Fool's Paradise
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“No, only a student taught by them. My mother’s family insisted upon it, and my father agreed. My mother was French, but she died when I was quite young.”
“Are you a papist?” Tarleton eyed her sharply. Politics and religion were often the same thing in these turbulent times. Tarleton made it a practice to avoid both whenever possible.
“Only when I’m in France.” She smiled. “Here I profess the new learning, but I pray privately in my own manner.”
“Amen to that.” Tarleton breathed a sigh of relief. At least, his employer would not be making any irrational or unhealthy moves, such as insisting upon attending a popish mass.
She arched her eyebrow at him. “I am sure that the good nuns who taught me to sing would not approve of your choice of hymn, Sir Jester. I’d be in penance for a month!”
“You have a beautiful voice, and you learn quickly.” Tarleton complimented his apprentice. “As a reward, I will teach you another—”
“Oh, no! One is more than enough!”
Tarleton’s lips twitched with amusement. “This one, I promise, will please you. ‘Tis a love ballad, one that you could sing before your reverend mother without a blush. Listen!” He sang in a deep, rich tone. “‘Under the greenwood tree/Who loves to lie with me/And turn his merry note/Unto the sweet bird’s throat?’ There, what thinkest thou?” he asked when he had finished.
“It’s better than the last one,” Elizabeth conceded.
“Then let us be merry, too long we have tarried!” Pulling Elizabeth to her feet again, Tarleton swung down the road, smiling to himself. Her hand felt even warmer and softer than before. “Sing, sweet Robin!” Tarleton cheerfully called to her over his shoulder.
The sun was low behind the haystacks in the fields, when the travelers came to the promised inn. Elizabeth’s weary heart sank at the sight of it. The Blue Boar sat at the side of the highway like a squat, old, painted woman. Its cracked plaster walls had not felt the touch of a paintbrush for a decade, at least. Several shutters hung at rakish angles from the narrow, grimy windows. Its wooden sign creaked on rusty hinges above the battered door; the namesake boar more gray than blue in color. Determined to make the best of it, Elizabeth started toward the entrance. Tarleton yanked her aside.
“Around to the back, my boy. We are not paying customers. We’ve come to do business with the innkeeper.” He pushed her into the cobbled stable yard, past stinking piles of kitchen refuse and manure.
Closing her eyes for a moment, Elizabeth reminded herself that she had indeed agreed to this charade. Squaring her shoulders, she tried to look as manly as possible. Roughly she pushed away a thin yellow cur who sniffed at her bare toes with interest.
Tarleton engaged the florid-faced innkeeper in deep conversation. After a bit of haggling, the man nodded, and pointed toward the stable. Tarleton swept him a courtly bow and strode off in that direction.
“Robin! Look lively, boy!” he called gruffly, snapping his fingers at Elizabeth. Bewildered, she followed him across the filthy cobblestones into the barn.
“Up we go!” Tarleton stood at the bottom of the loft ladder.
“Up there?” Elizabeth’s heart dropped to her toes, and all her manly intentions fled. She drew in her breath to tell Tarleton exactly what she thought of his proffered lodgings, but Tarleton moved faster than her indignation. Grabbing her roughly by the scruff of her neck, he practically threw her up the first two rungs.
“I said move, churl! Are your ears full of wax?” he yelled at her. “Damn your hide! I’ve a mind to give you a sound whipping, and no supper!”
Stunned by this sudden rough treatment, and shocked into silence by Tarleton’s unexpected coarse language, Elizabeth blinked back her angry tears as she scurried up the ladder. On the top rung, a stray splinter drove itself deeply into her foot. Suppressing a cry of pain, she limped into the hay-filled loft.
Following close behind her, Tarleton surveyed the area with a practiced eye. Pulling her to a far corner where the sweet-smelling hay was piled the highest, he heaved the pack to the dusty floor with a contented sigh.
“Oh! Have done with me!” Elizabeth moaned as she threw herself into the straw, burying her head in her hands.
Dropping down beside her, Tarleton gathered the worn-out girl in his arms. Gently he rocked her back and forth.
“Don’t…” She wanted to protest more, but her words were muffled in his jerkin. Instead, she relaxed into his cushioning embrace.
“Hush! Hush, sweetling!” he whispered softly in her ear. “Forgive me for all. Don’t cry.” He gently stroked her ragged hair, still silky despite its rough treatment. “There was a stable boy below, watching us. I acted as any master would have done to his apprentice,” he explained. “A man’s world is a rough one. Shush, fair one. We are safe. We have this fine, warm place for the night, and a supper, as well—if we sing prettily enough for it.”
“We are to sleep here? In a barn?” Elizabeth’s reserves of courage melted away. She was tired, sore, hungry and frightened in these strange, coarse surroundings.
“‘Tis no Esmond Manor, I warrant you, but then again, there are far worse places we could be in. So be of good cheer!”
“You hurt me!” she whispered fiercely.
Tarleton winced at her accusation. “Not by choice. Please, sweetling, understand I do what I must for your own safety.”
“Does that include laming me?” she snapped. The splinter felt as if it were on fire.
“Laming you? Nay, ‘tis only a sweet stroll down a dry road on a sunny day. How is it that you are now lame?” he gently teased her.
“I have a splinter in my foot from the ladder.”
Tarleton laid her down on the straw. “Which foot?” he asked, concern etched his voice.
“The right one, just under the largest toe. Ouch! That’s it! Oh, please, don’t touch it again!” She gritted her teeth as Tarleton ignored her protests.
“‘Tis not a deep one, only large. I can pull it easily.”
“Oh, no!” she moaned.
He held out the pack strap to her. “Bite on this, but don’t cry out. We can’t have that stable boy poking his head up here,” he commanded sternly as he produced the wineskin.
Wincing from the pain, Elizabeth hesitated only a moment before putting the dirty cloth into her mouth. It tasted of earth and sweat; Elizabeth nearly gagged on it. Tarleton touched her cheek tenderly, brushing away a traitorous tear with his thumb. Then he smiled encouragingly at her, his gaze as soft as a caress. Something in his manner soothed her. Nodding, she bit down hard as Tarleton poured some wine on the wounded area. More tears burned in her eyes as he probed for the splinter. She gripped handfuls of the hay as the stabbing pain increased under his probing.
The jagged splinter was lodged deeper than he thought. Glancing at Elizabeth, Tarleton noted how white she looked, her eyes squeezed shut. His heart tightened.
“What manner of company are you keeping of late, sweet Robin?” he joked, trying to take her mind off the pain. “For I see that your sole has become very black.”
His quip was rewarded by her fleeting smile.
“‘Tis gone!” he announced triumphantly. Bright red drops of blood welled up in the spot where the splinter had been. Placing his lips over the injury, he sucked at the tiny wound.
A soft gasp escaped Elizabeth. Tarleton’s lips were surprisingly gentle. As they caressed the burning skin of her foot, she felt a lurch of excitement within her. Her breath caught in her throat; her heartbeat hammered in her ears. His nearness was overwhelming.
“Oh!” she moaned again, softly this time, her pain forgotten.
Recognizing the sound for what it meant, Tarleton quickly released her foot. “I trust you are better now,” he remarked in a tight, hoarse voice.
She was as intoxicating as new wine in autumn. He tried to shake off her heady effect. If Elizabeth had been any other maid moaning so passionately at his touch, Tarleton would have cheerfully pressed his advantage immediately. As it was, his loins throbbed hotly and grew tight. Elizabeth was a lady, he reminded himself—and the Queen’s own goddaughter! He would be moonstruck to even consider the idea of a romp in the hay.
“Tarleton, I—” she began.
“What you need are shoes,” he muttered gruffly. “Stay here, and rest.” Leaping up, he built a low wall of straw in front of her. “Behold my lady’s chamber,” he whispered.
Not moving from where she lay, Elizabeth watched him through her thick lashes. His presence made her senses spin. For a long moment, she felt as if she were floating. As her heartbeat slowed, soft waves of fatigue enveloped her. The straw beneath her was fresh harvested and smelled sweetly of sun-filled summer days and flowering meadows. Basking in the warmth of Tarleton’s low voice and the memory of the caress of his lips, Elizabeth drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Tarleton smiled ruefully down at her; she looked like a kitten curled in the sun. She was so tiny, barely as tall as his shoulder. “How high is my love?/Just as high as my heart,” sang the old refrain in his head.
“I will return soon,” he whispered, watching her delicate eyelashes fan against her pale cheek. Oh, my lady, what have I done to you? And what have I done to myself?
Turning quickly, he left her.
Chapter Three
Elizabeth dreamed she was being shaken, as if a large dog held her in its mouth, whipping her back and forth like a rag doll. Dully opening her eyes, she was greeted by Tarleton’s elfish grin. The corners of his brown eyes turned upward in the ghostly light of the new risen moon. In his hand, he held a pair of shoes. They were cracked, well-worn at the heels, and smelled strongly of their former owner.
Instantly Elizabeth was wide-awake. “Where did you get them?” she breathed excitedly.
“The tap boy. He’s a lad about your size, and he was willing to part with them for a small financial consideration.” Sitting back on his heels, Tarleton looked extremely pleased with himself. “I am sorry there was no time to get them embroidered with gold thread, but will they do? Are you well pleased?”
“Oh, aye! Very!” She dimpled with satisfaction.
“And to add to the merriment of the occasion…” Tarleton delved into his pack. “I have a fine pair of knitted stockings.”
“Stockings! Why didn’t you tell me before? Why do you make me walk barefoot all day?” Elizabeth’s injured voice rose with each word.
“Hush!” he reminded her. “Without shoes you would have walked the stockings into shreds. Now you have both.”
“Aye, they are wonderful!” She ran her fingers across them lovingly as if they were a pair of soft satin slippers.
“Your pardon, but didn’t I hear you say thank you just now? I must have wax in mine own ears. I swore you mumbled something like that.” Tarleton made a great show of banging the side of his head as if to clear it.
Elizabeth giggled, even though she realized she was being chided by one who was her social inferior. What did that matter now that she had shoes and stockings?
“Thank you, Tarleton. You do remind me of my manners. I must have left them back by the river.” She laughed again happily. Unrolling the stockings, she began to pull them on.
“Hold! Those are my clean stockings. Wash your feet first.”
“Wash? Where?”
“Here.” Tarleton pointed to a nearby wooden bucket brimming with fresh water. “Give me your foot,” he commanded in an odd but gentle voice. Obediently Elizabeth placed one in his hand. Tenderly dipping it into the water, he gently kneaded her bruises and blisters.
Sighing with pleasure, Elizabeth lay back in the straw. A small smile stole across her lips. The water dripped deliciously between her toes. The jester’s knowing fingers massaged the soft pads on the balls of her feet, then stroked her ankle. Were it possible for Elizabeth to purr like a sleek cat, she would have.
Patting the one foot dry with a piece of huck toweling from his shaving kit, Tarleton took the other one, again working his gentle magic. He marveled how tiny her foot was, so like the rest of her. A small, nagging voice in his mind reminded him that what he was doing was wrong. He knew how easy it would be to seduce such a trusting young lady. He should have let Elizabeth wash her own feet, but he excused himself as being a weak-willed mortal in the presence of an angel. A most provocative angel who lay so seductively in the hay, her eyes closed and her full lips parted so enticingly. The barest hint of her white teeth shone; the tip of her moist pink tongue caught between them. Holding her foot, Tarleton’s hands trembled as a hot surge of desire rippled through him. Roughly he dried her toes.
“Methinks you are ready for civilized company now,” he muttered raggedly. “Put your shoes and socks on, prentice, and don’t dawdle. There’s work to be done.”
Turning away from her, he pulled his bright-colored jacket from the pack. The bells on its points tinkled softly when he shook out the folds.
Elizabeth’s eyes snapped open at the sudden change of his tone. She was totally bewildered by his behavior—and her own. She found his touch both disturbing and exciting. Tarleton must think I am a wanton to allow him to be so familiar with my person, she chided herself as she pulled on the thick stockings.
As she wiggled her toes, her mood changed to joy. Never again would she complain of the style or color of her slippers.
Dressed in his red and green motley, Tarleton beckoned to her. “Follow me, and watch that ladder on the way down. As much as it gave me pleasure to tend to your last splinter, I doubt you wish for an encore.”
Elizabeth sighed at the remembrance of his warm lips. An encore might not be so bad.
At the top of the ladder, Tarleton whispered into her ear, his warm breath tickling her cheek.
“Be warned. Play your part well. You are a dull-witted prentice boy. Take no offence at what I say to you when we are in the company of others. And if I should clap my hands together while rebuking you, cry out as if you have been slapped. ‘Tis expected for masters to treat their lads in such fashion.” He swung himself down the ladder first. Elizabeth followed him gingerly.
“God’s teeth, boy!” he bellowed at her from below. “The next time, I will throw you down the ladder headfirst. You would get to the bottom a good deal faster!”
Elizabeth thought she heard a snicker from somewhere in the darkness of the stable, and surmised it to be the eavesdropping ostler. “Aye, good master,” she answered, lowering her voice. “Pray be patient with me.”
“Angels have patience, but you, I fear, are a long way from heaven!”
Grabbing her arm roughly, Tarleton pulled her after him across the yard. Though his voice was harsh, Elizabeth saw his grin flash in the moonlight.
He pushed her against the pump. “Water, churl! Ply the pump, and with a will!” Slapping one hand against the other, he whispered, “Cry out!”
Elizabeth responded with a weak, but passable cry of pain.
He grinned. “Good! Not a star performance, but ‘twill suffice. Now, pump. Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a pump before.”
“Of course I have,” she whispered back, grasping the worn handle firmly. “I’ve just never done it myself.” As she pulled it up and down, Elizabeth dreamed of pitchers of warm, sweet rose water that Charlotte used to bring to her room. How she would love a bath right now! A hot, lavender-scented bath before a cheerful fire! And with someone to scrub her back—someone with warm, gentle hands
like…. Glancing guiltily at Tarleton, she banished her
wanton thoughts.
Bending down under the gush of glittering water, Tarleton doused his head, shaking the drops out of his hair with a contented sigh.
“Your hair looks like a bird’s nest, boy!” he observed, his deep voice echoing off the grimy plaster walls of the inn yard. After grabbing Elizabeth by the neck, he shoved her head under the tap just as he had done himself. Icy water streamed into her eyes and trickled down her shirt collar.
“Now, shake your head,” he whispered, while she was still sputtering her surprise. “Let’s smooth you up a bit.” Elizabeth’s tormentor smiled into her clean face. He lightly ran his fingers through the shorn golden stubble. There was a faint glint of humor in his eyes as he regarded his handiwork. “‘Tis plain as the nose on your sweet face that I’m no lady’s maid.”
Swallowing hard, Elizabeth prayed her features did not betray her racing heart. “I wish I had my comb and brushes,” she mumbled.
“Fine ladies have combs, but not guttersnipes and prentice boys,” Tarleton replied in a strange husky voice.
Tarleton donned his coxcomb hat and tied the strings firmly under his chin. It was the cap that changed his appearance, Elizabeth realized. With his curly brown hair concealed, Tarleton the jester looked every inch a rogue and goblin, especially when he grinned so wickedly and wiggled his dark eyebrows. No wonder she failed to recognize him on their unusual meeting!
“Ready, boy?”
Looking with apprehension at the back door of the inn, Elizabeth shivered then nodded. Loud, boisterous male voices came from inside. Tarleton took both her hands in his strong, reassuring ones.
“Frightened?” he asked her gently.
She nodded again.
“Good,” he continued lightly. “‘Tis healthy to be frightened just before a performance. Don’t worry, chuck. ‘Tis a little like losing your virginity—the first time you’re scared to death and don’t enjoy it, but it gets better each time after that.”
Elizabeth gasped at his frankness, but he allowed her nc time to respond. Before she knew what was happening, Tarleton pulled her through the door into the humid, smoky taproom.
“Room! Pray, masters all! Give me room to rhyme! We’ve come to show activity upon this pleasant time. Activity of youth…” Tarleton whirled and pranced, pointing to the quaking Elizabeth. “And activity of age…” He bowed deeply to the stinking assembly. “And such activity as ne’er been seen on this stage! I am Tarleton, jester to Her Most Gracious Majesty, and to her loving subjects!”
“Aye, Tarleton! Give us a jest!” cried a gravelly voice from the back of the dim room. “Tell the one about the pig, the sheep and the farmer’s daughter!”
Without pausing a moment, Tarleton grinned devilishly, then launched into the most ribald story Elizabeth had ever heard. She kept well back in the shadows and reminded herself that she was a boy, who should not be blushing. Tarleton’s crude story was greeted by a loud round of approving cheers and whistles. Immediately he told another tale, which was even more bawdy than the first.
What manner of man was this jester? Elizabeth wondered as she listened with bewilderment. When they were alone, Tarleton was polite and well-spoken with Elizabeth. Now he was someone else entirely—someone she didn’t know at all.
Next in the repertoire was a tavern song concerning the life of a lustful boy, and how he hung on the gallows for it. Afterward Tarleton executed a short jig, pulling a giggling serving wench into his arms, much to the additional loud cheers of the patrons. Spinning around suddenly, Tarleton grabbed Elizabeth by the wrist, pulling her into the center of the room. She could feel her heart hammering against her breast.
“Good masters, your patience is my prayer. Gently to hear and kindly to judge this player! ‘Tis my new prentice, Robin. Give us a song, lad, about the wench with the rolling eye!” With that introduction, he gripped her around the waist, and plopped her on top of the nearest table.
Girding herself with resolve, Elizabeth wet her lips and began. “She had a dark and rolling eye/And her hair hung down in ring-a-lets.”
Fixing her gaze on a spot just above the smoking fireplace, Elizabeth forced herself to forget the velvet-gowned heiress of that morning. Now Lady Elizabeth Hayward of Esmond Manor was a ragged jester’s apprentice. What would she be by the journey’s end?
At the conclusion of the last verse, the patrons of the Blue Boar clapped and banged their leather jack mugs heartily.
“Sing it again, sweet Robin!”
Elizabeth could scarcely believe her ears. Some loutish churl on the side by the counter was ordering her to entertain him again—and he was calling her “sweet” in the bargain! She glanced over at Tarleton, but he acted as bad as the rest, grinning and clapping at her.
“Sing again, Robin Redbreast!” her erstwhile protector commanded. He grinned impishly, challenging her to go through with it.
Elizabeth ground her teeth. All right, you shag-eared jester! I’ll show you just how good I can be for this ragtag mob! Taking a deep breath, Elizabeth threw the bawdy lyrics back into their pockmarked faces.
Her second rendition was received even better than the first. At the end of the rousing last chorus, Tarleton swept her off the table. Then he pushed her head down, forcing her to bow to the unwashed rabble while he bantered to them, something about “Robin is a little slow and hasn’t learned his manners yet!”
Despite the sordid surroundings, the rough company and the type of song she had just performed, Elizabeth surprised herself by grinning as she accepted the lusty applause for her debut. The rowdy noise was an intoxicating wine to Elizabeth.
“What’s the news, Tarleton?” an old woman’s shrill voice asked.
While Tarleton recounted the comings and goings of the gentry in a witty and scandalous manner, Elizabeth retreated again to her shadowed spot in the corner, where she observed the scene more closely. She saw Tarleton’s audience hang on his every word, especially his colorful description of a particularly gruesome execution, which had taken place in Coventry a month before. Elizabeth’s stomach lurched at the gory details, and she was glad she had nothing in it to lose.
“And now, say I, let us drink a toast to my mistress!” Tarleton snatched a mug of ale out of the paw of the nearest man and held it aloft. “Here’s a health unto Her Majesty, and confusion to her enemies!”
“And so say all of us!” the innkeeper quickly rejoined, looking anxiously around the room, in case there might be a Queen’s man among the company.
“She’s Great Harry’s true daughter, fiery hair and all!” croaked an old man from the inglenook. “And so I say, here’s to good Queen Bess!” There was a general cheer, and a great deal of slurping as the loyal citizens drank deeply to show their affection for their ruler.
Looking pleased with himself, Tarleton pulled Elizabeth out of her corner. “The evening grows apace, good friends, so my prentice has a sweet song to sing ye to your rest.” He lifted her back onto the tabletop, and whispered, “The Greenwood Tree,” to her.
Closing her eyes to blot out the uncouth surroundings, Elizabeth concentrated on her song of love and of warm summer days. The crowd in the taproom grew surprisingly hushed as her clear voice rose above them.
Tarleton felt his throat tighten as he listened. In his mind’s eye, he saw Elizabeth sitting sweetly under a thick, greenleafed tree, her billowing satin skirts spread out on a carpet of tiny white-faced daisies, and her golden hair, long once again, spilling down over her tight bodice. He saw himself with his head pillowed in her soft lap; his eyes closed as he listened to her sing this very song, just for him. He clenched his jaw. You are even a greater fool than you profess to be!
Loud cheering and applause greeted Elizabeth’s last note. This time, she hopped lightly off the table and executed her own graceful bow. Then she turned to Tarleton with a smile that was half defiant and half pleased. Tarleton rewarded her with a wide grin.
“Our play is done and that’s all one!” Tarleton bowed elaborately to the audience as if they were the finest lords and ladies in the land. A smattering of silver coins rained down on him.
“Look lively, Robin!” Tarleton stooped to retrieve them. “‘Tis your fortune at your feet!”