Книга - Fool’s Paradise

Fool's Paradise
Tori Phillips


'TWAS NO LAUGHING MATTERWhen fleeing an odious arranged match, the Lady Elizabeth Hayward found herself under the protection of famed court jester Richard Tarleton. But even disguised as the fool's boy apprentice, there was no hiding the fact that she'd fallen hopelessly in love!Though Tarleton's ready wit had won him royal favor, his tongue was tied in the presence of the sweet-voiced Elizabeth - at least about things that truly mattered. For how could he offer the queen's own goddaughter a gift so lowly as his own foolish heart?MAGGIE AWARD WINNER March Madness - Don't miss these talented newcomers to the field of historical romance!












Table of Contents


Cover Page (#ua1e70444-95e4-570e-9fc2-9059a215fb1c)

Excerpt (#u21cef7e8-cdfa-554b-9527-0b903c91b3f2)

Dear Reader (#u659dee2e-4108-5d4c-8ad3-9ea28fa9b11f)

Title Page (#u4e591020-77bd-5cf9-b3fc-a9887ba99df4)

About the Author (#u234cdd32-2603-52ca-99b7-3a610c499005)

Dedication (#u2402b7fe-7520-5464-836c-e9b4c9b78439)

Chapter One (#u9e9f87eb-27ac-5268-a7cf-7df514e46812)

Chapter Two (#u15b2ddf1-2724-5b41-8072-d51cf064a3c5)

Chapter Three (#u8678e013-0121-5d23-8545-a9fde52ffe11)

Chapter Four (#uf0e66627-6d60-5820-94fe-215d472d7114)

Chapter Five (#ue0f11849-9a5f-535f-8fca-be93e7af00ed)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Author Note (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)




“You must forget yourself— completely forget. You are now a lusty lad,


“and you must learn to talk like one, and act like one, too.” Tarleton roared with laughter.



“I see you intend to enjoy yourself at my expense,” Elizabeth coolly observed. Her remark only brought forth fresh rounds of mirth.



“Aye, at your costly expense! Remember, there will be a matter of payment.” He grinned at her wickedly.



“When we get to court!” she reminded him.



“Aye, we shall get to court.” Tarleton regarded her gravely for a moment. “That I do promise you. And now, ‘tis time I work your transformation. Lady Elizabeth, be gone! And in her place you shall be…” His roguish gaze danced over her. “Robin! For you remind me of that bright little bird. Aye! That has a pleasing ring to it! Robin—the jester’s lad!”




Dear Reader,


When we ran our first March Madness promotion in 1992, we had no idea that we would get such a wonderful response. Our springtime showcase of brand-new authors has been so successful that we’ve continued to seek out talented new writers and introduce them into the field of historical romance. During our yearly search, my editors and I have the unique opportunity of reading hundreds of manuscripts from unpublished authors, and we’d like to take this time to thank all of you who have given us the chance to review your work.



This March, we are very pleased to be able to introduce you to author Tori Phillips with her Maggie Awardwinning story, Fool’s Paradise. This Elizabethan tale of a young noblewoman and the jester who becomes her protector is delightful, and we hope you enjoy it



And be sure to keep an eye out for our other three titles. The Pearl Stallion, the story of an adventurous voyage by Rae Muir. Warrior’s Deception by Diana Hall, a medieval tale about a marriage based on lies. And Western Rose by Lynna Banning, the story of a rancher and a schoolteacher who must work out their differences before they accept their love.



Four new talents, four great stories from Harlequin Historicals. Don’t miss a single one!



Sincerely,



Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Harlequin Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3




Fool’s Paradise

Tori Phillips





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




TORI PHILLIPS


After receiving her degree in theater arts from the University of San Diego, Tori worked at MGM Studios, acted in numerous summer stock musicals and appeared in Paramount Pictures’ The Great Gatsby. Her plays, published by Dramatic Publishing Co., have been produced in the U.S. and Canada, and her poetry is included in several anthologies. She has directed over forty plays, including twenty-one Shakespeare productions. Currently, she is a firstperson, Living History actress at the Folger Shakespeare Library in Washington, DC. She lives with her husband in Burke, VA.


To the young romantics in my life: Tori & Rick Elizabeth & Phil and to my One and Only, Marty with thanks for all the roses and champagne Godiva chocolate and May Day poetry and especially moonlight waltzes in Venice!




Chapter One (#ulink_8852a16d-2f67-5a11-9c08-96d15d273dcc)


If you should lead her into a fool’s paradise, it were a very gross kind of behavior… for the gentlewoman is young.

—Romeo and Juliet

On the Woodstock Road Warwickshire, England August 1586



“Thunder! Hold! Pray, do not abandon me now!” Even as she spoke, Lady Elizabeth Hayward knew it was in vain. The swift chestnut hunter galloped far down the woodland road, racing back toward home.

Home to Esmond Manor? It was no longer her home, now that Sir Robert La Faye had declared himself lord and master. All he needed was the formal exchange of marriage vows. That odious thought made Elizabeth more resolved to face the unknown road ahead.

“I would rather die than marry that varlet,” she muttered under her breath. Adjusting her dark blue travel cloak, Elizabeth squared her shoulders for the long trek ahead of her.

Repulsed by the preening nobleman she left behind her, Elizabeth had slipped out of Esmond Manor at dawn with only a saddle pouch containing food and a few personal items. Her mind full of escaping her betrothed’s brutish manner, Elizabeth paid no attention to Thunder’s habitual skittishness until it was too late. One minute she was high in the saddle and well on her way to Hampton Court and to her godmother, Queen Elizabeth. The next, Thunder, balking at a hare, pitched Elizabeth sideways onto the road.

“Thank the good Lord I have not broken any bones,” she consoled herself. “And, at least, I still have my money.” Her hand closed over the leather bag of golden angels and silver shillings that hung from her girdle.

“There must be an inn or a farm nearby,” Elizabeth told herself as she picked her way along the verge, carefully keeping her long blue velvet skirts out of the mud puddles. “And the day promises to be fair.”

She wondered how long it would take Thunder to return to his stable. If he ran all the way, it would be no more than an hour. “When he is found with all my things in his pack, Sir Robert will know I have escaped my room and he will come looking for me—that is, if he hasn’t already discovered I’ve gone.”

Elizabeth hoped that her faithful maid, Charlotte, did not suffer from Sir Robert’s anger. She touched her cheek, where she could still feel the sting of his hand, though it had been over a day since he struck her. The memory of that pain and the twisted look on his face spurred Elizabeth down the tree-shaded road, no matter what lay ahead.

“Sweet angels, please let there be no boars in this wood,” she prayed, gripping a small pair of gold embroidery scissors that hung from a slender chain at her waist.

When Thunder had crested a hillock and Elizabeth first sighted the wood, she judged its size to be small and not too forbidding. Now that she found herself alone and on foot in the middle of it, the thick foliage of the oaks and elms appeared much more threatening. The friendly twitter of unseen birds among the branches overhead did little to calm her nerves. Elizabeth had never been abroad without an escort before. Nothing in her schooling at the Convent of Sacre Coeur in Reims had prepared her for such a desperate plight as this. Her ears strained to catch the slightest rustling in the thick undergrowth, which might announce the presence of a fox or a bear or…

“The keeper would a-hunting go…” The cheery song, heartily sung in a pleasing baritone, wafted on a breeze through the green wood.

Elizabeth stopped at the sound. Her heart thumping wildly in its cage, she gripped her scissors tighter. Never in her nineteen years had she been alone with a man other than her father or the manor’s steward—not until the coming of Sir Robert La Faye. She shuddered as the leering face of that vile lord rose in her mind’s eye. No man alive boded more ill for her than he! Elizabeth would take her chances with the unknown singer.

“…among the leaves so green-o!”

The songster sounded friendly to Elizabeth—and familiar. Only two nights ago she had heard that song sung before her father’s festive table by a merry traveling player. Sir Thomas Hayward had hired a jester to entertain at the feast marking Elizabeth’s betrothal to Sir Robert. Elizabeth bit her lip. Her wonderful, loving father, God rest his soul!

“Hey now! Ho, now! Derry, derry down! Among the leaves so green-o!” The singer punctuated his music with a great deal of splashing and gurgling noises.

The sounds came from a thicket to the left. Stepping cautiously into the tangled underbrush and parting the sapling branches of a hickory, Elizabeth saw the sparkle of a small river snaking in and out of the verdant surroundings. The singer’s voice, now stronger, came from behind a large clump of holly bushes.

“To me hay down-down, to me ho down-down…” More splashing intermixed with joyful whoops accompanied the chorus.’

Drawn by the song and the singer’s apparent cheerfu nature, Elizabeth crept up to the screening holly. Holding her voluminous skirts above the twigs and bracken, she clutched her tiny scissors.

A stick snapped underfoot. To Elizabeth, the resulting crack sounded like gunfire from a fowling piece.

The singer, on the other hand, did not appear to notice hi secret audience. He repeated the chorus, though the direc tion of his voice changed slightly. Drawing her cloak more tightly about her, Elizabeth crouched down behind the holly clump and gently poked her fingers through its prickly, glossy leaves. In front of her, the river widened, forming a small pool. On the bank nearby lay a pair of brown woolen breeches and a beige homespun shirt. Their owner was no where to be seen, though she could still hear him humming the tune of his song. Elizabeth pulled back the branches a little farther in order to see what manner of man she had stumbled upon.

“Stand and show thyself!” a deep voice growled behind her.

Elizabeth stiffened, her heart nearly leapt from he mouth. Trembling more from fright than from the early morning’s chill, she slowly rose unsteadily to her feet. Hid den amid the folds of her cloak, Elizabeth’s hand clutched her scissors. She would defend her honor to the end, if nec essary.

Thrning to face him, she gasped. The man pointed a long, wicked-looking dagger at her throat. The morning sun glinted off its sharp blade. Her assailant was hard muscled, dripping wet—and completely naked. Crystal rivulet coursed down his broad chest, angled at his slim hips and disappeared into his…

Elizabeth’s eyes widened. She had never seen a man without his clothes before, and this particular specimen looked singularly well-made. The warmth of a deep blush swept over her. The churl grinned.

“Heaven protect and defend me!” Whirling, Elizabeth plunged blindly through the nettles and thorny bracken.

“Stop! Wait! Not that way!” her attacker called. But it was too late. In her haste, Elizabeth lost her footing on the slippery bank and fell headlong into the cold river.

Her heavy velvet overskirt quickly weighed her down. The fashionable bum roll around her waist greedily soaked up the water, pulling her beneath the surface. Panic gripping her soul, Elizabeth thrashed wildly to the surface. As she struggled to unclasp the hook of her woolen cloak, her pursuer grasped her around her waist, pulling her against his chest. She shook the water from her eyes and fought for breath. The strong arm around her tightened.

“Unhand me! How dare you!” Elizabeth flailed her arms helplessly as he half carried, half dragged her to the shore. “You will pay for this outrage! You do not know whom you have attacked!”

The varlet answered with a rich, almost musical laugh as he pushed her up onto the muddy bank.

“If I had let you go, you would have drowned,” he remarked as he hoisted himself out of the river. “And I do, indeed, know full well who you are, Lady Elizabeth Hayward,” he continued, shaking the water from his brown curly hair. Sitting down companionably beside her, he drew up one leg, hiding the most intriguing part of his anatomy from her gaze.

“How?” She drew back from him, trying to regain both her breath and her composure. She tried to avoid staring at his lithe body. “Who are you?”

“Do you not recognize Tarleton, the jester?” He pulled a sorrowful face. “I had the honor of entertaining at your noble father’s home. I believe you were celebrating your betrothal.” He laughed easily, the richness of that cheerful sound echoing in the woods around them. “Were you so entranced by your new love that poor Tarleton and his jests were all for naught?”

Tarleton? Aye, Elizabeth remembered the jester, dressed in a jacket of bright green and red motley, his little brass bells tinkling merrily with each caper and jig. The Queen’s favorite player, he boasted, with no small show of modesty. Now he sat shamelessly naked beside her. A certain warmth seemed to radiate from him, enveloping her. Drawn to him, Elizabeth had the unconscionable desire to touch his strong, rough-haired leg so near her hand. Surprised, Elizabeth willed her heart to stop its unseemly fluttering.

“Truly I did not recognize you, Sir Jester, for you are without your cap and bells.” She cast another quick, sideways glance at him through her lashes. “Indeed, you are without any clothing at all.” She held her breath. Now, he will either rob and murder me, or he will...

Throwing back his head, Tarleton roared with laughter. “Well spoken, my lady! Permit me to make myself more presentable. And you should be thinking about getting out of your own wet attire.” He stood up, towering over her.

“What?” Elizabeth’s eyes widened at his bold words and even bolder stance. “Take off my clothes? Here, in the middle of nowhere?”

Tarleton disappeared behind a gnarled oak. “What I mean to say, fair lady,” he continued from his leafy hiding place, “is if you sit on the cold ground much longer in those sodden clothes, you will no doubt catch a noisome cold, and you will be joining the sweet angels in heaven a good deal earlier than you planned.”

“But I have nothing…” she began.

“Neither did our mother Eve have anything to wear in the garden of paradise.” He reappeared, dressed in his shirt, breeches and a tan jerkin. He carried a pair of black stockings in his hand. “But I do have a spare shirt and breeches to which you are welcome.”

Elizabeth gaped at him, startled by his scandalous suggestion. A teasing light twinkled in the depths of Tarleton’s dark brown eyes. She was tempted to smile back at hun— almost.

“I assure you, Lady Elizabeth, my clothes are clean. Your own good cook, Jane, washed them for me only a few days ago.” He hunkered down beside his pack, rummaged through it, then tossed an oatmeal-colored shirt and black breeches to her. “I recommend that fine willow tree over there as your tiring room. I shall not peek—word of honor.” His warm brown eyes grew serious as his gaze rested on her. “But, truly, my lady. You will catch your death if you stay seated thus. And I care not to have your sweet corpse on my hands.”

Elizabeth swallowed hard as she glanced at his large, wellformed hands and wondered fleetingly what it would be like to be touched by them. She gave herself a little shake. How could she possibly think of him touching her? She barely knew him!

“Turn around,” Elizabeth ordered sharply as she struggled to her feet. “And remember your promise—on your honor!” Snatching up his clothing, she flounced off to the willow.

“On my honor, my back is turned,” he called after her as she slipped inside the willow’s concealing green canopy. “Of course you know what the poet says about honor, don’t you?”

“No, what?” she asked as she struggled to undo her lacing.

“‘Some after honor hunt, but I after love.’”

“Oh! Don’t you dare come any closer! I am armed,” Elizabeth warned, using her scissors to cut through the tight, wet knots. “In truth, I will defend myself.”

“Truly, my lady, you are a bundle of wonder!” There was a trace of laughter in his voice.

With a man of dubious nature and too-easy charm only a few yards away, Elizabeth dispensed with all ceremony in favor of speed. Wriggling out of the last clinging petticoat, she let it fall with the others in a soaking mass at her feet. Ridiculous! She kicked the useless things away. Whoever convinced ladies to wear all these layers of clothing ought to be hung by his own garters from a gibbet! Some Spanish fop, no doubt.

Tarleton’s shirt hung down to her knees. As for the breeches, they were too wide in the waist and too long in the leg. On the other hand, they were warm, dry and surprisingly comfortable.

“Is my lady gowned in her—?” Tarleton began, but his easy banter exploded into laughter as Elizabeth stepped out of her leafy dressing room, clutching at her waist with one hand, while the other was completely lost in a sleeve.

Trying to maintain her shredded dignity in the face of his cheery reaction, Elizabeth cleared her throat and tilted up her chin proudly. “I thank you for the loan of your clothing, jester, but I will also thank you not to mock me. Tell me, if you can spare the breath, how do you keep these pantaloons up?”

“Usually, you tie them to your waistcoat. Alas, I have none that I can safely spare, but I do have something that will serve.” Rummaging in his pack, Tarleton drew out a length of red satin ribbon.

“I was saving this as a gift for some special maiden,” he remarked, handing it to her.

“Oh?” she retorted, one eyebrow raised. “And who would that be?” Pulling the ribbon through his fingers, she turned her back to him and threaded the makeshift belt through the eyelets. Elizabeth found herself extremely conscious of his virile appeal.

Tarleton chuckled. “I haven’t met her yet. But never fear, my lady, I will someday. And I always like to be prepared.”

“You sound very sure of yourself,” Elizabeth said dryly as she stuffed the outsize shirt into the breeches.

Tarleton merely grinned in reply, then he went back to tending a small fire of dry sticks. Elizabeth admired his fluid movements and the easy grace of an acrobat. In profile, his face was pleasant and well-defined, his lips sensual with an infectious smile only a breath away. His flashing dark eyes promised pure mischief. Elizabeth snorted to herself. No doubt Tarleton would find his “special maiden” soon enough. In certain classes of society, some women might even call the jester handsome. As she tied the ends together, Elizabeth felt a certain smug satisfaction. At least, no one else was going to get Tarleton’s prized red ribbonnot while she wore it tight around her waist. What on earth am I thinking? she thought, catching herself. He’s but a commoner, and I have enough troubles with a man as it is!

“Come, warm your toes and dry your hair, my lady. Breakfast is served!”

“Breakfast?”

“Sweet apples, compliments of God’s fair wind in an orchard, and the cheese…” He regarded the golden wedge ruefully. “Well, ‘tis not moldy yet.” As she sat down opposite him, he quickly averted his eyes.

“In truth, my lady, that shirt looks far better on you than it ever did on me, but I suggest that you tie up the band strings tightly before you display any more of your unmanly bosom.”

Glancing down at her open neck, Elizabeth flushed. She snatched the collar shut and pulled the laces until they puckered.

Without looking at her directly, Tarleton offered her an apple slice on the tip of his knife. Plucking off the fruit, Elizabeth bit into it.

The apple’s hidden sweetness burst generously in her mouth; its juice overflowed, escaping from a corner of her lips. Until this moment, Elizabeth had forgotten how really hungry she was. Tarleton’s simple windfall was the most delicious thing she could recall ever eating.

“Another,” Elizabeth commanded, her mouth still full. Nodding solemnly, he offered her a second slice, as well as a large wedge of cheese.

They ate in silence for a bit, then Tarleton spoke. “I did not expect to find myself playing host to so noble a lady in the greenwood.”

Elizabeth shifted uncomfortably under his thoughtful gaze. She wasn’t sure how much she wanted to tell him.

Tarleton continued, “I can’t help but ask myself why such a fine lady is roaming about the forest, and falling into rivers? Is it because she is bored with life in a great manor house? Is she lost?” Pausing, he raised one eyebrow slowly. “Or, perhaps, she is running away?”

Elizabeth choked, then stared at the fire to avoid his compelling eyes.

“Ah,” he murmured. “Methinks I have hit the nut and core of the matter. Lady Elizabeth, may I ask why are you running away from so great a fortune and so noble a betrothed lord?”

Elizabeth tried to ignore Tarleton’s honeyed probing.

The jester spoke softly. “I believe there is some water in your eye, Lady Elizabeth. Use your sleeve, that’s what the good Lord created them for.” He drew closer to her side. “Tell me your story, sweet lady. I am a patient listener as well as a chattering monkey. You can trust Tarleton. Her Most Gracious Majesty often does. What happened since I left Esmond Manor?”

“All my happiness died,” Elizabeth answered quietly, afraid to give freedom to the words that, until now, she had kept confined in her heart. “The morning after the feast, my father took suddenly ill, and… died.”

“May God have mercy upon his soul.” Tarleton’s voice held an infinitely compassionate tone. “Sir Thomas Hayward was a good man, and a generous one, too. What happened?”

Elizabeth took a deep breath to steady her voice. “We don’t know. Father was well when I greeted him early in the day, but toward the forenoon he doubled over in pain and turned a dreadful color. We put him to bed straightaway, and sent for a doctor. But, by the time he arrived in the afternoon, my father had… had died.”

Tarleton’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Had your father eaten anything unusual? Did he complain of the taste of the food?”

“No-o.” Elizabeth racked her brains to remember the details of that dreadful day. It had been a delightful breakfast. She and her father repeated to each other some of Tarleton’s jests from the night before. Then Sir Robert joined them. “Wait! My father had a dish of mushrooms that the rest of us did not. My betrothed gathered some plump ones that morning, which he gave to my father.”

“An interesting gift.” Tarleton compressed his lips into a tight line. “And what did the good Sir Robert do after your father died?”

Elizabeth shuddered as she recalled what followed. “He changed as suddenly as a weathercock in a high wind. Though Sir Robert was all smiles, I did not like him much. I told my father of my dislike after the betrothal feast. My father, who was kind and loving, said he would break off the match. But, before he could do so, he…he was gone.” Elizabeth blinked rapidly several times in an effort to keep her tears at bay.

“Even as my father’s body grew cold, Sir Robert suggested… nay, he insisted that we should be married at once. He said it would protect my interests.”

“And his,” Tarleton muttered knowingly under his breath.

“I told him it was too hasty. How could I think of marriage when my father had just died?” Elizabeth looked away, fighting back her grief. It must wait for a more private time.

Slipping his arm around her shoulder, Tarleton drew her closer to him. He smeiled of wood smoke, leather and mint, a combination Elizabeth found oddly comforting.

“Surely Sir Robert meant kindly,” Tarleton prompted.

“No!” Elizabeth gritted her teeth. “When I put him off, he grew violently angry. He was loathsome to look at, and he swore such oaths at me! Sir Robert called me a ninny, saying I did not know what was good for me. He said I was stubborn, and, when I told him he was acting as no gentleman should, he… he struck me across the face!”

Tarleton’s grip tightened around her. “He deliberately hit you?” he whispered in a low, dangerous voice.

“Aye!” Elizabeth shivered. “Then he dragged me to my chamber and locked me in, saying I would neither eat nor drink until I agreed to be married immediately after my father’s burial. If not, he threatened he would… force himself upon me!”

“Forgive my boldness, Lady Elizabeth, but methinks Sir Robert La Faye is in desperate need of a sound horsewhipping. How did you manage to escape?” Tarleton lightly stroked her hair. Elizabeth found his touch soothing. She laid her head against his shoulder.

“‘Twas my maid, Charlotte. Last night, she brought me some food after Sir Robert had drunk himself into a stupor. She told me that he had taken over the hall as if he were already the master. After I ate, I made up a small packet of clothing, provisions and money, then I escaped on my father’s favorite horse.”

“Where are you going, my lady?” Tarleton questioned gently.

“To my godmother, the Queen. They say she is at Hampton Court.”

Tarleton abruptly stopped playing with Elizabeth’s fine, soft hair, and regarded her with surprise. “Her Grace is your godmother? But I’ve never seen you at court.”

Elizabeth sighed. “I was too young. For the past six years, I’ve been away in France with my mother’s family. I only recently returned… and found myself betrothed.”

“And what do you seek of your godmother?” Tarleton asked casually, while his mind spun with the complications of the situation. God’s nightshirt! This tiny lady was a prize, indeed! No wonder Sir Robert had been so anxious to wed her!

“I will beg Her Majesty to annul this loathsome betrothal. I would like to become one of her ladies.”

“And you would be an ornament to her court, though not, I fear, in your present garb. In truth, you look a very poor lady but you make a very pretty lad.”

Elizabeth felt his warm breath tickle her ear. She suddenly realized that she was clasped in his embrace, and, more shocking, that she clutched him tightly around his waist. Shivery tingles ran deliciously up and down her spine. Hastily drying her tears on her sleeve, she pulled away from his arms. Her blood pounded hotly in her ears.

“I meant no offense…” Tarleton began, seeing her confusion, but then he thought better of it and changed the subject. “How does it happen you are here and not halfway to Oxford by now?”

Elizabeth wrinkled her nose. “My horse shied at a hare. I am sure by now Sir Robert is out searching for me.”

“He best not cross my path, Lady,” Tarleton growled.

“As I walked along the road I heard you singing.”

“Ah! So you were drawn by the sweetness of my voice and came spying upon me? And I thought you were a thief!” He chuckled at his mistake.

Elizabeth stared at him for a long moment, her mind weighing her few options. “Tarleton, can I trust you?” she finally asked.

“You are wearing my clothing. You have eaten most of my food. You have even threatened me with a weapon. Yet, you ask me if you can trust me?” Cocking his head, he grinned impishly at her.

Though she did not mean to, Elizabeth found herself smiling back. How could any woman resist such a roguish smile? Stop it! He’s only a player, even if he is a handsome one. Clearing her throat, she stood up. Best to deal with Tarleton in a more dignified manner, despite the fact she was barefoot in a forest. “Will you escort me safely to Hampton Court?” she asked. “I can pay you well for your service.”

Reaching into her shirt, she withdrew the small money bag that she had hung around her neck. The coins inside clinked invitingly.

“Put that away, my lady!” he said gruffly. “Never show your money in public. Not even to me. I fear I am no saint.”

“Please help me, good jester. I have no one else,” she beseeched.

Tarleton whistled through his teeth. “I am a coward of the first degree,” he admitted. “I should be tied up and put into a darkened room to agree to such a mad idea, and yet…”

Elizabeth felt his gaze sweep over her. It made her quiver, as if she had just been washed with liquid fire. He looked as if he were planning to sell her to the highest bidder. What if he is? A cold fear replaced the other, more pleasant feeling. She knew Sir Robert would pay handsomely for her return.

Then the player slapped his thigh and laughed richly. “What a most rare jest it will be! A jest of infinite value! Why, my Lady Elizabeth, this jest of ours will go down into legend. The university students will make up ballads of this jest! Provided, of course, that you agree.”

“Agree? Agree to what?” she asked cautiously. Lord, how his eyes sparkled so devilishly!

“I will take you to the Queen. I was going that way myself. But you cannot travel with me as a lady. That would be unseemly. A fine lady and a gypsy player? Oh, no! Instead, you shall become my prentice! A most perfect counterfeit!” Tarleton jumped up and began to pace around the glowing embers. “I am near twenty-eight summers. ‘Tis time I took on a young jackanapes to instruct in my honorable profession. Think of it! We shall stroll along the highways and byways as merrily as we please until we reach Hampton Court, whereupon you will magically reappear as Lady Elizabeth Hayward! What say you to that?”

Elizabeth wrinkled her nose. She wasn’t too sure she liked this idea at all. It was one thing to wear his clothes until hers dried out, but to wear them until they reached the Queen? And strolling the highways?

“But why must I be disguised?” she protested. “I have money. We could go to the nearest inn where we can get horses and proper clothing. We can ride to Hampton in a matter of days. Why must I be a…a…?”

Tarleton grinned. “Apprentice jester! Apprentice to Tarleton, the Queen’s most beloved royal fool! Why, half the lads in the country would jump at the chance I am offering you.”

Elizabeth drew herself up. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not a lad.”

“Indeed, I have noticed, my lady.” Tarleton grew serious again. “And so will every highwayman between here and Windsor, if we traveled as you suggest. But as two poor players? Who looks twice at servants? Remember, Sir Robert will be searching for a fair noble lady—not for a dirty prentice boy.”

“Dirty?”

Yet Tarleton had a point. Elizabeth understood the need for disguise. Her mouth slowly curled upward into a grin. She would dearly love to outwit the boorish Sir Robert La Faye. How she would delight to make him a laughingstock when she arrived at court and told her tale! Dare she do it? She glanced at Tarleton and saw his dancing eyes, his tempting smile. She felt herself grow weak as his grin widened. She would have to watch herself with that smile. She must not appear ready to wholly fall in with Tarleton’s madcap scheme. She didn’t want him to think he was going to have the upper hand with her. After all, she was employing him, not the other way around.

“Very well, Tarleton. I agree but I am in need of shoes and stockings.”

“God’s teeth!” Tarleton cried delightedly. “I knew you were a game lass!” He slapped her playfully on her backside.

“Hold, knave!” Elizabeth backed away from him. Was he trying to impress her with that upper hand already? “You forget yourself!”

Tarleton shook his head. “Nay, prentice boy. You must forget yourself—completely forget. You are now a lusty lad, and you must learn to talk like one, and act like one, too.” Tarleton roared with laughter.

“I see you intend to enjoy yourself at my expense,” Elizabeth coolly observed. Her remark only brought forth fresh rounds of mirth.

“Aye, at your costly expense! Remember, there will be a matter of payment.” He grinned at her wickedly.

“When we get to court!” she reminded him.

“Aye, we shall get to court.” Tarleton regarded her gravely for a moment. “That I do promise you.” Then he continued in a lighter vein. “And now, ‘tis time I work your transformation. Lady Elizabeth, be gone! And in her place you shall be…” His roguish gaze danced over her. “Robin! For you remind me of that bright little bird. Aye! That has a pleasing ring to it! Robin, the jester’s lad!”

Tarleton circled Elizabeth, his mind working quickly. He realized that what they were about to undertake was dangerous for them both. The roads were full of rogues and vagabonds who would make quick work of Lady Elizabeth should her true identity be discovered. Also, the law and the church took exceedingly dim views of women dressing in men’s clothing. He smiled to himself. The challenge of the gamble appealed to his impish nature, and the risk raised the stakes to an interesting level.

“What must I do to be your apprentice?” Elizabeth tried to swallow her apprehensions when she saw a devilish gleam come into his eye. Why do my insides melt when he looks at me like that?

“First, we must hide your clothing,” he said, going to the willow where she had left her wet things. “God’s teeth! How do you ladies manage to move about in such attire?”

“We usually do not bathe in them,” she reminded him with a smile.

Tarleton stuffed her finery, worth a scrivener’s annual wage, deep into the rotted trunk of a fallen tree. “Some bird or squirrel will find himself a most sumptuous nest there this winter. We’ll keep your cloak, for I think it will serve us well.” Tarleton rolled the damp woolen garment into a tight bundle, tying it together with some cord produced from his wondrous pack. “Tonight, if we are blessed, we shall be by a warm fire and can dry it out properly.”

“Oh, truly, Tarleton?” Elizabeth sighed, thinking of a fine inn, a hot bath, and a deep feather bed. Perhaps a good, brisk walk wouldn’t be too bad, after all.

“That we shall see.” Pursing his lips, he took out his dagger. “But there is one more thing I must do to turn you into a lad.”

“Wh-what?” Elizabeth faltered, eyeing the sharp blade as he came toward her. “What mean you?”

“Fear not, sweet Robin,” he reassured her. “Tis but your hair. I must cut it. No lad I know has such tresses.” He ran his hand gently through her disheveled locks. “I must fashion you into a gutter urchin.”

“Cut it?” Elizabeth’s lower lip trembled. “Gutter urchin?” This was more than she had bargained for. Her long golden hair was her pride. In fact, her maid had often teased her about her one vanity. “How short?”

“You are a boy now, remember?” Tarleton muttered gruffly. “So be a man and stop sniveling!”

Looking into his eyes, Elizabeth saw compassion there, though his words were rough to her ear. She nodded. Her disguise had to be perfect if it was going to work. “Do it quickly!” She gritted her teeth as she felt the cold steel against the back of her neck.

Elizabeth’s hair was so soft to his touch that Tarleton was tempted to forget himself then and there. A man could lose himself among such silken tresses. Tarleton winced as he stepped back to survey his choppy handiwork. Shorn of her gleaming locks, which lay like spun gold on the ground around her, Elizabeth looked like a poor, orphaned waif.

Tarleton felt his throat tighten. “‘Tis certain that I am not a barber, and praise the good Lord for that. When I can find a proper pair of shears, I promise to do a better piece of work.” He was thankful she could not see the butchery he had made of her.

Elizabeth gingerly touched the short, stubby ends around her ears.

“I suppose it will grow back soon?” she asked hopefully.

“Aye, when you are safe at Hampton Court, and this adventure is but a strange dream.” Tarleton cocked his head and tried to sound cheerful. “Besides, I understand the latest fashion is for short tight curls about the head.”

“Even so?” she whispered, rubbing the back of her neck.

“Aye, or you may boil me in pickle brine!” Tarleton gathered up the strands. “Now to dispose of these.”

He quietly pocketed one gleaming lock for himself, then, wrapping the rest tightly around a rock, he pushed the golden bundle deep into the muck at the edge of the river.

“Now, then, my boy, the sun is high, so let us be on our way.” Stamping out the embers of their fire, Tarleton scattered the remains. “If you were a true apprentice, you would be carrying the pack.”

“What say you?” Elizabeth’s jaw dropped as she saw him heft it upon one shoulder. The bundle looked quite heavy.

“But since this is your first day, I shall let you off easy. Take the cloak instead.” He tossed it to her.

Instead of catching it, Elizabeth ducked and the roll bounced off the oak behind her.

“How dare you!” she sputtered at his audacity.

“Pick it up, prentice, and dare me no further!” Tarleton grinned impishly as she snatched up the damp bundle. “You must learn to catch things, Robin, my lad. Things like balls, hoops, apples and coins—most especially silver coins. That, sweet lad, is our livelihood.”

“Am I to walk in bare feet?” she asked, stumbling after him, as they made their way back to the forest road. Sticks, sharp stones and tree roots seemed to spring into the path of her tender flesh.

“Aye, for now. I have no spare shoes and yours were ruined, but we shall try to remedy that soon. In the meantime, ‘twill do you no harm to go unshod. A lad of your age and station does not have soft, dainty feet.”

“And what age and station am I?” she muttered, hopping a little.

“What age was Lady Elizabeth when last seen?” Tarleton looked down at his charge with amusement.

“I am nineteen, soon to be twenty at Michaelmastide. Ouch!” she ended, stubbing her toe on a large rock.

“Nay, Robin does not know when he was born, but he looks to be all of twelve summers, I’d say. Old enough to be on his own, but still unbearded and of treble voice.”

“Twelve?” she murmured. It was too young to be out alone in the world.

Elizabeth remembered her own twelfth year. On her birthday, her father gave her a string of beautiful pearls that had once belonged to her mother, saying that Elizabeth was now old enough to take proper care of them. But she was still young enough to hide from her governess when there were lessons to be done. Elizabeth had never seen a street urchin, never given one a thought. When she was twelve, it seemed every day was filled with sunshine, a wealth of good things to eat, lively music, pretty clothes, warm hearths, lots of sociable hounds with cold wet noses, and shoes—most especially pretty shoes.

Tarleton’s warm voice broke in among these pleasant memories, pulling her back to the harsh reality of her plight.

“Remember, prentice. You must act the part, as well as look it. Your safety will depend upon it.”




Chapter Two (#ulink_a037d652-9034-5637-b3db-6006ea5e16af)


That first hour on the road south to Woodstock was the longest, most uncomfortable one that Elizabeth had ever experienced. The hard-packed dirt highway, full of ruts and strewn with stinking manure from all manner of livestock, presented new obstacles at every step. Her feet, accustomed to dainty satin slippers, were soon bruised and scratched. The damp roll of the bundled cloak soaked through Elizabeth’s borrowed shirt; its cord bit painfully into her shoulder.

On the other hand, Tarleton, striding beside her, seemed perfectly at ease as he whistled all manner of sprightly tunes. Determined to prove to the cheerful jester that she could keep pace with him, she concentrated on putting one aching foot in front of the other. Just when she thought she would pitch forward into the dirt and never rise again, Tarleton clapped her companionably on the back.

“We’ll take our ease here,” he said, pointing to a grassy bank by the side of the road. “No use in wearing out our soles.”

Elizabeth merely glared at this last witticism and wiped the perspiration out of her eyes with her sleeve. The grass felt cool and delicious between her throbbing toes. Collapsing in an exhausted heap against his pack, she idly watched the fluffy white clouds swirl lazily across the blue bowl of the sky above her. The caressing warmth of the noonday sun and the humming of a nearby bee made her feel drowsy. Her eyelids fluttered.

“Don’t go to sleep now, Robin Redbreast. We have miles to cover before sundown.” Tarleton stood over her, momentarily blocking out the sunlight. “I have a wineskin in the pack, if you care to move your head.”

With a small sigh of regret, Elizabeth sat up. Didn’t Tarleton ever feel tired, she wondered, watching him rummage through the canvas sack. Elizabeth gingerly massaged her burning feet.

“Ah! Here we are!” He waved a bulging wineskin in front of her face. “Finest vintage from your father’s cellars.”

“You stole our wine?” Elizabeth’s eyes widened at his audacity.

“Nay, nay! Stealing is a sin. Jane, your sweet cook, gave it to me as a gift for—” Tarleton stopped suddenly, his face reddening a bit.

“For what?” Elizabeth snapped. Jane, she felt, was a little too free with the manor’s provisions. “What did she buy from you?” Elizabeth prodded.

“She bought nothing of me. ‘Twas a gift for an hour or two of pleasure,” Tarleton replied, his eyes burning deeply into hers.

“Pleasure? You mean she…that is, you and she…” Elizabeth colored deep crimson at the thought of the manor’s reed-thin cook caught within Tarleton’s loving embrace. What sweet pleasures would a woman find there? What would it feel like to be held tightly against his chest? Elizabeth shook herself.

Tarleton, instead of looking properly shamefaced at his confession, laughed at her obvious discomfiture.

“Aye, my boy!” He arched his dark eyebrow meaningfully. “The pleasure of a woman’s sweet love! There’s nothing finer on God’s good earth. Nay, do not blush so prettily. A growing lad needs to know these things.” Lowering his voice, he added seriously, “You will hear talk like that—and far worse—on our travels, so best get used to it now.”

“I can’t help it,” Elizabeth replied, wishing she could wipe away her pink cheeks. “I have always blushed easily. Indeed, when I was growing up, my family often teased me just to see me turn red.”

Tarleton’s eyes softened with understanding. Elizabeth was, after all, a gently bred lady. How could he expect to turn her into a lusty lad in only a few hours? Smiling at her, he continued lightly, “Be of good cheer, Robin! Have some wine. Sunshine in each drop.” He held out the wineskin to her.

Trying not to notice the merry twinkle in his dark eyes, Elizabeth took the proffered bag and drank deeply. Tarleton was right, the sweetness of the vintage was a balm to her dry throat and raw nerves.

“Save a bit of that, my boy! ‘Tis all we have for now.” He drank from the bag, then corked it tightly. “Let us be gone.” Taking Elizabeth by the hand, Tarleton pulled her to her feet. He held her fingers in his a moment longer than necessary, then he gently draped the rolled cape over her shoulder once more. “It is not wise to tarry in one place too long,” he remarked, his voice husky.

A party of armed horsemen nearly ran them down in the midafternoon. They neither saw nor spoke to the jester and his scruffy apprentice by the side of the road as they left Tarleton and Elizabeth in the dust behind them.

“Did you mark their livery? Were they Sir Robert’s men?” Elizabeth asked, glad to see the mounted figures recede from sight.

“Nay, the poxy knaves went by too fast.” Tarleton smiled encouragingly at her. He did not tell Elizabeth that he recognized the lead rider. La Faye’s henchman had tried to cheat Tarleton at cards in the kitchen of Esmond Manor. So, Sir Robert was indeed on the move! Tarleton ruffled Elizabeth’s soft hair. “Foot it, my lad! We’ve some miles yet to go this day.”

“Where are we going?” Elizabeth asked wearily. Only the occasional farmer’s cottage dotted the distant fields. Visions of a hot bath danced maddeningly in her brain.

“To visit the Queen!” was her companion’s jaunty reply.

“I mean tonight. You said we were going to stay in a nice place tonight.” She stifled a yawn. She would not let Tarleton see how exhausted she was.

“Did I?” Tarleton cocked his head, then chuckled. “I do not recall that I said ‘nice.’ But at least ‘twill be a roof over our heads.”

“What is this place?” she asked warily. Something in the tone of his voice warned her that she wasn’t going to like his choice of accommodations.

“An inn of the lowest sort, I fear, but this route is not traveled by the upper crust of society. And I thank you for reminding me of something.” He stopped so suddenly in the middle of the road that Elizabeth almost ran headlong into him.

“What now?” she asked irritably, angry that Tarleton had deceived her with his earlier promise of a goodly inn.

“We shall be expected to sing for our supper.”

Elizabeth’s jaw dropped. “Sing in front of strangers? You are jesting!”

“No jests, I fear. ‘Tis the hazard of my calling—and now yours, prentice. So, as we walk along, I shall teach you some fine tavern ballads. ‘Twill lighten your heart—and help take your mind off your blisters.” Guiltily Tarleton watched her tighten her jaw, as Elizabeth shifted her weight on her swollen feet. He vowed to do something about her lack of shoes at the first opportunity. He admired her courage. Not once had she mentioned her obvious pain. “Listen to the words carefully.”

Clearing his throat, Tarleton broke into a rippling ditty. “She had a dark and rolling eye/And her hair hung down in ring-a-lets/She was a nice girl/A proper girl/But, one of the roving kind!”

The tune was merry enough, but the lyrics grew more and more bawdy with each successive verse, as the song extolled, with explicit detail, each and every one of the roving girl’s myriad charms. Elizabeth’s ears, as well as her cheeks, were burning by the end of the last chorus.

“You cannot possibly expect me to sing that!” she sputtered. “It’s awful! It’s… it’s shameful! And not for a lady at all!”

“You are right, chuck,” he agreed, daring to call her by a lighthearted term of affection. “‘Tis not fit for a proper lady’s ears, but we left the very proper Lady Elizabeth at the bottom of the river, remember? You, prentice, will stand high on a tabletop with your legs thrust boldly apart. You will throw back your head proudly, and you will sing that song at the top of your sweet lungs.”

“Never!” declared Elizabeth, glowering at him. “I shall die first.”

“No, you won’t. Who knows?” he teased her. “You might even get to like it. And just think what a surprise ‘twill be when you sing it for the ladies of the court!”

“I couldn’t!” she gasped. Had the jester completely lost his wits?

“Oh, but you could!” He grinned, amused by her reaction to his suggestion. “In private, of course. Truly, those fine ladies at court will enjoy it just as much as the ruffians on the road do. The only difference is the setting. Now, my lad, sing!” He began the first verse again, making Elizabeth repeat each line after him.

Over and over that beautiful, high summer afternoon, the jester and his stumbling apprentice practiced “that awful song” until Elizabeth had it note perfect. Tarleton was pleasantly surprised to discover that his reluctant pupil was gifted with a clear, pure voice.

“Where did you learn to sing?” he asked as they rested later that afternoon, eating more of his windfall apples.

“In France. I was taught in a convent there.”

“A convent?” Tarleton’s eyes widened. “Sweet angels! Were you a nun?”

“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 (#ulink_d54dc5e8-adb7-58b0-81a4-afd18370c04c)


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!”

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 (#ulink_f39aa335-c383-54d4-bec0-c28cac921cad)


“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.

“We shall see, Master Fool. We shall see.”

Tarleton stood up and stretched. A tarnished silver pin, stuck in the weathered brim of his cap, gleamed dully in the sunlight.

“What’s that?” Elizabeth asked, pointing to the trinket. She did not recall seeing it yesterday.

“What?” He glanced quickly down the road.

“That pin you wear. Is that another gift from some woman who was…grateful for your attentions?” Elizabeth bit her lip. Her voice sounded more shrewish than she had intended.

Touching it, Tarleton smiled.

“This? Nay, ‘twas no love token. I paid good money for it at Canterbury some years back. ‘Tis a pilgrim’s badge.”

Elizabeth gaped at him in surprise. The jester did not seem the religious type. “You went on a pilgrimage to pray at Canterbury?”

He laughed and winked at her. “Aye, chuck, to prey upon the pilgrims. I did right well by them, too. I bought this badge, in case of later need.” He dropped his hat in her lap.

“I don’t understand,” she said, running her finger over the worn design. “What later need?”

“To sell it for bread, if necessary. It’s made of good silver. Or…” He grinned wickedly. “In case I want to give it to a maiden. Ah, but she must be a very special maiden for me to part with that.”

Elizabeth could feel another one of those hated blushes starting. She chose to ignore his last remark and quickly changed the subject. “Why is it in the shape of an A? For St. Thomas à Becket?”

“Nay—for Amor. Amor vincit omnia. It means—”

“‘Love conquers all,’” Elizabeth easily translated.

Tarleton nodded his approval. “You know your Latin, I see.”

“And French. The nuns educated me well,” she added. She handed the hat back to him. “Your pin needs polishing.

“Why, then, prentice boy, you can do that this very evening. I have in mind a goodly house where we will spend this night.”

“Is this house as goodly as last night’s lodging?” Elizabeth arched her eyebrow at him. She was not going to be duped again.

“Nay, chuck.” He laughed at her new worldly wisdom. “Truly, it is a fine house. Not as large as Esmond Manor, but a welcome one all the same. I have entertained there many a time. And, to while away the miles, I have in mind another song to teach you.”

“Another one?” Elizabeth glared up at him, but he only laughed again.

“I should make you angry more often for, verily, your eyes flash a green lightning that is most wondrous to behold. But, in faith, the song is one that will please you. “Tis called the ‘Wooing of Robin Hood,’ and we shall sing it in duet. You be Maid Marian while I am bold Robin! ‘Tis a song we shall sing round the table tonight.”

“We are to entertain again tonight, Tarleton?” Elizabeth felt the return of butterflies to the pit of her stomach.

“Aye, prentice, and every night if we want to eat and sleep in safety.”

“But, Tarleton, you forget I have money. We could hire a carriage at the next inn we come to. There is no need for us to—”

Tarleton’s eyes glittered darkly. Grabbing her roughly by the shoulders, he shook her hard. “There is need! You still don’t realize all the dangers of traveling Her Majesty’s highways. Who would ride as your protection? Me? I am but one man—and a coward to boot. I own no sword, only a dagger. Would you hire other men—ones who just happened to be loitering about this inn you speak of? What makes you think you could trust strangers you hire? Ha! They would take your fine carriage to a lonely stretch of the road.”

Tarleton’s eyes narrowed as he thrust his face into hers. “Can you guess what your protectors would do then, fair lady?” His voice sank into an icy whisper. “First, they would take all your money, then your jewelry, then they would strip you of your fine satins and velvets. And when they saw your sweet body, do you think it would end there? Nay! They would throw you to the ground. Two of them would hold you down while the third one would—”

All the color drained from Elizabeth’s face. “Stop it!” She beat against his chest with her fists. Tears streamed down her face, making wide tracks through the dust from the road. “Stop tormenting me so! Please!” Her voice choked as great racking sobs engulfed her.

Gathering her into his arms, Tarleton held her snugly. “Hush, sweetling! That will not happen to you—not while I live.” His lips brushed the top of her head. The soft silk of her hair set him afire. Torturing himself, he kissed her golden crown again. “You are safe in your dirty face and ragged shoes. Dry your eyes, chuck.”

“You frightened me,” she mumbled into the folds of his woolen jacket. He smelled of wood smoke, meadow grass and new-turned earth. She relaxed within the protective warmth of his arms.

“Aye! I meant to frighten you, and I won’t apologize for it. ‘Twas to make you understand the dangers, sweet one.”

A hot fountain of desire boiled up from the deep wellspring inside him. Tarleton quickly released Elizabeth before she became aware of his body’s need. “Methinks you should visit a pump. And there will be one anon, I promise.” He coughed to cover the huskiness in his voice.



Once the jester and his slim apprentice turned onto the main highway between Oxford and Coventry, they encountered many fellow travelers from all classes of society.

A young couple, newly married, were journeying to the groom’s father’s house. The bride looked no more than sixteen, and she blushed shyly when Tarleton kissed her on the cheek, wishing them the blessing of many children. Elizabeth watched the newlyweds with an envious pang in her heart. Sir Robert La Faye had never once looked at Elizabeth like the boy did his bride. She sighed wistfully as the couple continued on their way, hand in hand.

“A penny for your thoughts, for they must be rich indeed,” Tarleton asked.

“Did her father arrange her marriage?”

“That lass? Nay, ‘tis a love match. There’s not a dowry to be had of her, save her sweet smile. Why?” Though Tarleton suspected he knew the answer.

“I pray nightly for a husband who would make me as happy as that,” she replied.

“And to that prayer I say amen,” Tarleton replied softly.

A peddler was a welcome chance encounter in the early afternoon. Grizzled, with a steel gray beard and twinkling blue eyes, he hailed them as long-lost friends.

“Tarleton, you old rogue! The devil hasn’t caught ye yet?” These were his first words of greeting, then he spied Elizabeth. “What changeling is this? Does he look any better when he’s been washed?”

“Aye, Patch, he does. “Tis my prentice, Robin. Mind your manners, boy, and give Master Patch here a pretty bow.”

Elizabeth played her part as she was told. Tarleton’s recent warning about the hazards of the road was still fresh in her mind.

“What’s the news, old friend?” Tarleton asked him, when the three of them were comfortably settled behind a low stone wall in a nearby field. “Does the Queen still keep court at Hampton?”

“Aye, she was there a fortnight past, and I hear tell she will tarry there until after the harvest festival,” Patch answered with a broad grin.

The peddler then recounted a long, rambling story concerning the latest gossip about the Queen and her favorite courtier, the Earl of Leicester. While he spoke, Patch shared with them some cold chicken. “Fresh killed yesterday,” he added with a knowing wink.

Elizabeth wondered if that meant he had stolen the hen, but by now she had enough sense to keep quiet. The origin of the chicken was of no importance, as long as she could munch contentedly on a plump, tasty leg portion. Tarleton’s wine was mellow, and she was glad of the opportunity to rest her weary feet, still tender from yesterday’s barefoot walk. The grass beneath her was soft and sweet smelling, the sun warm, and soon Elizabeth drifted into a comfortable nap.

“Come, Robin Redbreast!” Tarleton’s laughing voice intruded into her dreams, which were filled with luscious strawberries, rich cream, gardens full of sweet-smelling roses, and a tall man with merry eyes and brown curly hair who held her tightly in his arms.

Elizabeth stretched and wiggled her toes. “Was I asleep?”

“Aye, and snoring,” said Patch, though his eyes regarded her kindly. “Be of good cheer, boy! Tarleton is a villain of the first and last degree, but there’s no better man to be with on the road.”

“So he keeps telling me, Master Patch,” Elizabeth threw a wink at Tarleton, who rolled his eyes in surprise.

“Well, good day to ye then!” With that, the peddler leapt lightly over the wall, despite the heavy wooden case of wares he carried. “And, Tarleton,” he called cheerily, “keep a good eye on that young scamp of yours. I prophesy that he will be a lion among the ladies yet!”

“That I will, Patch! Truly, that I will!” Tarleton promised with a rolling laugh.

Then the peddler struck off in the opposite direction, whistling a merry tune.

“What is the thing you most dearly wish to have?” queried Tarleton, cocking his head, looking like Puck, the faeries’ jester.

“A good meal, a hot bath and a soft bed!” Elizabeth sighed wistfully.

“And what else?” he prodded, his eyes twinkling.

“Clean clothes, a horse, and… and—”

“Will this do in the meantime?” Tarleton held out his hand. Cradled in his palm was a plain wooden comb, decorated with a small painted rose.

“Oh, Tarleton!” Joy bubbled in her laughter as she took his gift.

“Don’t cry! Tears are… unmanly, prentice!” Trying to sound stern, Tarleton was secretly pleased by her warm reaction. How Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled like emeralds for just a simple comb!

“But where-?”

Tarleton grinned broadly. “Patch! He gave me a good bargain while you were off woolgathering.”

Elizabeth turned pale, her laughter caught in her throat. “You didn’t tell him that I’m a woman, did you?”

“Fret not! Old Patch knows I’ve an eye for a pretty face, and that I am always wasting my money on fripperies for them,” he remarked with suppressed pride of his accomplishment.

Elizabeth eagerly used her new treasure. As she combed the tangles out of her hair, she sighed, realizing that her boyish guise hid whatever beauty she might claim. “I thank you for the gift, good Tarleton, though my face is far from pretty at this moment.”

Roughly he shouldered his pack. “No more of this nonsense, prentice. They will have dined at Addison Hall afore we get there,” he told her gruffly.

“Addison Hall?”

“Where we shall sleep tonight, if we do not linger here.” Grasping Elizabeth around the waist, Tarleton swung her back over the wall. He marveled at how light she was and how easily his hands fit around her. How he longed to hold her in his embrace!



“By the book! Tis the finest goat that I’ve ever seen!”

Leaning over another low stone wall, Tarleton regarded a large shaggy goat, which stood placidly not ten paces away in a close-cropped field.

“Hmm?” Elizabeth glanced at the animal with a bored eye.

“I said, that is an exceedingly handsome goat.” Tarleton put the pack down. “I am of a mind to ride him!”

“What? Now?” Looking at the sun, Elizabeth wondered the time, and how many more miles it was to the “goodly house.” She thought longingly of a hot bath. “Why, in heaven’s good name? It doesn’t look very friendly.”

Tarleton’s brown eyes sparkled with devilment. “Because, sweet-faced youth, riding a goat is part of my act, and that animal there is an excellent specimen. Besides, I need the practice.”

“Go on, then.” Elizabeth tried to stifle a yawn. “I will mind the pack.”

Tarleton swung his legs over the wall. “Be sure to watch me. You’ve never seen the like before!”

Advancing on the wary goat, Tarleton made odd clucking noises. The goat perked his ears. Bounding onto its back, Tarleton hooked his legs around the surprised animal’s belly and gripped the horns in his hands. The goat took off at a trot, Tarleton encouraging it with whooping and arm waving.

Despite her resolve to ignore the jester’s antics, Elizabeth could not keep a straight face. Each time the goat and his rider bounced past her, Elizabeth laughed even harder. After a few more circuits, Tarleton jumped easily off its back.

“Your turn!” He pulled the protesting goat over to the wall.

Horrified, Elizabeth retreated behind the pack. “You can’t be serious!”

No, sweet lady, I’m not. Tarleton continued to smile charmingly at her while his mind whirled in a maddening confusion. He realized he was growing too fond of her. He needed the lady to put him firmly back where he belonged—in a roadside ditch.

Meanwhile, the goat, rolling his yellow eyes in a threatening manner, angrily pawed the soft ground. Tarleton cocked his head. A stray curl of brown hair fell across his forehead. “What’s the matter, chuck? Afraid?” he taunted. “Isn’t he fine enough for you?” Holding his breath, Tarleton waited for her just reproof.

Elizabeth wrinkled her nose. “I’ve never ridden a goat!”

“Ah! I knew your education had been sadly lacking in certain areas.”

“And I am not about to start now!” She tilted up her chin defiantly.

Tarleton’s eyes narrowed. All she needed was one more little push. He hoped she wouldn’t slap his face—at least, not too hard. “Prentice, you misunderstood me. I am telling you to climb over that wall now, and get up on this fine steed’s back!”

“You’re addlepated!” The corner of her mouth twisted with exasperation. “Why?”

Tarleton noted with appreciation that Elizabeth’s eyes darkened to a delightful shade of green. In spite of himself, he found he was quite enjoying this confrontation.

“For two reasons, because you are my apprentice and I am your master, and because we might be entertaining someplace where it will be expected of you to ride a goat. So hop to it! Besides…” His voice sank into a seductive whisper. “I’ll wager you a whole shilling that you cannot remain on his back for more than a minute. You can pay me when we reach Hampton Court.”

Elizabeth stared at Tarleton, then at the goat. There was a definite challenge in both their eyes. Gritting her teeth, she tossed her head. “Agreed! But I warn you, Master Tarleton, I may surprise you. One shilling it is—out of your wages!” She clambered over the wall.

“I’ll take my chances.” He hid his surprise at her courage. “All you have to do is hang on. Up you go!” He swung her lightly on top of the uncooperative animal.

Unlike a horse, the goat’s back sloped away from his rigid spine. It was more uncomfortable to sit astride him than to ride a sidesaddle.

“Hook your legs around him, and cross your ankles underneath,” Tarleton instructed, biting back his laughter.

“My legs are not that long,” Elizabeth muttered tersely.

“Then hug his sides with your knees. Get a firm grip around his horns.” Tarleton wondered if he had overplayed this game. What if she fell and broke her neck? “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Aye,” she answered. “If you can do it, so can I!”

Tarleton let go and stepped back. For a split second the goat stood still, then he tried to shake the girl off his back. Setting her jaw, Elizabeth tightened her knees. The goat backed up several paces, then whirled away across the field, taking Elizabeth on the ride of her life.

Every tooth rattled in her head. She felt herself slipping to one side or the other. Elizabeth gripped the animal tighter. She heard Tarleton’s voice encouraging her as they pranced past him. Or was he encouraging the goat?

Sweet Jesu! What heart and spirit! Tarleton was about to tell Elizabeth that her wager was won when a horse whinnied behind him.

As he turned his head, Tarleton’s stomach lurched sickeningly. Four heavily armed men drew up to the wall where Tarleton sat. Riding at their head, Tarleton recognized Sir Robert La Faye.

Four to one! The odds are not of my liking, but I will play this hand. The jester prayed that Elizabeth would stay at the other end of the field until he could get rid of Sir Robert. So far, Elizabeth had fooled everyone, but here was the one man who knew her. He might recognize her by her voice or by her brilliant golden hair. If he did, Tarleton’s days as the Queen’s favorite jester would be cut extremely short, and Elizabeth’s days as an unhappily wedded wife would just begin.

Jumping off the wall, Tarleton swept the fat lord a deep bow. “God give you a good day, sir!”

“Good day.” Sir Robert nodded curtly. Behind him, one of his men chortled.

“Look you yonder, m’lord! ‘Tis a rare sight to be sure!”

Sir Robert swung his lazy gaze from Tarleton’s face to the field beyond, where Elizabeth hung practically upside down on the racing goat.

Tarleton’s throat tightened as he watched her. He licked his dry lips. “‘Tis my apprentice, my lord. I am teaching him how to manage a goat.” Seeking to draw their attention back to himself, Tarleton bantered on. “I am Tarleton, the Queen’s own jester, so please your worship.” He swept them another elegant bow in the dust.

“Did you say Tarleton?” Sir Robert’s nasal voice whined. His piggish eyes narrowed at the player, then he grinned unpleasantly. “I saw your performance some days ago at Esmond Manor.”

“Aye, your worship! ‘Twas at your betrothal feast, as I recall.”

Tarleton knew La Faye far better than a chance meeting at a manor home. For the past six months, this bloated peacock had been under the eye of the Queen’s chief minister and spy master, Sir Francis Walsingham. Already the noose around the supporters of the imprisoned Queen of Scots grew tighter. Not three weeks ago, John Ballard had been apprehended and confessed under torture to a plot to free Queen Mary under the leadership of one Anthony Babington, a close friend of Lord La Faye. Sir Robert, the younger son of a noble family, had gambled away most of his fortune early on. Though his part in the Catholic conspiracy was not obvious, Sir Robert’s desperate need for money was. Under Walsingham’s direction, Tarleton had been sent to ferret out La Faye’s whereabouts and intentions. The jester’s chance encounter with Elizabeth was an unforeseen roll of the dice. Then there was the matter of Sir Thomas Hay ward’s too-sudden death.

“My congratulations, your worship!” Tarleton bowed a third tune with many an exaggerated flourish. Keep looking at me and not at my apprentice, you hog in satin!

“You remember well, jester,” Sir Robert remarked unpleasantly. The man’s voice made Tarleton’s blood run cold. It was like holding a conversation with a loathsome toad.

Sir Robert leaned over his horse’s neck, his little eyes boring into Tarleton. “Now, tell me, player, do you remember Lady Elizabeth Hayward, my betrothed?”

“Aye, sir, a most fair and beauteous lady!”

“Have you seen or heard of my lady?” La Faye’s voice betrayed more anger than concern. “She has been lost these three days, and I do fear greatly for her safety.”

So do If “A beautiful lady lost?” The jester shook his head and made a show of sympathy. “I understand your concern, my lord, but, in truth, I’ve seen no lady upon this road. Wait! Earlier today, a fine carriage passed us, going to London, I think. The curtains were drawn, so I could not see who was inside, but it was accompanied by six or eight outriders.”

“Was there a coat of arms on the door?” Sir Robert’s eyes narrowed even more. He almost foamed at the mouth.

The sight of the nobleman’s barely contained rage against the lady convinced Tarleton he was right to disguise Elizabeth. Never would he let her fall into this brute’s grasp!

“I know not, sir,” Tarleton answered innocently. “I was more anxious to leap out of its way. The carriage was traveling very fast. Perchance it held the lady whom you seek?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Tarleton saw Elizabeth losing her grip.

“Ho, Sir Robert!” the nearest horseman called to his employer. “The jester’s lad is nearly under the hooves! I have not seen the like since the Bartholomew Fair!”

“I do not recall you had an apprentice, jester,” Sir Robert remarked, looking over Tarleton’s head at the two figures in the field.

A cold trickle of sweat coursed down Tarleton’s neck. “He is new, your worship. He stayed in the stable at Esmond Manor. I am attempting to train him. Today’s lesson is riding a goat.” Tarleton gamboled an improvised jig to catch La Faye’s attention. “Now it is one thing if the goat were experienced. It is another thing if the rider were experienced. But as you can see, neither this goat nor this boy has any experience at all.”

“He’s-fallen off!” shouted one of the horsemen. “Ride him again, boy!” he called. “‘Tis a rich diversion, eh, my lord?”

Elizabeth had not fallen off. The goat, growing tired of the sport, had dug its forefeet into the ground and bucked his hapless rider over his head. Elizabeth landed in the black muck of a large pig wallow with a resounding splat. Her head spinning, she dimly heard the voices by the wall. Wiping the thick, smelly mud out of her eyes and cursing Tarleton under her breath, she saw the jester with a group of horsemen who were waving and shouting.

How like Tarleton! she fumed, struggling to get a footing in the slippery mess. No doubt he is passing the hat!

Elizabeth had just regained her footing when the goat lowered his head and charged, butting her back into the mire. This elicited even more cheers from her distant audience.

“Robin!” Tarleton called to her. “Up, lad, and ride him again. Sir Robert La Faye finds your antics most amusing. Ride him again, I say, or ‘twill be the worse for you this eventide!”

Sir Robert! Elizabeth’s heart nearly stopped inside her. Squinting through her mud-tipped lashes, she gasped when she saw that it was he, and with a guard of wicked-looking villains! Immediately she understood Tarleton’s ploy. She must play her part as if her life depended upon it—her life and Tarleton’s. She glared at the goat, who pawed the ground nearby.

“Don’t move, you vile brute,” she ordered the creature.

Elizabeth slowly circled the wary animal. Every time she lunged to grab him around the neck, he danced out of her way. Slipping several more times, she completely coated herself with the foul mud. She heard the rough laughter of the men.

“Stop your shambling, you toad-wart!” Tarleton shouted at her. “The gentleman wants a good show. Ride that goat, or I’ll whip you within an inch of your life!”

“Your lad had best lie with the pigs this night,” Sir Robert remarked with an amused chuckle when he saw Elizabeth fall flat again.

“Aye, that he will, for I hope to lie with sweeter company,” leered Tarleton, though his eyes remained fixed on Elizabeth. By now, she resembled a walking mud figure, her distinctive golden hair plastered with the black slime.

“Then we shall leave you to your… training, jester.” Sir Robert tossed a coin to Tarleton. “Here’s for a strop of ale. If you hear of my lady, leave word for me at the Rose and Crown in Woodstock.”

“You are most generous, your worship!” Tarleton bowed deeply again, as the would-be husband and his minions rode off. “And may the devil take you down to hell!” he muttered after them.

“Come, Robin! Stop teasing that poor beast!” Tarleton called to his mud-caked charge. Elizabeth walked wearily back to the wall. Tarleton’s eyes softened when he saw the streaks of tears on her face.

“Have they truly gone?” She shivered.

“Aye, my pet, but they left you with this!” He held out a silver shilling. “Sir Robert has covered my wager “

Numbly Elizabeth looked into Tarleton’s liquid brown eyes. Giving her a mischievous wink, he burst into one of his deep, rolling laughs.

“You are a success, sweet Robin Redbreast!” He tossed his cap in the air. “Not even your sweet mother in heaven would recognize you!”

Elizabeth looked down at herself, then back at Tarleton, then at the large coin he flipped to her. His merry humor was infectious.

“What a supreme jest!” Tarleton capered up and down. “You made your dearest betrothed look a perfect ass. Sir Robert did not recognize his true love even when she was right under his nose! His very dainty nose!”

Slowly Elizabeth smiled as she thought of Sir Robert’s unwitting mistake. How embarrassed that popinjay would be when she told her tale to the Queen and the court! Catching Tarleton’s overflowing mirth, she gave herself up to gales of laughter.

“Oh, Tarleton, it was a goodly trick, wasn’t it?” Her green eyes danced merrily. “But, Sir Jester, you still owe me a shilling of your own!”

“Aye, chuck, I will pay you my just debts anon,” Tarleton agreed. Jesu, how I would love to pay thee with kisses! He jerked himself back to reality. “Now, my muddy prentice, we must get you to Addison Hall.” Tarleton’s eyes crinkled into a smile. “Be of good cheer, chuck! ‘Tis just over that hill.”

Under her layer of mud, Elizabeth sighed happily. A bath at last!




Chapter Five (#ulink_eb5b0597-f58c-5fa3-908f-278cae0c528c)


“By my troth, ‘tis Dickon!”

A buxom woman, her face cherry red from bending over steaming pots, bounded down the stone steps of Addison Hall’s kitchen. Grabbing Tarleton in her thick arms, she hugged him fiercely.

“‘Tis a month of Sundays since you last showed your ugly face!” She gripped him even harder. “I thought ye had forgotten your Peg. Come now, give us a friendly greeting!” Shamelessly she planted a lusty kiss on Tarleton’s grinning lips. He returned the salutation with equal force and ardor.

Elizabeth stared at the unlikely pair with surprise and some dismay. She’s old enough to be his mother! Several scullery maids hung about the door, tittering at the couple. At last, the kiss ended, though the huge woman still clung to Tarleton’s waist as if she owned him.

“And what company are ye keeping nowadays, Dickon my love?” Peg fastened her gaze on Elizabeth. “By the stars! He’s black as an Ethiop.”

Grinning, Tarleton disengaged himself from the rotund cook. “‘Tis my new apprentice, Robin.”

“Well, he’ll not set foot in my kitchen until he’s been washed.” The woman shot an appraising look at Elizabeth, who wished she were miles away from the cook’s critical stare.

Tarleton put his hand under Elizabeth’s chin, forcing her to look up, though his touch was more of a caress than a manly grip. “When the boy is clean and fed, you shall see he has the sweetest face in the shire. Good Peg, do you think your master and mistress would care for a bit of song and story this eve?” He beguiled the woman with his winsome eyes.

Peg laughed, her whole body shaking with the effort. “Ye know they would, you rogue! Poor Sir William has been sore afflicted with pains in his joints of late. Your presence will glad his heart as it gladdens mine!”

Peg looked at Tarleton as if she would like to coat him in honey and eat him on the spot. Elizabeth’s ire prickled in her throat. That woman was far too old for Tarleton and not at all pretty.

Tarleton grinned like a schoolboy. “Good! Then there is one more favor I’ll ask of thee, sweetheart.” He put his arm about her ample shoulders and nibbled on her ear.

Elizabeth pretended to be interested in a large orange cat that lounged nearby in the late afternoon sun. Tarleton is making a lewd spectacle of himself.

“And what is this favor?” Peg asked with a sly wink.

“My prentice is wearing the only clothes he owns which are not fit—”

“Not even for rags, I should say!” Peg sniffed.

“And he cannot appear in the hall in them.”

“To be sure, he will not!” Peg pronounced with authority.

Does she mean to put me in the barn? Ha! I’d like to see her try it! Elizabeth tried to curb her annoyance.

Tarleton squeezed Peg’s shoulder. “Take pity on my poor lad, for he is lately orphaned. Could you find him a suit of clothes, for sweet charity’s sake, and for this?” He dropped a shilling down her ample bodice.

Pegshivered with pleasure. “Sweet Saint Ann, you are a merry rogue and no mistaking it, Dickon! Young Ned is about your boy’s size. Tess!” She called over her shoulder to one of the gawking maids. “Fetch some of Ned’s things quickly afore this lad catches his death of cold. Aye, and bring a towel!”

The maid, all giggles and black tresses, disappeared inside.

Elizabeth perked up at the mention of a towel. A bath! A hot, steaming bath with buckets of water, scented with oil of roses. And fine milled soap! Closing her eyes, she sighed pleasurably at the thought.

“And the rest of ye? What are ye staring at?” Peg bellowed at the kitchen staff. “Back to your work.” The servants scattered like autumn leaves in a wind.

“Leave the lad to Tess, my sweet,” Peg crooned to Tarleton, not even glancing at the filthy, fuming Elizabeth. “The minx will make him look like a Christian again, and perhaps teach him a few things in the bargain!”

Underneath her layers of dirt and mud, Elizabeth blanched. She flashed a beseeching look at Tarleton.

The jester chuckled. “Nay, Peg. Though Tess is a good girl, I think she’ll frighten the boy.” Tarleton wiggled his dark brows at Peg and smiled his best imp’s grin. “Give him time though, and there will be no lass in England safe from him. Am I not his teacher—in all manner of skills?” Tarleton kissed Peg deeply again to stop any further conversation.

Elizabeth winced with envy. She could almost taste that kiss herself.

Tess, looking flushed and breathless, returned at that moment with a pair of gray breeches, black stockings, a clean white shirt and a brown woolen waistcoat. A piece of coarse toweling hung over her arm. Tarleton disengaged himself from Peg with a fond caress to her wide bottom. Laughing at the cook’s crude rejoinder, he led Elizabeth toward the stable.

“You are passing quiet, Robin Redbreast,” he remarked cheerfully.

“I am amazed, and know not what to say!” Elizabeth stuttered. “Is Peg your mother or aunt?” she asked hopefully.

Tarleton exploded in laughter. “Nay, chuck! Peg is an old friend of mine. She took me in when I had nothing to my name except a ready wit. She was kind to me when I needed some kindness.”

“And in return? You are… kind to her?” Elizabeth had not meant to sound so direct.

Tarleton raised his brow thoughtfully. “Aye, I am kind to her betimes,” he answered coolly. He pointed at the horse trough. “Jump in!”

Elizabeth stared with horror at the cold, scummy water. Green slime coated the wooden sides.

“Surely you are jesting, Tarleton!”

He laughed at her confusion. “‘Tis no jest. This is where we servants bathe. Did you think I was going to ask Peg to draw you a warm hip bath by the fire?”

Elizabeth bit her lower lip. She would never admit she had hoped for something exactly like that. She glared at him.

“I simply won’t get into that dirty thing! You can’t make me—!”

Before she could utter another word of protest, Tarleton picked her up around the waist. Snatching off her shoes, he threw her into the trough.

“How dare you!” Elizabeth sputtered when she rose to the surface, her green eyes blazing.

Tarleton only grinned as he held her down. “Hold your nose, or you’ll regret it.” He grabbed the top of her head firmly.

“No, knave! You are the one who will regre—” The rest of her threat was drowned as Tarleton ducked her under the water again. He rubbed her hair vigorously. She surfaced coughing.

“Vile!” She spat out some of the water she had inhaled.

Tarleton stood back, regarding his sopping apprentice. Elizabeth’s bright golden hair gleamed once more, and the chill water had brought a becoming pink to her cheeks. Her eyes, however, looked murderous, which only heightened the green color he found so enticing.

“Well, churl?” She glowered at him, shaking the water out of her eyes and hair. “Are you satisfied now? Have I given you enough entertainment for one afternoon?” She would not add anything more to his pleasure by letting him see how badly he had humiliated her.

“You look your proper self,” he said approvingly. “Take my hand.”

Elizabeth briefly considered pulling him into the water with her, and letting him have a taste of his own medicine. Then she sensibly realized that he had no other clothing save what was now clinging wetly around her. Instead, she grasped his hand and hauled herself carefully out of the trough.

Tarleton drew in his breath when he saw the wet shirt plastered transparently to Elizabeth. Her nipples, hardened by the cold water, jutted proudly against the fabric. Tarleton swallowed the knot in his throat as he felt a hot stirring within him. Under her boyish disguise, Lady Elizabeth was lush, ripe and ready for plucking. He itched to peel away her wet wrappings and savor her obvious charms. It would be so easy, here in the darkened barn, with an inviting bed of fresh hay just behind them.

Fool! the voice of sanity screamed inside him. She’s no wench to tumble in a barn, but the Queen’s own goddaughter! Averting his eyes with an unaccustomed burst of selfcontrol, Tarleton roughly draped the towel around her.

“Cross your arms in front of you, or else you’ll reveal your identity to all the world,” he growled, his voice low and husky.

Elizabeth looked down at herself. Her ears burned with embarrassment.

“Where shall I change?” she asked in a muffled voice, not daring to raise her eyes to him.

Tarleton scooped up her shoes. “Follow me,” he commanded gruffly as he led her to a small storage shed. “In here. Dress quickly, I’ll keep a lookout for any prying eyes.”

“Be sure you do, Master Tarleton!” Snatching Ned’s clothes out of his hand, Elizabeth swept regally into the shadowy hut. “Watch especially your own!”

Tarleton laughed ruefully. Half-seriously, he considered throwing himself into the trough to douse the fire in his loins. How many more days of this sweet temptation could he stand?

“Do you still have my comb?” Elizabeth asked when she emerged from the shed.

Glancing over her, Tarleton grinned his approval. He could deal with her far better when she looked like a boy, than when she was revealed as a woman. “Aye, prentice.” He cleared his throat. “Now let us rehearse for tonight’s performance. Sir William and Lady Margaret Fairfax are good patrons of mine. If we please them, they will pay us right well.” He spread out the wet breeches and shirt across a pile of hay to dry in the late afternoon’s sun. Then, for the next hour, Tarleton schooled his apprentice in a bit of juggling, the verses of a new, witty song, and the punch lines for a few mildly bawdy jokes. Afterward they reappeared at the kitchen door.

“‘Tis a transformation sure!” exclaimed Peg, beaming with pleasure at Elizabeth. “Who would have guessed what was hiding under all that mud!”

“Oh, he’s a pretty lad!” Tess giggled and continued cutting up turnips and plopping them into a simmering pot. Several of the other maids joined her, simpering and casting appreciative looks at Elizabeth.

“Leave off teasing the child and be about your business!” snapped Peg, her maternal instincts obviously aroused. “Here, my pet, sit down by the fire and have a cup of sweet cider. ‘Tis fresh from the press.”

“What’s the news you’ve heard, Tarleton?” asked one of the lounging serving men.

Tarleton pulled up a stool to the trestle table. “Not much to tell, except that the Italians dress too loudly, the French eat too much, the Dutch belch rudely, and the Spanish are all whoresons!” he answered merrily.

Peg placed a bowl of hot water and a sliver of soap in front of Tarleton. He grinned with pleasure as he lathered his face generously.

Elizabeth stared enviously at the soap. She certainly could have used some of that, even in a horse trough.

“Shake a leg, Robin! Fetch my mirror from the pack.” Tarleton spoke through the soapsuds. “Now, boy, hold it steady for me while I shave.” Tarleton drew out his dagger with a flourish, and proceeded to scrape at his short, bristly whiskers.

Watching him carefully, Elizabeth winced when the dagger passed closely across his throat. The rasp of the blade against his tanned skin set her teeth on edge. The knife was so sharp that one little slip could spell disaster.

Noting her concern, Tarleton winked reassuringly at her. A bevy of maids cooed at his fresh, handsome appearance.

The merriment was cut short by the arrival of Master Brownlow, the steward, who solemnly greeted Tarleton as an equal, then announced that dinner was to be served up immediately in the hall.

“Come!” He beckoned to Tarleton. “His lordship wants you presently.”

Tarleton nodded to Elizabeth. “Get my cap and motley, boy!” Snapping his fingers, he pointed to the pack.

Elizabeth blinked for a moment at his sudden command, then remembering her role, she returned his nod. She shook out Tarleton’s multicolored jacket—its many brass bells jingled merrily as if they were glad to be released from their dark prison. Standing on a low stool, she held the coat open as Tarleton drew it over his wide shoulders. He winked mischievously at her as she tied the strings of his threepointed coxcomb cap under his chin. His face was so close to hers she could have kissed his lips without moving. She was seized by a sudden desire to do so. Peg’s round laughter brought Elizabeth to her senses.

“That’s my Tarleton!” Peg beamed like a proud mother. “Her Majesty is fortunate that I let her borrow you now and then, my pretty duck!”

“Aye!” Tarleton bowed to the cook with a flourish. “Shall I tell the Queen you said so when I am next at court?”

“Get on with ye! And make the master laugh. He is much in need of good cheer these days!” She waved them out with a soup ladle.

Following the steward, the jester and his apprentice passed through a number of narrow, dark corridors and up a flight of stone stairs. After traversing several more passageways, they came to a thick, paneled door.

“Wait here until I call for you, Dickon,” The steward vanished through the portal.

“How does Addison Hall look to you, prentice? Is it as grand as Esmond Manor?” Tarleton whispered to Elizabeth.

Elizabeth touched the nearby wall with her finger thoughtfully. “I am not sure. All these hallways look very mean, indeed. There are no tapestries, nor carved panels, nor pictures, nor any decoration on the walls. Perhaps Sir William has come upon hard times.”

Tarleton chuckled quietly. “Nay, you have seen but the backstairs. Have you never been backstairs at Esmond?”

Embarrassed by the truth, Elizabeth bit her lower lip. “In sooth, I don’t think I could locate the kitchens in my own house.” She reddened a bit at the admission.

Tarleton looked down at her and stroked her smooth cheek with his knuckle. “Then, perhaps, you may want to find them when you return there,” he said softly.

Elizabeth shivered. Tarleton’s touch was so gentle, the merest whisper, yet the place on her cheek felt as if he had branded her.

Before she could sort out her distracted feelings, the door suddenly opened, and Brownlow poked his head through. “Ready?”

Casting a quick smile at Elizabeth, Tarleton nodded to the steward. “Bluff and bluster!” he whispered to her.

Brownlow threw open the door wider, and announced them in a majestic voice, “My lord and ladies, Tarleton, the Queen’s own jester!”

Tarleton skipped into the great hall with a merry jingling of his bells. Elizabeth scampered behind him. In the center of the hall, Tarleton executed a deep court bow to the head table.

“Good my lord and you, most gracious lady, give me your leave to rhyme, for I’ve come to show activity upon this merry time—”

As Tarleton launched into his opening speech, Elizabeth quietly slipped into a shadowed recess, where she could observe the great hall of Addison. It was a fine room, richly paneled in polished wood with a high, vaulted ceiling of huge blackened beams. Large friendly fires roared in the monstrous stone fireplaces at each end, taking away the chill of the late summer evening. The upper servants, as well as members of Sir William’s extended family, which seemed to include a number of elderly ladies, sat at two tables below the head table. Above them was Sir William Fairfax, an old, white-haired gentleman. His wife, Lady Margaret, looked twenty years his junior. Beside them were another elderly lady and a thin, reedy-looking cleric, who watched Tarleton’s antics with his lips pursed in disapproval.

Elizabeth could see that Sir William did not look well, but he managed to smile weakly and thump his knife upon the table in appreciation of Tarleton’s merry capers. Lady Margaret, though she smiled with her lips, was clearly bored even though Tarleton was being witty and highly amusing—a far cry from last night’s performance at the disreputable Blue Boar.

“May I have your leave to present to your lordship my new apprentice?” Thrning, Tarleton beckoned to Elizabeth.

Taking a deep breath to steady a sudden flash of nerves, she skipped lightly to the center of the room. Feeling the slight pressure of Tarleton’s hand on her back, Elizabeth bowed in her best imitation of his court bow.

“This is young Robin Redbreast, for he sings like a bird. As I perceive you have been dining upon roast swan, perhaps you would care to hear the bird’s side of the story?” Tarleton stepped back, leaving Elizabeth to sing the “Lament of the Roast Swan.”

Elizabeth accompanied her verses with a great deal of comic mime, which Tarleton had taught her in the barn that afternoon. At the end, she again bowed to the warm applause of the company. Sir William seemed especially pleased. Even Lady Margaret looked interested. Tarleton bounded to her side.





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