The Dandelion Seed Read Online Free PDF Page A

path in front of him. Once he spotted a pure white fawn. It was a rare sight and it seemed like an omen. But good or bad, he was not sure.
    The forest thinned and there at last, nestling in the valley, was Audley End, home of the countess’ parents. He rode through the tall iron gates and drew nearer to the beautiful house. It had belonged to one of Elizabeth’s greatest courtiers, and money from the gold they brought from the Indies had been poured into building the house. Clipped yew hedges lined the wide drive. The entrance hall had a flight of marble steps leading to a great hall with a high carved ceiling in gold, red and green. Thomas held his breath. The old master’s house at Sherbourne was impressive, but it was nothing compared with this. He gazed up at the vast oil paintings in the great hall – grave-faced Elizabethans staring down haughtily, in their white ruffs and red and purple velvets.
    ‘Are you well, Thomas Mayhew?’ The young countess greeted him as she sailed swiftly and gracefully down the ornate carved staircase. She was a Devereux by marriage only, if it could be called a marriage. Frances was a Howard from the blue blood of the land. She was tall, slim, and fair, with a dead white face. Her small mouth was set in a grim line, but large dark unhappy eyes stared out mockingly from this pale mask. She was not yet seventeen, but had been married to the Earl’s son, Robert, for nearly four years. The weary look which came from those eyes could have belonged to a woman of forty.
    Thomas knew the countess fairly well. He had known her as a child when she played in the Whitehall Gardens with the King’s children, and he had been in the escort that had taken them to the Queen’s Palace at Greenwich. He had often thought that Prince Henry and Frances Howard made a very good-looking pair. They were almost the same age, and he had a red gold head to contrast with her pale gold one. But the Prince’s marriage into a great Catholic family such as the Howards was unthinkable.
    Frances now escorted Thomas to a small side room and told her ladies to wait outside. In the room she turned and held out her slim white bejewelled hands, eager to get the package he had brought her. Thomas stood by the door while she read the letter. The room was a cosy little parlour. It had oak panelled walls, with large carvings of a Tudor rose and the gilded lily entwined. Bowls of freshly picked snowdrops were arranged round the room, and on the central table was a huge oriental vase containing winter jasmine. It was a pleasant, fresh-smelling room, and it reminded him of Frances herself – cool and calm but not sweet. Frances could never be sweet. The still coldness of death hung over Frances. Thomas shivered. He would not be sorry when this job was over.
    ‘My ladies will take you to the servants’ quarters to eat and rest.’ Frances’ bell-like voice rang in his ears. ‘Return before the evening. I have another message for you.’ With an imperious wave of her hand, she dismissed him.
    Thomas went down to the warmth and the chatter of the kitchen, where people were working, eating and laughing. He felt very relieved to be in the company of sympathetic people after being with the iceberg Frances. The kitchen staff had another guest – an old friend of Thomas, called Will. Will was a flute player who sang for his supper. On his travels up and down the country, Thomas often met Will, who was a strange young man – part-preacher and part-minstrel. No one knew his background, but it was rumoured that he had been brought up in a monastery. But since the monasteries had been dissolved, he had wandered the countryside, playing and singing and preaching a strange religion which no one took seriously. He loved poetry that flowed almost involuntarily from his lips and he was known to have some powers of healing. Certainly, many poor people had great faith in his powers. His age was hard to define and his head was shaved so that