The Dandelion Seed by Lena Kennedy Page A

and her brother to hide in the stables until the way was clear.
    Betsy felt a twinge of conscience now, for he had not been so bad to her, old Sam, even though he had been a rogue. But after all, she didn’t kill him, and it was about time that she and Rolly had things a bit easier. Now Betsy had the great Lord of the Manor as her patron and things were really looking up.
    His Lordship was very interested in inns and taverns, having just been granted the monopoly on the wines and spirits sold in these establishments. It was a nice little extra income, of the kind old Jamie always rewarded those who were useful to him. Although Sir Fulke Greville came from a Catholic family he was no stickler for religion and he knew which side his bread was buttered. The wily old king appreciated that.
    ‘Where’s that slovenly old swine who used to own this place?’ Sir Fulke asked Betsy one day.
    Betsy’s face paled but her ready wit found an answer. ‘Oh, you mean Sam, my poor husband. He passed on a short while ago, your Lordship,’ she said, looking sad.
    Sir Fulke gave her a shrewd look. ‘I thought his wife was dead. He came to me whining about something like that last year.’
    ‘That was his first wife,’ said Betsy, very subdued.
    ‘Good, so the tavern is yours, then. Pay your rent regularly and keep it fairly respectable, and don’t bring those stiff-necked Puritans down on you, wench, and you and I will get on fine.’ He pinched her cheek.
    Looking coy, Betsy curtsied low. ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said.
    To Rolly later, Betsy was loud in her praise of his Lordship. ‘We’ve dropped in a bit of luck this time, love,’ she told him.
    ‘Why?’ he asked like a small child.
    Betsy had to explain. ‘This ground underneath belongs to the great Sir Fulke Greville, so if he says we can stay no one can interfere with us.’
    ‘He wants me to go running over the marsh on Sunday morning,’ said Rolly, with a proud expression on his big face.
    ‘Well, you do that, dear,’ said Betsy. ‘Run fast and he will make a wager on you and it will all be in our favour.’
    Every Sunday morning, sporting events were held out on the Hackney Marshes, the flat green marsh that stretched from the banks of the Lea out to Epping Forest. There was usually a running contest and bull- or bear-baiting, cock-fighting and wrestling were the choice of sporting events. Many young gentlemen rode out from London town to place wagers on their favourite sport. This was the way in which Rolly spent most of his time now. His fine physique made him a popular figure amongst those who wanted to lay wagers on him. It didn’t matter that he had such a childish mind; to please them he would run or wrestle his heart out.

6
    Intrigue
    There was an air of excitement at Annabelle’s house for her friend and former mistress was paying her a visit, travelling to Craig Alva in cognito . All day long, Annabelle fussed and fidgeted.
    ‘What is the matter with Annabelle?’ Marcelle asked Abe.
    ‘She gets like this sometimes,’ replied Abe calmly. ‘I expect the great one is coming.’
    In the afternoon Marcelle was sewing in her usual corner, when a Madam Weston was announced. Frances Howard always insisted on having false names when she travelled in case there were spies about. A strong waft of perfume followed her in, and she seemed to fill the small parlour with the wide stiffened folds of her beautiful garments, a lovely fur-trimmed tan-coloured, velvet coat and dress, and a large hat from which a long white plume drooped.
    Sitting quietly in her corner, Marcelle did not dare look up at Frances, but instead she kept her head down, rapidly pushing the needle in and out of her work. There was an air of tension in the room which made her feel extremely nervous. But every now and then she did quickly glance up to catch a glimpse of the elegant figure in the room, spotting the Countess’ set little white face, her ash blonde hair which hung down in long