The Dandelion Seed

by Lena Kennedy

  Mrs Powell had informed Marcelle that the disease that Elizabeth had been born with, and which had destroyed her precious sight, would also eventually kill her. Many doctors, including the royal physician, had examined her but they were all of the same opinion that she would not reach maturity. And the fact that the disease was hereditary was not discussed because of the mystery of Elizabeth’s birth.

  One evening, shortly after her entry to the big house, Marcelle discovered how Roger came to be there. She was sitting in the large kitchen with Mrs Powell and the tall, prematurely white-haired Ralph, the master’s personal servant, who talked of the children – of Robert, now away at school, who was Sir Fulke Greville’s nephew and heir to the estate, and of Popsi, the mysterious child who had been brought to the house by Lady Elizabeth Howard, who was now travelling abroad.

  Marcelle listened quietly and keenly. So, she thought, it was the fair countess who had stolen her child. Her eyes widened but her lips remained sealed. And it was Frances Howard, who was responsible for this present state of affairs . . .

  As Marcelle’s relationship with the young Elizabeth grew, the girl became more and more dependent on her, especially as her eyesight faded. ‘Stay, Miss Mouse,’ she would say. ‘Tell me what colour the Virginia creeper in the courtyard, is this morning.’

  Marcelle would then describe the gold and orange of the creeper which adorned the old stone walls. She would brush Elizabeth’s golden hair and smooth it with her fingers. Every comfort and need Marcelle gave to this lovely, sick girl, including her morning prayers in the little chapel. There was no longer a priest but Marcelle would light candles and decorated the altar for the two of them.

  Sometimes it seemed to Marcelle that in this old historic house the spirits from another world reached out to touch her. But she was not afraid; she had defeated the evil one and these were her friends. One evening at twilight on a day when Elizabeth had been quite ill, Marcelle knelt to pray to the Holy Mother to help this afflicted little one. Suddenly she became aware of a white-haired lady kneeling beside her. Marcelle made no movement but she knew the lady was there. Then as Marcelle left the chapel, the lady stood up, tall and majestic. She wore a Spanish black lace mantilla on her white head, and in a voice that was not really a voice but seemed to be inside Marcelle, she said: ‘I have known much sorrow in the world, too. Here you will find peace, little one.’ With that, she disappeared as if she had faded into the old grey walls. Marcelle was not afraid, and when she told Mrs Powell about seeing this lady, the housekeeper did not seem a bit surprised.

  ‘That was Lady Lennox, the Scottish Queen’s mother-in-law,’ said Mrs Powell. ‘She died here. Some say that Lord Leicester poisoned her. Well, you are favoured indeed. She only appears to the family, as a rule,’ she smiled. ‘Don’t let it worry you, dear. I’ve lived here for many years and I have never seen any ghosts. But I do know there are plenty about, as I’ve often heard about them.’

  Marcelle smiled gently, and after that day, she would include poor Margaret Lennox in her prayers, acknowledging the fact that although King James had taken her bones from Hackney to Westminster, her spirit remained at Brook House.

  Towards the end of the summer a serpent arose in Marcelle’s Garden of Eden. It concerned the two servant girls Agnes and Elsie who were always quarrelling and whom Mrs Powell only tolerated because their parents were old family retainers and lived in cottages on the estate. The trouble had started seven years earlier when a good-looking young man had made love to both of them, and then gone off and got killed in France. The girls did not marry, but continued to hate each other from then on.

  But this summer, Mrs Powell’s patience ran out. Unable to stand their bickering any longer, she persuaded Sir Fulke to get rid of Elsie who was getting lazy in any case. But the rejected Elsie became vindictive. She accused Agnes of stealing her betrothal ring and brought the law to investigate. It turned out that Elsie was telling the truth. Poor Mrs Powell who was forced to admit that the ring was Elsie’s property, so they took Agnes away and hanged her. Poor Mrs Powell was so distressed by the whole incident, for which she blamed herself, that her health deteriorated. Her legs became very stiff and she was no longer able to cope with the great house. The bother of keeping servants in order became too much for her, so it was decided to close the house up and move the household to Alcaster House, the family’s country home in Warwickshire. Sir Fulke was very keen on the idea as he found that maintaining an extra house in London was too much since he had become the Speaker of the House.

  It was Ralph who brought the news that Brook House was to be let to strangers, that all the best pictures were to be taken down and the richest of the tapestries taken to Warwickshire. Marcelle and Elizabeth looked sadly at the walls, which were now bare apart from the fine religious wall paintings which had been done a hundred years before by the monks that used to reside there.

  ‘Tell me, Miss Mouse,’ said Elizabeth, ‘is St Augustine still there? He has not faded, I hope.’

  ‘No, dear,’ replied Marcelle. ‘His hands holding the cross of gold are as bright as ever.’

  Suddenly Elizabeth threw herself into Marcelle’s arms. ‘Oh, Miss Mouse!’ she screamed hysterically. ‘I won’t go! I won’t leave my lovely home!’

  Cuddling her with soft gentle arms, Marcelle tried to calm her. She led her to the doorway and they sat on the wide stairs together. ‘It is beautiful country up in the hills, so Ralph says,’ said Marcelle reassuringly. ‘Perhaps you will like Warwick as much as you like Essex.’ She tried to calm the little girl but she could feel her own fears mounting as she wondered if they might separate her from Roger.

  ‘What about you, Miss Mouse? I will not go without you and Popsi,’ insisted Elizabeth.

  ‘Don’t fret, darling, we may not have to go.’ And a very strange feeling told her then she would never leave Brook House again.

  Marcelle had failed to reassure Elizabeth about the move, and soon the girl was having nightmares and tantrums about it. Her screaming fits were very disturbing and she often refused to eat, or would smash the fine china in a screaming rage until at last it was decided to let Elizabeth, Roger and Marcelle stay on for a while more. One wing of the house was to remain open – the south-west wing, which opened out to the courtyard where the white doves flew up and down from the picturesque dovecot and the Virginia creeper climbed the walls. This courtyard was Elizabeth’s favourite spot, and Marcelle was delighted to be staying on to take care of the children. The stables were to remain open and maids would come in daily to cook and clean.

  Once the final arrangements had been made, Elizabeth settled down. ‘We will have a lovely time on our own, Miss Mouse,’ she said. ‘With just you and me and little Popsi.’ She snuggled up to Marcelle, who stroked her golden hair and sent up a prayer of thanks that she did not have to leave this safe haven so quickly after all.

  In October, when Ralph came with a carriage to take Mrs Powell to Warwick, the poor woman wept continuously. With her bonnet and black shawl and a little basket of provisions for the journey, she limped down the drive, with only one pathetic glance back. She knew she would never see her old home again.

  ‘Goodbye, my dear,’ she kissed Marcelle. ‘God will reward you for the care and love you give these helpless babes. Take care, Elizabeth, don’t wander, will you, dear?’

  ‘No, I have got Miss Mouse and Prince, haven’t I?’ Elizabeth put her hand on the head of the great hound who was always at her side.

  The horses sped off down the drive and Marcelle was left alone, more or less mistress of this lovely house. With an arm over each child, she said: ‘Come inside, and we will think of a nice game to play.’

  Chalky was feeling very unsettled. He wiped the sweat from his brow as he screwed the taps more securely into the large wine vats and lined up the pewter pots under the barrels of beer. He was getting ready for the big rush; it was Saturday night and soon the bar would be full of customers.

  ‘Been quite a d
ay, ain’t it?’ he spoke to Katy who sat with the child on her lap, her legs spread wide as she watched her husband with fond amusement in her lovely dark eyes.

  ‘Gawd, Katy,’ said Chalky. ‘I dread this bloody lot tonight. It’s Guy Fawkes Night, the anniversary of the Gunpowder Plot, and they go bloody mad.’

  ‘They don’t bother me,’ said Katy, ‘so long as they pays up.’

  ‘Believe me, Katy, I’d sooner have a nice young gent who likes a bottle of wine and a bit of the other than this scum.’

  ‘Don’t let them bother you,’ said Katy, placidly getting up to take the sleeping child to bed.

  In fact, the crowd did not bother Chalky much that night; mostly it was Holkin, a big brute of a man who had once worked for Topcliffe, the evil agent who had hanged and tortured the Catholics who did not pay their fines. Chalky had no religious beliefs but the stories of persecution he was forced to listen to made him sick.

  That evening Holkin with his two companions, Welkin and Jenkins, were standing at the bar talking very loudly as usual. Holkin was in his element, having got on to the subject of his late master Topcliffe. He held forth with lewd stories about the late Queen Elizabeth. With his mouth opening and shutting like that of a fish and his blue bulbous nose and mop of greasy hair shining, he shouted out to all and sundry. ‘Showed him her arse, she did, dirty old cow.’

  Chalky was very shocked by this man’s stories. He had great respect for the late queen and had once seen her riding the forest on a white stallion with all her grand courtiers around her.

  Holkin’s loud voice continued: ‘“’Ere, ’ere,” she says, “does this look like Henry’s arse?” It always worried her, being a bastard, it did.’

  Chalky certainly did not know where he got the courage from but, banging on the counter, he called out: ‘Hi! Shut your foul mouth! Don’t want talk like that in here.’

  Holkin was on him in a flash, dragging him over the counter like a stunned rabbit and proceeding to give poor Chalky a good beating. He would have made a fine job of it, too, but a pewter pint pot hit the thug on the side of the head and Holkin went down like a sack of potatoes. He sat there on the floor with a ludicrous expression on his face as he stared up at Katy’s tall, splendid figure.

  Waving the pot over his head, Katy warned: ‘Keep your dirty hands off me husband or you will get a harder one the next time.’

  ‘All right, Katy, don’t want to offend you.’ Holkin pulled himself up and backed towards the door, Katy’s entire family was well known for its methods of disposing of enemies, and he, Holkin, was not taking any chances.

  But later that night, Holkin returned, louder and viler than ever, with a knot of companions with him. There was the tinker – a dirty sly fellow wearing a bright yellow cravat about his neck and dusty cap on his head. He talked only of the women he had raped and other equally unpleasant matters. One of the members of this foul-mouthed group was a tall young man wearing a black suit with a small white collar. After drinking gallons of beer, he began to spout religion. He was a blood-thirsty, fanatical young man called Robert of York, who listened avidly to Holkin’s lewd stories of execution, the cutting down of men and dismembering of them while they were still alive, and then he would start raving: ‘Repent you sinners,’ he shouted. ‘In the fire of hell you will perish! Kill the Popish bastards!’

  ‘Bleeding maniac!’ Chalky muttered, regretting that he had ever allowed such a crowd to feel at home in his inn. ‘Think I’ll sell up and get out,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Wonder if Katy would like to go to the new colony.’ Then he remembered Thomas who was asleep upstairs. ‘I will have to ask him about it. And I hope he finds his little woman, he don’t seem like such a bad bloke.’ So reminiscing, he served up the jugs of porter as the customers got louder and more rowdy. His thoughts wandered and suddenly he remembered his walk down by the brook so many months ago when he had seen that frightened young woman with the children. Of course! Chalky clapped his hand to his head. ‘Gawd!’ he cried. ‘Katy, come here, and take over quick!’

  Katy came up to him at the counter and stared at Chalky with some surprise as he suddenly darted upstairs as though the devil was behind him.

  Thomas was asleep when Chalky knocked rapidly on the door, but the noise woke him up and he sat up quickly. ‘What the devil do you want?’ he shouted irritably.

  ‘I saw her! I remember now, I saw her!’ Chalky gasped excitedly.

  ‘Saw who?’ asked Thomas.

  ‘Why, your little woman! She was at Brook House. I saw her by the brook, months ago.’

  Thomas looked anxiously at him. Was this man drunk and sending him on another wild goose chase? Wearily, he got up and began pulling on his breeches. ‘Why did you not tell me this morning?’ he enquired.

  ‘I dunno, I must have forgotten. It came to me just now, like a flash of lightening. She was dressed as a nursemaid and there were two children with her. I’m sure it was the same girl I saw in the churchyard, but she looked much younger this time.’

  Thomas looked doubtfully at him. ‘Can you be sure? Perhaps it was just someone like her.’

  ‘No! No!’ Chalky shook his head. ‘I am sure of it!’

  A lot of noise was coming from downstairs. ‘I’ve got to get back,’ said Chalky. ‘Katy’s in charge down there, and I don’t trust that lot. I’ll go over to Brook House with you when the bar’s shut, or leave it to the morning if you like.’ With that he darted away.

  Thomas buttoned up his shirt. He looked very perplexed. Could he rely on what this man said? After all, he might get him out there in the dark and then jump on him and rob him. No, Thomas did not trust anyone these days. He would ignore Chalky for the time being and investigate in the morning. Having made his decision, he turned to Rolly, who was staring at him, open-mouthed. ‘Get back to sleep,’ he ordered.

  But on seeing his master lying fully clothed on the bed, Rolly had got up and dressed. Now he was buckling on his trusty sword, and wondering if they were going out to look for Marcelle.

  From outside came the sound of fireworks and a red glow appeared in the sky from the big bonfire on the Lea fields. Wild uncanny cries came through the window and the air was suddenly thick with smoke. Thomas felt restless and apprehensive. Something terrible was happening out there. His mind drifted to the burnings in Smithfield, the Bartholomew massacre, and all other kinds of ill-fated memories.

  Outside they were celebrating the death of a gallant man. He recalled the awful blood-stained ground around St Paul’s and the screams of the dead and dying. Eight men had been butchered in one day. Was that such a thing to celebrate? He tossed and turned. The smell of blood was in his nostrils. Oh God, he thought, he had to move on tomorrow. His mind was becoming so morbid. He closed his eyes. For a long time he had never felt so afraid.

  As the night got wilder, the air thickened. A bright yellow fog floated overhead, and the noise downstairs was becoming worse. Now it sounded like the angry buzz of an army of flies. Unable to get to sleep, Thomas got up and walked around the room and then stared out of the window at the big fire on the fields and the weird, unearthly shapes dancing around it.

  ‘Go down and get me something to drink,’ he ordered Rolly. ‘I cannot stand being cooped up here. We will move on as soon as dawn breaks.’

  Rolly went downstairs. There was nobody in the kitchen so he looked into the bar. There an astonishing sight met his eyes. Tables were upturned, beer was spilt all over the floor and, jammed in the doorway, was a knot of fighting men. Inside the door was Chalky, pushing and puffing with all his might in an effort to close the heavy door on them. His face was red and sweat poured down his brow as he strained to get the combatants outside.

  With long strides, Rolly crossed the room in a split second. His huge boot went into action, kicking the fighting men straight out into the courtyard, punching and kneeing them and then hurling them away from the doorway, one by one. The great door then closed and bolts were shot as Chalky collapsed on the floor.r />
  ‘Oh dear! that was a close one,’ Chalky gasped. ‘Thank God you came down in time. They ain’t arf in a mood tonight. Look at the bloody damage they’ve done.’ He got up and started to pick up the stools and splinters of glass from the broken lamps. Rolly just stood looking around at him: nothing disturbed him. ‘My master needs a drink,’ he said simply.

  ‘We all need a drink,’ replied Chalky, reaching for a thick earthenware bottle of spirits.

  ‘No,’ said Rolly. ‘I must not drink. My master is not feeling so good.’ He snatched the bottle and went.

  ‘Social sort of sod,’ sniffed Chalky. He got up on a bar stool and looked out of the top of the door to see what the crowd outside were up to. Women had joined their men and there was plenty going on out there. Then his attention was focused on a ring of men in the centre of the yard. He could clearly see Holkin’s great hulk and the small shape next to him of the horse thief, Jenkins. Behind them milling about in the crowd, was the tinker, but the central figure was that of Robert of York, the crazy revolutionist. He was waving his arms and screaming, and the people around him joined in.

  ‘What are they up to?’ muttered Chalky to himself. ‘They are all there, the whole vile damned crew. I wonder what’s going on?’ He put his head out a little further and saw, to his surprise, leaning against the wall, young Tim, the boy who helped occasionally down in the cellar.

  ‘Tim!’ he whispered urgently. ‘What’s up? Why are they all hanging about?’

  Tim had his cap cocked on the back of his head and he stood nonchalantly against the wall, looking on with a naive curiosity at the antics of this drunken lot of rogues. ‘They are going to do in the old priest,’ he informed Chalky. ‘They’ve gone down to get some more men and torches from the bonfire.’