Fool's Paradise

Obediently Elizabeth dropped to her knees and began gathering up the money. The floorboards were sticky to the touch; dirt and dried food filled the cracks between the planks. Elizabeth wrinkled her nose. Feeling light-headed, she passed her hand across her brow. Tarleton, noting her pallor, was at her side, pulling her to her feet.

“Landlord! Food! Food for the inner man…and my pale-faced boy!” he called, hauling Elizabeth through the crowd to a small wooden booth in the back corner.

Elizabeth sank down with relief against the rough planking of the seat.

“There now, lad! What say you?” Doffing his cap and rumpling his damp hair, Tarleton slid onto the bench opposite her. In the guttering candlelight, he looked like the devil’s own helper with a dark curl falling casually across his forehead and his white teeth gleaming at her.

Now that their performance was over, Elizabeth suddenly felt limp. She was hungry and bone tired.

“How, now, chuck?” Tarleton reached across the pitted table and lifted her chin so she was forced to look into his dancing dark eyes. His thumb brushed against her lower lip, sending a spark shooting through her veins. “You were a success! Look you!” He spilled out the money on the table. “‘Tis a fair take, I warrant you. Much better than I expected. “Twas your sweet voice that pleased them!”

A few halfpennies glinted among the farthings. Tarleton whistled softly when he came upon a groat. Elizabeth could only blink at him, then at the small pile of tarnished silver. She touched her shirt where the small money bag lay nestled between her breasts. As if he could read her mind, Tarleton leaned across the table.

“Look happy at your good fortune, Robin,” he whispered. “‘Tis a fine night’s work for such players as you and I. This money will buy several meals for both of us.”

Before Elizabeth could remind him that money was not a problem, the serving wench arrived with a tray of steaming bowls.

“Are you truly the famous Tarleton we have heard so many travelers praise?” she asked coyly, gazing at him with an open hunger.

Tarleton returned her smile. “Aye, on my honor, sweetheart. Am I not the Queen’s own Tarleton, my lad?”

Elizabeth stared first at him, then at the girl. “Aye, so my master has often told me,” she muttered gruffly, playing her new role. She did not like the way the serving girl was eyeing Tarleton.

“And are you not the luckiest boy in the realm to be apprenticed to the great Tarleton?” He smiled a challenge at Elizabeth, and wiggled his brows.

“Aye,” Elizabeth responded in a stronger voice. Two could play this scene. “My master has told me that often enough, as well. Indeed, he drums it into my head hourly.”

The wench and the jester laughed at her retort. Ignoring them both, Elizabeth regarded the watery soup placed before her. The black bread that accompanied it was hard as wood. Her empty stomach grumbled in protest.

“Be off with ye now,” Tarleton told the wench, who had made no move to depart. “Let us dine in peace.”

“Later, perhaps?” The maid leaned toward him so that her heavy breasts peeped boldly from the top of her smock.

“Perchance.” He smiled, and followed up his half promise with a sound smack on her backside. She merely laughed and ambled away, casting several long looks at him over her shoulder.

Elizabeth pretended not to notice. To her annoyance, she found herself starting to blush.

“Eat up, my boy!” Tarleton turned his full attention to his trencher.

“How? This is impossible!” whispered Elizabeth fiercely.

“Not used to humble fare, I see,” he whispered back, but his eyes were gentle. “Sop the bread into the broth. Twill soften it up even for your dainty teeth. Zounds,” he swore, after tasting the dish. “She said it was chicken soup, but methinks the chicken did not pause too long in the pot.”

Elizabeth’s nose wrinkled with distaste.

“Eat it all, prentice,” he cautioned her quietly. “And give thanks to God for it. There’s many in the land tonight who would sell their mother’s virtue for such a meal as this.”

Elizabeth looked at him to see if this was yet another jest, but she could tell by the sudden soberness in his eyes that he had spoken the truth. She chewed the stale bread thoughtfully, and promised herself never to take finely milled manchet for granted again.

The wench returned with mugs of ale and a wedge of hard cheese.

“Surely there is something else I can do for so famous a player as yourself, sweet Tarleton?” she purred, arranging herself on his lap.

Elizabeth’s eyes widened at her boldness, though Tarleton did not look the least annoyed. In fact, he seemed to enjoy the maid’s attention.

“Well, now that you mention it, fair mistress, I have in mind a thing or two,” Tarleton bantered, playing with the loose strings of the girl’s smock.

“Aye, I have a thing or two that perhaps will stir your mind—and other, more manly parts, as well.” She giggled, tugging her smock down even lower. “Do ye think of these things?” she cooed, pulling his head toward her ample charms.

Watching her, Elizabeth was fascinated and horrified at the same time. The more she saw of the brazen wench, the less Elizabeth liked her. The opposite seemed to be true of Tarleton.

“They are a right fine pair, I warrant you, sweetheart,” Tarleton beamed, kissing first one fleshy mound, then the other. The girl giggled and arched her back. Now both her breasts were fully exposed, their dark nipples engorged and erect.

Tarleton slipped his arm around the girl’s back, stroking and teasing her breasts with the other hand. The wench’s low animal moans of pleasure sent icy shivers through Elizabeth. An angry feeling of possessiveness welled up inside her. Elizabeth longed to claw the girl out of Tarleton’s arms.

“Surely there is some service I can do for you, sweet jester? Some small thing I can do to while away the night?” the girl murmured, kissing his ear. Over the wench’s shoulder, Tarleton winked at Elizabeth.

The knave! Was Elizabeth supposed to enjoy watching this? She started to rise, but, in a flash, Tarleton’s hard-muscled calves wrapped around her ankle, pinning her down. He arched his brow at his captive.

“I fear we are embarrassing my poor young prentice.” He fondled the wench’s breasts; all the time he held Elizabeth in his smoldering gaze. “The lad is young, and more than a little dull in his wits. This morning I had to free his head from a thornbush. As you can see, I had to cut away a good deal of his hair, and, alas, I am no barber.”

Tarleton smiled winsomely at the panting girl. The wench glanced over at Elizabeth and giggled.

“So I see, sweet Tarleton. But I am sure you have other skills far better than the cutting of hair. In fact, I do believe I can feel one of those skills right now between your legs.”

“Aye, mistress mine, but I perceive by the length of your sweet fingers—” here, he began to kiss and nibble at each finger in turn “—that you have a skill or two yourself. If you could render my prentice more presentable, you may find me—most rewarding. A snip or two here and there is all that’s needed.”

Elizabeth’s own fingers curled tightly around her mug of ale and she considered throwing it at the churl. Gritting her teeth, she tried to remind herself that Tarleton’s social life was none of her business.

Leaving off nibbling Tarleton’s ear, the maid regarded Elizabeth professionally. Elizabeth felt herself grow warmer under the coarse wench’s scrutiny.

“Aye, I can trim the boy’s hair. And then…?” The maid traced the outline of Tarleton’s smiling lips with a ragged, dirty fingernail.

Watching her caress Tarleton so familiarly made Elizabeth’s skin crawl.

“Then you will find me… most grateful.” Tarleton covered her mouth with his, kissing her loudly and deeply.

Baffled and angry, Elizabeth stared down at the crumbs on her platter and heartily wished both the wench and the smiling jester to hell.

Sighing contentedly, the girl adjusted her smock, then ambled away.

Elizabeth glowered at Tarleton, her green eyes blazing in fury. “If you think, for one minute, that I am going to let that…that horrid person touch me, you are moonstruck!” she hissed.

Tarleton chuckled, then lowered his voice. “You need a haircut, and she can do a proper piece of work on it. ‘Tis part of her job to barber the inn’s patrons. How I pay her is my business, just as it is now my business to see you safely to court!”

“And do you enjoy making a spectacle of yourself with that…?”

He regarded her evenly. “The word you are looking for is stew, or doxy. Slattern, if you prefer that.”

Elizabeth’s eyes shot green fire at him. “Why are you doing this to me?” she whispered fiercely.

“Because I must, for your sake, as well as mine. Look like a young lusty lad—and start thinking like one, too!” Tarleton relaxed casually against the back of the booth as the girl returned, holding in her hand a pair of extremely sharp shears.

“Mind Robin’s ears,” Tarleton remarked lazily. “He’s hard enough of hearing as it is.”

The wench pushed Elizabeth’s head down so that the candlelight could catch her gleaming crown and jagged neckline.

“By my troth, thou art a pretty chick!” the girl crooned as she swiftly began to snip a little here and there. “Such fine, soft hair! I’ve never seen the like. Ye will make a sweet youth when you have a beard coming. I should like to see more of ye then!” She giggled wickedly.

Elizabeth held very still, wincing at each snip, feeling the cold of the steel against her neck. She dared not say a word, playing the part of the “dull-witted prentice” as Tarleton had called her. Inwardly she seethed with mounting rage.

“There! Look up, my pet! Say now, Tarleton. Art thou pleased with this small service?” the maid asked archly.

Elizabeth blew the loose hair off her nose and glared at Tarleton.

Ignoring his furious apprentice, Tarleton beamed at the wench. “The court barber could not do as well. You have a skillful hand!”

“I have more than that.” The wench smiled invitingly, preparing to fling herself once more into Tarleton’s lap.

“Sweet mistress, I would feel easier in my mind if you would put away that sharp implement afore you straddle me!”

Squealing with delight, the wench laid the shears down behind the booth. Only then did Tarleton release Elizabeth’s foot, which was numb from his viselike pressure. Standing up, Tarleton stretched to his full height, then pulled the girl hard against him.

“‘Tis true I am most marvelous sleepy, but I fear, I cannot spend it in your company, toothsome though you are. My spirit is willing, but my other parts…” Sighing deeply, he looked regretfully into her eyes. “They have given up on me this evening.”

“You trickster!” The girl’s face grew red, and her eyes narrowed like a prowling cat’s.

Sliding quickly out of the booth, Elizabeth edged back toward the rear door. She wasn’t sure what was going to happen next, but she knew she wanted to be as far away as possible from the fray that was brewing.

Tarleton smiled calmly. “Nay, nay, sweet minx! I promised you a fair payment for your fine services, and I am a man of my word.” Still holding her close with one hand, Tarleton fumbled at his coin purse with the other. “See, sweetheart? As true a coin that was ever minted by Her Majesty’s treasury, and ‘tis all yours!” He glided a gleaming silver penny across the tops of her breasts, then dropped it down her bodice. “Now give me a kiss to remember ye by!”

The wench laughed delightedly, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him passionately. Tarleton returned her kiss with equal abandon. Sweeping her off her feet, he laid her down on the table. Drawing away from her slowly, he traced his fingers down her neck as the lust-soaked girl lay still amid the half-filled beer pots and dirty wooden soup bowls. The nearby patrons thumped their leather jacks of ale in appreciation and envy.

“I shall see thee again, sweetheart,” Tarleton promised glibly as he reached around her, retrieving his cap. “Come, boy!” He snapped his fingers as he strode out the back door.

Elizabeth bolted after him, thankful to escape the smoky den and the serving girl’s ire.

Chapter Four

“The wench made a fine piece of work of you,” remarked Tarleton softly beside Elizabeth as they crossed the inn yard. He ran his fingers through her hair; the short strands whispered the loss of her golden tresses.

Angrily Elizabeth pulled away from his caressing fingers.

“Don’t touch me! I am not your stew, nor your doxy!” she snapped, her green eyes flashing a withering look of disdain.

“Nay, I can see you are not that, prentice boy,” he replied, spacing his words evenly. “You learn your lessons fast.”

In silence they paid a visit to the inn’s privy, though Elizabeth did not thank him when he guarded the door for her. Afterward, they climbed the ladder to the loft. From somewhere in the dark corner near the horses, she heard the loud snores of the ostler.

Tarleton shook out Elizabeth’s dried traveling cloak. Spreading it on the straw, he placed the pack under his head and laid his dagger by his side. Elizabeth, meanwhile, turned her back to him, took off her shoes and stockings, then stared out at the moon, whose silver beams poured through the loft door. Behind her, she could hear Tarleton’s rustling as he prepared himself for the night.

“Forget the wench, chuck, and let us be friends. Come to bed.” His rich voice entreated her softly.

She stiffened and did not look at him. “Where do you intend to lie?” Until this moment, she had not given a thought to their sleeping arrangements.

“By your side,” Tarleton answered easily.

Wheeling around, Elizabeth stared at him wordlessly. With the exception of his shoes and the jacket of motley, Tarleton lay fully dressed on one side of the cape, his arms folded comfortably under his head.

“I have a… a weapon, and I will defend myself, if necessary,” Elizabeth warned him, feeling for her scissors case in the pocket of her breeches. The memory of him fondling the serving girl was all too fresh in her mind.

Tarleton chuckled. “Your virtue is safe with me,” he continued in the same light tone. “You are paying me right well to preserve it. We will sleep this night, and every other night, as chaste as any bundling couple, I give you my word. Lie down and rest. We’ve a long day on the morrow.”

Elizabeth considered his words, though she dared not look into his eyes. Truly, those devilish eyes could charm a badger from its den. “I must pray first,” she said finally. “I always say a night prayer.”

She knelt, folded her hands and bowed her head. The moonlight caught her cropped hair, turning the golden strands to a silver halo as she prayed amid the straw. She looks like one of God’s bright angels, Tarleton thought. Say a blessing for me, little one.

With a small sigh Elizabeth ended her orisons, then she carefully lay down on the far side of the cape, keeping her back firmly turned toward her companion.

“Tarleton?” Elizabeth whispered in the dark. “Why does she do it?”

“Who?” He yawned loudly.

“The girl who cut my hair. Why does she give herself to men?”

Tarleton smiled in the darkness of the loft. He had wondered when Elizabeth was going to mention the girl. “For money, mostly. And perhaps for a bit of pleasure, as well.”

“Pleasure?”

Tarleton was not surprised to feel her shudder. Elizabeth had never been in a place like the Blue Boar before. “Aye. We poor folk must take our pleasures when and where we find them. There is no promise that we will live out the morrow,” he told her truthfully.

“And you? Did you want to… to lie with her?”

“What manner of questioning is this?” He chuckled softly.

Elizabeth cleared her throat. “You told me I must think like a boy, so I am asking a question that a boy would ask. Did you find her… pleasing?”

Tarleton glanced over at the huddled form a mere arm’s length away. His lips curled into a grin. “She was pleasing enough in her own fashion, but not for me. I suspect she was diseased.”

Elizabeth gasped. “With the plague?” she squeaked.

“With the pox.” Tarleton stole another sideways glance, waiting for her reaction.

“Oh.” There was a pause, while Elizabeth digested this unexpected bit of information. “Is that the only reason you didn’t…stay with her?” Elizabeth’s voice was muffled and a little bit hopeful.

Tarleton grinned even more broadly. “That, chuck, is a personal matter. Now go to sleep!” He rolled over, pointedly ending the discussion.

In the ensuing silence, Elizabeth became aware of a number of tiny rustling noises that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Was someone creeping up on them?

“Tarleton?” she whispered.

“What?” came the sleepy reply.

“I hear something!”

“Probably rats,” Tarleton replied calmly.

“Rats!” Elizabeth moved closer to him. “Big ones?” She had heard horror stories of sleeping children being eaten alive by rats.

“Perhaps.” He chuckled. “Perhaps they are only medium-sized ones.”

“Rats!” She moved still closer to him, clutching the cloak.

“Perhaps only small rats,” he teased gently, rolling over toward her.

“Rats!” She huddled against him.

“Perhaps they are only wee barn mice,” he murmured, taking the quaking girl gently in his arms. “Mice who are more afraid of us than we are of them. Hush, sweetling. Sleep now.” His lips brushed her hair.

“Rats…mice… and hard bread… and stones in the road…” Elizabeth’s voice, heavy with fatigue, trailed off as she snuggled within the comforting warmth of his embrace.

“Under the greenwood tree/Who loves to lie with me?” Tarleton hummed softly, smoothing her hair across her brow. He felt her relax, the tensions of the day seeping out of her with each soft breath she drew. He could almost hear the beat of her heart as she nestled against him. Tentatively Tarleton laid his cheek against hers and allowed himself to dream of things that could never be.

“Wake up, sleepyhead!”

Elizabeth’s limbs felt too heavy to move.

“Wake up, I say! The birds have sung their matins hymn, and we must put miles behind us today,” he announced cheerfully.

Elizabeth opened her eyes slowly. Dawn’s pearl gray light was just edging the bottom of the sky.

“Let me be!” she moaned, wrapping the cape tighter around her. “It’s too early.”

“Nay! I say we must be abroad.” With a quick tug, he wrenched the covering off her.

Elizabeth sat up stiffly, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. The chill air prickled her skin with goose bumps.

“Tis a cool morn,” Tarleton observed, wishing he dared to comb the straw out of her hair with his fingers. Elizabeth looked enchanting with her face still soft from sleep. If she were not a lady he had sworn to protect… Tarleton roughly pushed the wayward thought from his mind. “‘Tis best you wear the cloak,” he told her gruffly. “If anyone asks how a ragtag lad such as yourself could afford so grand a cape, tell them ‘tis mine. Put on your shoes, and let us be off.”

“With no breakfast?” she asked wistfully. Grinning his puckish grin, Tarleton slapped his pack.

“I’ve breakfast enough for Great Harry himself should he be of a mind to pay us a visit from the underworld. Come now, look sharp.”

Helping Elizabeth to her feet, Tarleton’s hand lingered around her soft one. He longed to kiss her smooth, slender fingers. Instead, he roughly fastened her cloak around her shoulders, then led her to the top of the ladder. “Is your money still safe?” he whispered.

Touching the bag concealed under her shirt, Elizabeth nodded.

Placing his finger to his lips, Tarleton pointed below where the ostler still snored out of tune. He helped Elizabeth descend the ladder, catching her around the waist as she neared the bottom. He allowed himself the luxury of holding her close against his chest for a heartbeat, then he lightly placed her on her feet. A tiny smile turned up the corners of her lips as her wide green eyes held his. He wanted to crush her to him, to sweep her off her feet and carry her away to— where?

Pushing these dangerous thoughts to the back corner of his imagination, Tarleton silently beckoned Elizabeth to follow him. Together, they stole out of the inn yard in the chill, damp dawn. A stable terrier raised his head, but Tarleton crooned softly to him. The dog yawned and scratched lazily at a flea, ignoring the departing guests.

“What about breakfast?” Elizabeth suggested hopefully a few hours later, when the sun had burned off the morning’s mist. “I’m starving.”

“Starving? How can you say that when you had a huge supper last night?” Tarleton rolled his eyes, looking down at her with amusement.

Elizabeth snorted. “‘Twas a supper for Lent!”

“‘Twas a princely feast, and, if more princes ate such feasts, they would not grow so uncommonly fat!” Tarleton chuckled at his witty observation.

Elizabeth merely sighed and rubbed her shoulders. This was not how she had envisioned her escape to the Queen. In the space of one short day she had lost her horse, her clothes, her hair and most of her dignity. Then she remembered that her beloved Esmond Manor was in the thrall of the villainous Sir Robert La Faye. Truly, she was better off with Tarleton. Though he kept low company, there was a certain something about him—

“What’s that you were mumbling? Speak up, Robin Redbreast!” Stopping in the middle of the road, he looked at her over his shoulder.

“I was merely wondering at the low company you keep, Sir Jester!” she retorted. Sinking down on the grassy verge, she rubbed her sore calves.

“Have you forgotten that I keep company with you?” He smiled his most impish grin.

Elizabeth pretended to ignore his beguiling charm. “Breakfast?” she prompted.

“I am your most humble and obedient servant.”

Squatting down beside his pack, Tarleton drew out a folded cloth that held some of the cheese from the day before, and a half loaf of fine white bread. There was also the end of a hard sausage. To this he added three more apples, which he juggled deftly, eliciting a delighted giggle from Elizabeth. Last of all, he produced a small bottle of imported French wine.

“Where did you get all this?” she asked wonderingly as she sliced a large wedge of cheese. “And why didn’t you tell me before that you had a most marvelous feast?”

“This food is what’s left from your own kitchen. I was saving the wine for some suitable occasion.” He gave a mock sigh.

Ignoring Tarleton’s unrepentant free use of her father’s stores, Elizabeth ate greedily.

“Methinks your manners went the way of your hair, Robin Redbreast,” the player noted with wry amusement. “I pray they will return or the Queen will wonder what mischief I have done you.”

Looking up at him, Elizabeth felt a swift flutter in her throat. His brown eyes spoke an eloquent language all their own—a language whose meaning she couldn’t quite understand but which stirred her deeply.

Glancing away from him, she asked lightly, “Will it take long to reach Hampton Court?”

“Above a week,” he estimated. When her face fell, Tarleton’s lips tightened. He forced his voice to sound cheerful. “But we shall make each day a holiday, and the time will pass quickly. Just think what adventures you can tell the other ladies when you are safely at court! They shall be envious of your good fortune for you are traveling with me— Tarleton! The Queen’s most favored—”

“Yes, yes, I have heard that tale before, good jester. Leave off another telling of it. You think most highly of yourself!” Elizabeth giggled.

“If I do not trumpet my own name, perhaps you will do it for me? A good apprentice should be proud of his master.” Tarleton cocked his head at her.