemic herself. Now she was pock-marked as well.

  After all this bad luck, Wanda’s mind had turned nasty and she was always at odds with her neighbours. Now she stood in the dark doorway as Thomas came up the path but as he approached she darted indoors with a scared look. As Thomas reached the rickety door, it was slammed in his face.

  ‘Come out, damn you!’ roared Thomas impatiently, beating on the door with his fist. But not a sound came from inside. Thomas motioned to Rolly, who knew what to do. Marching up, he put his huge shoulder to the door and pushed hard. There was a sharp sound of splintering wood as the door fell inwards.

  The two men stepped into the darkened shack to find Wanda crouching down in a corner sobbing with terror. She was convinced that she was about to be arrested as a witch.

  Thomas put a gentle hand on her shoulder. ‘We don’t want to hurt you,’ he said. ‘We only want to find out some knowledge that you might have about my wife.’

  Wanda’s big, disfigured face stared up at Thomas in wonder. ‘You are little Marci’s husband?’ She jumped to her feet. ‘Oh, thank God you have come!’ Her big hands held on to his arm. ‘Oh, God, how I have prayed for you to come home!’

  Thomas pulled her into a chair. ‘Now,’ he said kindly, sitting down in front of her, ‘tell me all about it.’

  As Wanda unfolded the story of Marcelle’s last days at Craig Alva before she disappeared at the height of a storm one afternoon, Thomas listened and his expression became darker and his brow creased. Occasionally his lips twitched as if he were in pain. She told of the decoy, the boy who had knocked at the door on the evening that Roger had been taken, and of finding her mistress’ crumpled little body, her head all twisted to one side, and the despair at the sight of the empty cot.

  ‘Do you honestly think that Marcelle was mad the day she left?’ Thomas asked Wanda.

  Wanda shook her big head. Her thin, sandy hair stuck out from under a large cap and her strange blank eyes looked vaguely at him. Despite her look, honesty was there in her face and Thomas was sure that this homely girl would give him the untarnished truth of Marcelle’s disappearance.

  ‘My mistress was not mad,’ said Wanda indignantly. ‘She was lost and bewildered, so young and alone, and the terror of that night was always there to haunt her.’

  Thomas looked relieved and patted Wanda’s shoulder. ‘So you think she went off by herself, or did someone abduct her, as they did the child?’

  ‘It was not possible, sir, for anyone to approach the house unnoticed in daylight,’ replied Wanda. ‘At the back is open country and I was down at the cowshed with Daisy who had just given birth to a calf. The boys were outside, so no stranger could come past the gat
e without being seen.’

  ‘So she went out the back way towards London, is that what you are saying?’ Thomas asked.

  ‘Yes, there was no other way she could go.’

  ‘Well where would she go?’ he enquired.

  ‘To find Roger,’ Wanda was most emphatic. ‘She went to the King’s palace to ask him to find Roger for her.’

  Thomas rubbed his beard thoughtfully. Did Marcelle know the identity of her child’s father? Was it possible that the secret was out? Why else would she go to London? If she were still alive, he would find her and God help the fiends who had harmed her. He gripped the hilt of his sword and stared out of the broken doorway to where Rolly sat squatting in the sunshine, his eyes fixed forever on the road. With his loyal servant beside him, Thomas would search for Marcelle to the ends of the earth. He rose to his feet and smiled at the distressed girl who sat slumped over the table. Pulling a leather pouch from his doublet, he poured some gold coins out on to the rough wooden surface of the table. ‘Don’t you fret, my dear,’ he said kindly. ‘This money will repair your doorway and give you some extra comforts.’ He then wrote down an address. ‘You will find me here if you learn of anything new.’ Then with a warm gesture, he put his arm on her shoulders. ‘Many thanks for the care you have given my family. Don’t distress yourself, what happened was not of your doing.’ Then, with a final farewell, they returned to the inn to collect their mounts and were soon riding back towards London.

  ‘Where to now, sir?’ enquired Rolly.

  Silent and brooding, Thomas turned and looked at his servant with a distant expression on his face. He really did not know the answer to that question. ‘We had better go and visit your sister, I suppose,’ he said.