The Dandelion Seed

by Lena Kennedy

Genres: Historical Fiction; Sagas; Historical Romance

Synopsis

Like a dandelion seed adrift on the wayward winds, Marcelle de la Strange is an innocent in the decadent and dangerous London of James I. When her mother's violent death leaves Marcelle at the mercy of her lecherous stepfather, she can't help but be drawn to the dashing Thomas Mayhew, King's Messenger and attendant to the flamboyant court favourite Robert Carr, who offers her protection, freedom . . . and love. But such perfect happiness is brittle, vulnerable. A mysterious royal lover, tawny-haired and passionate, leaves Marcelle with child. Kidnapped by the powerful Howard family, the baby is an innocent pawn in a deadly political game and Marcelle's desperate search for her son threatens her reconciliation with Thomas, her health, and even her very sanity . . . *********** What readers are saying about THE DANDELION SEED 'An amazing read . . . A book not to be missed' - 5 STARS 'Perfect!' - 5 STARS 'Another excellent tale by Lena Kennedy' - 5 STARS 'What a book - loved it from start to finish' - 5 STARS 'A must-read' - 5 STARS

Release date: April 25, 2013

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 228

Sample

1

The Brook

Over the flat Essex marshland, runs the River Lea. The rider crossing the marsh on this dark February night felt cold and dejected. In spite of his thick warm cloak, the chilly white mist seemed to get to his bones. Even his horse was getting weary and slowing down as if the cold were seeping into its limbs. The rider would not be sorry to get to London. He had ridden from the coast, travelling since early morning through miles of deep forests and tiny hamlets. With a shiver he pulled up the collar of his cloak about his ears. ‘It would have been better if I had stayed overnight at Higham Hall,’ he thought to himself. ‘I would have been made welcome there, but in this desolate waste, there is no place I know.’ Thomas Mayhew had begun to feel quite sorry for himself.

As he reached the crest of the hill he could see a little brook dancing over the meadow to join its big sister the River Lea. Dismounting, he led his horse to the clear rippling water. As the horse drank, Thomas stretched his legs, only realising then how very saddle-sore and weary he was. For a moment he was heartened by the sight of a dim light to the left. But then realising what it was, his heart sank. ‘Brook House,’ he muttered. ‘No good going up there. Robert Carr and the Brook family were not exactly friends, so they’ll not welcome me.’

Thomas looked across the wet green fields ahead of him and stroked his black pointed beard. It was dangerous country, this Lammas land, he thought. People talked of witches who danced out there at Lammas Tide. Again he shivered and pulled his cloak tighter around him. Better ride on, he thought, turning to his horse to remount.

Through the still air came a sound like the whimpering of an animal. Peering towards the long grass at the side of the brook, Thomas suddenly saw a young girl lying there, and sobbing as though her heart would break. He went over and gently lifted her up.

‘What’s the matter, lass?’ he asked softly.

The girl did not answer but her thin shoulders shook with distress. She tried hard to pull away from him but he held her firm.

‘What are you doing out here all alone?’ he asked. ‘Has your lover deserted you?’

The girl struggled under Thomas’ hand. ‘No, no,’ she sobbed. ‘It’s my mother.’

Thomas took hold of her arm. He held her firmly but continued to speak softly. ‘Come now, let’s go and find your mother. It’s much too cold to be out here.’

‘They will kill her when dawn breaks!’ The girl’s voice rose hysterically.

‘Who will kill her?’ Thomas felt himself losing his patience. Soon it would be dawn and the air had got colder. All he wanted was a warm bed. ‘I can’t leave you out here, that’s for sure,’ he muttered.

Reaching out, he lifted her small thin body up on to his horse, and then remounted himself. And with the girl’s shivering body pressed close to him, Thomas turned towards the rising sun.

As they rode across the wet grass, he glanced down at the tear-stained face at his shoulder. She was not a bad-looking little girl, he thought – thin with long delicate features, which were not at all usual among the common people. She looked about thirteen, and he wondered who she was.

After a while the girl’s shivers stopped and she began to talk. ‘Oh dear, good sir, please help me,’ she pleaded. ‘They have dragged my mother from our bed and done terrible things to her. They say they will drown her in the pond today at daybreak.’

Her hazel-brown eyes stared pathetically up at him, and Thomas felt a sudden surge of protective anger. ‘What devils!’ he exclaimed. ‘But why?’

‘They say she is a witch,’ the girl wailed. ‘But it is not true. She is the dearest mother in all the world.’ The sobs came forth again.

Thomas had begun to feel doubtful. Perhaps he should have left the girl where he had found her. He couldn’t afford to get mixed up in a witch hunt.

‘Where’s the nearest inn?’ he asked.

‘The Duke’s Head at Hackney. It belongs to my stepfather.’

‘Well! I’d better return you to him,’ Thomas replied with a feeling of relief. At last he knew what to do with her.

‘But my mother . . .’ she begged. ‘Please, you must help her!’

‘We will see,’ he muttered soothingly to try to keep her quiet. Luckily, she seemed content at this answer and settled down against his chest.

Thomas drew her closer and was surprized to realize that he felt a strange affinity with this young maid, who sat waiting so confidently for him to help her.

At last the sun came up in the east, a huge red ball of fire. They crested the hill and went down into a green valley, which was grey in the misty morning sun.

‘Down there! That’s where they are!’ The girl pointed excitedly as they rode down towards a small village.

‘What’s your name?’ asked Thomas.

‘Marcelle,’ she replied, ‘Marcelle de la Strange.’

‘Isn’t that French?’

‘Yes, we came here from France last year, but my father’s enemies followed him and killed him, out there beside the brook.’ Her voice wavered as she added: ‘That’s why I ran to the brook, to call on the spirit of my father to help my mother in her distress.’

They reached the bottom of the slope and there was no mistaking the sound of a mob – the mutters and moans of angry excited voices and above them every now and then rose a piercing scream.

Marcelle held on tight as Thomas whipped up his horse and charged down the hill. A large group of people stood around a pond screaming and jeering at a woman in the water. As she struggled to get above the water, she was pushed down again with long sticks. Her screams were terrible. The crowd were not only trying to drown her but were throwing bricks and filth at her as well. Marcelle pressed her little face close to his chest as Thomas rode into the crowd, drawing his sword and striking all around him. When he had pushed them back from the edge of the pond, he dropped from his horse’s back to the ground and waded into the water. Grasping the poor bedraggled bundle he pulled her out and laid her onto the grass. But he could see it was too late. The woman’s hair had been torn out in lumps, and her face and body were a mass of wounds. They had tortured the poor defenceless woman literally to the point of death.

Thomas felt sick, and trembled with rage at the sight of the dead woman. But who had been responsible for this terrible deed?

The crowd drifted off, still hurling insults at the man who had spoiled their fun. As he turned again to the sodden body on the ground, some manservants, saying that they came from Brook House, offered to help. ‘We will take her inside until someone claims the body,’ said an old man in coachman’s livery. He lifted the poor ragged burden from the ground, but Marcelle clung on to her mother’s arm, which was almost as thin as her own.

‘Oh, don’t leave me!’ she cried out. ‘Please don’t take her away.’

But firmly the old man carried the wet body off and Thomas held Marcelle in his arms until her weeping had died down. ‘Let’s go and find this stepfather of yours,’ he said gently. He lifted her back on to his horse and rode with the sobbing, shivering girl towards Hackney.

It was a rural village, Hackney, with a Norman church. On the village green stood stocks in which Marcelle’s poor mother had spent her last night.

‘It’s here,’ Marcelle whispered. ‘This is where I live.’ They were heading towards an inn lying back off the main track. A big gateway opened on to a cobbled courtyard and above it a sign swung in the breeze. ‘The Duke’s Head’. It was very quiet and no one was about, but as soon as Thomas had lifted her down from the horse, Marcelle gave a terrified glance at the door. ‘I’ll not see him!’ she cried and scuttled off around the back of the house like a young rabbit.

Thomas Mayhew was astonished and stared after her. Taking off his round flat hat, with Robert Carr’s crest embroidered on it, he scratched his head and rolled his eyes.

‘Well, there’s gratitude!’ he chuckled. ‘Well, I’ll need to rest up, anyway.’ He whistled and a bent old ostler appeared to take care of his horse.

Thomas went inside the inn. It was very dark inside. As his eyes became accustomed to the light, Thomas could make out a long low tap room and sawdust on the floor. Stalls, tables and trestles were dotted here and there about the place. Only two people were there – the landlord and a customer, a small, shrivelled old man wearing a smock. The landlord was big and brawny. Without a word, he served Thomas with ale and then turned back to his other customer. Thomas wondered whether to tell him about Marcelle and the death of his wife, but he decided to remain quiet. From his corner he drank the strong ale and listened to the conversation between the landlord and the old man.

The landlord looked like a rough customer. He had a recent cut on his head and his eyes were red-rimmed and raw-looking. He was not, Thomas thought, a very prepossessing fellow. He had a full, brutal-looking mouth and his unshaven chin was prickly with bristles.

The old man spoke in a hoarse whisper that was so loud Thomas could hear every word from where he sat.

‘They got your woman.’

‘Oh, yes?’ the landlord shook his head. ‘Upset me, I can tell you.’

‘I thought you wanted to get rid of the missus,’ piped up the old man.

‘Shh!’ hissed the landlord, glancing from side to side. But then he spoke in a louder voice. ‘But she were a witch, right enough. See what she did to me . . .’ He touched the recent cut on his head. ‘Threw sawdust in me eyes and pushed me down the stairs. Wonder I live to tell the tale.’

The old man chuckled. ‘I thought you fell down and she chucked sawdust ’cause you were trying yer old tricks on that little girl.’

The landlord’s fat face went dark red. He squinted in the direction of Thomas, who was sitting perfectly still and pretending to doze. ‘Shut your great mouth, old Jem,’ he said, ‘or else I’ll shut it for you.’

Nattering and muttering, Jem made his way to the door. ‘Made a fine mess of her in the stocks, they did,’ he said with relish. ‘I expect they have drowned her by now.’ Shaking his head he disappeared.

The landlord began to polish the tankards in a fierce noisy manner until Thomas opened his eyes and asked the time of the day.

‘’Tis nearly nine o’clock,’ the man replied, all smiles. ‘Would you like something to eat, sir?’

‘No, thanks,’ said Thomas. ‘I am on my way.’ He felt a wave of anger at the ugly rogue in front of him, and wondered what had happened to the little girl. But it was not his business and he was expected at Whitehall. So he got his horse from the stables and continued his journey towards London.

He left Hackney and rode through the pretty hamlet of Kings Hold, passing another great manor house surrounded by green meadows. For some reason he could not stop thinking of that little girl. His shirt front still felt damp from her tears; perhaps he should have stayed behind and tried to find her. He felt sad, but at the same time he knew that it was no good sticking his head into other people’s trouble. In times like these, no one was safe. And if he had not been such a fool in the past, he might have been in a better position today, instead of riding messenger for the despicable Robert Carr.

Thomas reached Bow Bridge and entered London. A foul smell hit his nostrils. It was disgusting and hung over the whole city. Londoners said it was the plague that brought it, but any foreigner knew that it was caused by the dirt and filth the Londoners lived in.

Already Thomas was longing for a breath of clean air from his beloved Dorset, for the undulating moors and the golden sands down at Lulworth Cove, where he had first become aware of his urge to go to sea. In the distance was the grey Tower, where Sir Walter Raleigh, his old master, had been cooped up for the last ten years. Thomas’ own father and brother had died in the service of that great man and Thomas knew that he would never have a master like that again.

The streets were getting narrower and more crowded. Crowds of people were swarming all over the place and ragged little children ran under his horse’s hooves, begging for bread. Thomas felt sickened. What a desperate place it was by day, this poor part of the city!

As he approached the Fleet prison, he passed a horsedrawn cart guided from behind by a man carrying a long whip. Tied to the back of the cart was a man whose battered body showed that he was just completing a part of his punishment of being whipped at the cart’s tail for four days. Thomas felt nauseous at the sight of it. There was no such sympathy from the crowd. People ran behind the cart shouting and jeering at the poor fellow tied to it, and each time the whip descended there were roars of delight and screeches of laughter. It was pure entertainment to them.

Thomas’ strictly Puritan mind was shocked. It was all the fault of that Scottish devil King James! But it had not always been so. He could well remember when he had been a young page in the court of the great Queen Elizabeth. Recalling her last days, he could still picture her sitting propped up on the floor, her face yellow and wrinkled with pain and old age. But that astonishingly dominant spirit still shone out and the greatest of men were reduced to shivering wrecks by one angry look.

The Queen had been a real sovereign, someone to respect and look up to. But what had they now? This Scottish fellow did not command any respect, with all his pimps and hangers-on. He threw the country’s good money away and toadied up to foreign powers such as Spain. Thomas felt his anger rise welling inside again. He was damned if he would not ask for his release and go off to Virginia again!

Soon he had skirted Saint James’ Park and entered the Holbein gate of Whitehall. Fantastically dressed courtiers minced past him, Thomas frowned disapprovingly. ‘More like foolish women than men,’ he muttered.

Jumping from his horse and handing it over to the servants, he quickly went to the anteroom to wait to be called by his master and the King’s favourite, Robert Carr. He sat quietly as other ushers and messengers sat about talking, and pages trotted in and out. The lofty room echoed with the sound of voices. But Thomas did not talk. He had not been nick-named, Dour Thomas for nothing. He had no use for talk of lechery or of the foolishness of the King, the usual topics of conversation at court, so he kept himself to himself.

Soon the call came and he followed the page to the sumptuous apartments of the effeminate Robert Carr. Thomas’ master had hair as golden as a young girl’s. He was slim-waisted and elaborately dressed in velvets, braid and beads, lace and frills. He opened the letter Thomas had handed him and his face paled slightly as he read it.

‘Stay around, Thomas Mayhew,’ he ordered. ‘I will have need of you to ride to Essex with me in a few days.’ Then with an airy wave of his hand, he dismissed him.

Thomas walked to his lodgings. It had been a most depressing day. The image of Marcelle’s little face lingered in his mind; he could hear her weeping and feel the soft brown sweep of her hair, like a sparrow’s wing. That’s it! She had been like a little bird. Would he ever see her again? he wondered.

 

When Marcelle had dropped from Thomas’ horse, another terrible fear made her little body tremble. He was in there, that monster who had caused her mother’s death, the pig who had made their lives hell these last three months. She knew she could not face entering that inn again, so she ran to the only person she knew, along a narrow alley, and between two hitching posts where tall wooden houses leaned lopsidedly over the street.

On the steps, taking in the air, sat Betsy. She was half dazed and clearly trying to get rid of the effects of last night’s rendezvous with the bottle. It had been a busy night for Betsy up in the city. The gentlemen were always ready for a quickie in the alley and never minded paying. But a little drink always helped, and gave her a bit of Dutch courage. She was not a bad-looking girl, but to look at her she would have been taken for about twenty-five, when she was in fact only eighteen. Obliging the gentlemen since she was fifteen had aged her a lot, but she still had that fun, over-blown beauty. Blonde, with china-blue eyes, she had the sort of good looks that fade very quickly.

Betsy was Marcelle’s only friend in England. They had met at the inn where Sam, her stepfather, employed Betsy when he had a rush of customers, and the two girls had become friends. So in the daytime, Betsy would sit on her steps on call, and when the situation at home became unbearable, Marcelle would seek her out and sit outside with her. With her rough-tough humour and love of life, Betsy was just what the gentle, confused little Marcelle needed. And now in her anguish, she ran to Betsy, jumping on her as she dozed.

‘Blimey!’ said Betsy, waking up with a start. ‘That you Marci? You gave me quite a turn.’

‘Oh! Betsy, Betsy.’ Little Marcelle hung on to the older girl’s greasy petticoats and laid her head on her lap. Here was a place of safety at last.

‘What’s up, love?’ Betsy asked. ‘Old Sam been up to his tricks again?’

‘No, it’s my mother,’ Marcelle whispered in a small frightened voice. ‘They have killed her.’

Betsy jumped to her feet. ‘They haven’t!’ she exclaimed. ‘My God, Rolly come down here!’ she shouted into the hallway behind her.

Moments later, from the darkness came the tall gangling figure of Betsy’s brother, Rolly. The boy’s head lolled to one side and he drooled from his wide, open mouth, but his physique was magnificent. He was at least six foot tall, with huge shoulders and chest, giant hands and feet. He was truly a formidable figure. As he came outside, he looked sheepish, like a little boy caught stealing apples. One eye was damaged and a piece of flesh was missing from his ear. Betsy looked at him angrily.

‘Rolly, what’s all this about Marcelle’s muvver?’ she demanded.

‘I dunno, he said.

‘What you mean, you dunno? You was here watching out, wasn’t yer?’

‘Yus, I saw ’em but I never joined in, honest I didn’t,’ Rolly protested like a small child.

‘Why didn’t you wake me up, you stupid sod?’ yelled Betsy.

‘It was no good, they took her before you was home,’ he muttered into his chin.

Betsy, arms akimbo, looked at Marcelle for confirmation of this.

‘He’s right,’ answered Marcelle. ‘They took her last night and they drowned her at dawn.’

‘The bastards!’ yelled Betsy, her pretty face flushed with rage. ‘The dirty bastards! Rolly, go and find out who rounded them up, and don’t come back till you do,’ she shouted after her.

Rolly’s tall shape ambled off down the alley immediately. He knew he had to go at once rather than annoy Betsy by hesitating. Theirs was a strange brother and sister relationship. He protected her physically, while she with her brains looked after him.

‘Come indoors with me, love.’ Betsy took Marcelle by the hand and they went inside the building. A long passageway led to Betsy’s one room. Children played about and old folk lay in this corridor as if it were the last place to rest from a world that had no further use for them. The air was heavy with the rank smell of sweaty bodies.

Betsy’s room was very bare, with only a rickety homemade table in the corner and two straw pallets on the floor. A brown jug stood on the table and beside it a tin cup. Betsy poured a drink for herself and knocked it back quickly. Then she poured one for Marcelle. ‘Drink it, love, it will do you good. It’s rum. A sailor gave it to me last week. He didn’t have no money, so I took the goods.’ She started to giggle and Marcelle’s frightened eyes glanced around the poverty stricken room.

‘Tain’t much of a place, is it?’ said Betsy. ‘But never mind, it’s better than the river arches. I made do with them till I got this room.’

She pulled out a little stool for Marcelle to sit on and from the corridor she found a wooden box for herself. As she sat down, she hitched up her skirt to reveal the scarlet quilted petticoat that she was so proud of and settled back with her legs wide apart and her bare feet on the dirty floor.

‘You know, Marci,’ Betsy said, ‘you think it’s a terrible world out there, but it’s much worse down in the city, I can tell yer. Me and Rolly came up here when our folks died in the plague. And I ain’t sorry. It might be a long walk down the town to earn a few shillings, but it’s cleaner and safer up here.’

Marcelle felt warm and fuzzy with the fiery rum inside her. She sat hunched up on the stool, still feeling quite dazed by all that had happened to her.

Betsy looked at her sharply. ‘For a girl like you it ain’t going to be easy,’ she said. ‘I think you had better stay here.’

Marcelle looked around the hovel, and felt afraid. It was so stark and squalid, and Rolly slept here as well. Besides, her stepfather would find her soon enough. ‘No, not here!’ she stammered. ‘I can’t, but I can’t go back to the inn, either. I’m too scared. He will get rid of me. I know too much about him.’

Betsy looked thoughtful. ‘Not if I come with you,’ she said. ‘When Rolly comes back we’ll go and see him. Rolly will stay here, otherwise he will be off down the cockpit and get himself all chewed up again. I have to keep an eye on the bleeder.’

Ten minutes later, Rolly came sidling in.

‘Well,’ demanded Betsy. ‘What have you found out?’

‘Sam paid men from London. The villagers never done it. That’s what they say, Betsy,’ Rolly replied.

‘Where’s old Sam now?’

‘Gone up Brook House to see the lord. Says he’s going to claim damages for the loss of his wife.’

‘Bloody old hypocrite!’ Betsy looked down at the frightened girl. ‘Never mind, Marcelle, we will go back to the inn, and you must lock yourself in your room. I’ll settle Sam, the old devil. Now, Rolly, don’t you dare leave this alley! I’ll be watching to see if you do.’

It took a bit of persuasion to make Marcelle move, but in the end, with Betsy holding her arm and Rolly dawdling along behind them, they wa. . .