The Dandelion Seed (21 page)

Wanda, now fully recovered, drove the inquisitive ones off with a big knobbly stick. The word ‘witch’ had been mentioned and there were plenty of people who remembered the strange figure of Merlin, who used to live there in the house. But Wanda charged down the path waving her stick and yelling: ‘Get away, you superstitious lot! Don’t come hanging about here or I will beat the daylights out of you!’

The noisy crowd would drift off still whispering and nodding to each other.

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.