The next day dawned gray and dank. The wind blew an autumn chill from the north, heralding the end of summer and the promise of the cold winter months ahead. After a filling breakfast of pease porridge, coddled eggs with onion, and crusty bread dripping with butter and honey, Elizabeth and Tarleton made preparations for their departure from Addison Hall.
“Take good care of your charge, Dickon, then come home to me,” Peg whispered fiercely in Tarleton’s ear as she kissed him goodbye.
“I shall do the first, Peg. As to the other, only the Fates know for certain.” Returning her kiss warmly, he looked at Elizabeth, who held a willow basket filled with generous provisions from Peg’s larder. “And why are you standing there, boy? We’ve miles to cover before that storm catches us.” Whistling a merry tune and snapping his fingers to his apprentice, he set a brisk pace down the lane toward the highway.
“Why does Peg call you Dickon?” Elizabeth asked Tarleton as they headed south once more.
“‘Tis my name!” Tarleton grinned at his companion. “My Christian name is Richard—hence, Dickon. Did you think I had but one name?”
Elizabeth nodded ruefully. “I fear I did. I never thought of jesters having real names. Shall I call you Dickon?”
Tarleton’s eyes grew narrow. Just hearing her say his familiar name made her seem far too accessible. He needed to maintain some distance lest they both regret it. “Tarleton is my professional name, and that is how you, as my apprentice, should address me. Dickon is the name my close friends call me,” he answered stiffly.
“Oh.” Miffed by his cool reply, Elizabeth shifted the food basket from one arm to the other. Of course Tarleton was right. She was not a close friend, merely his employer. But his obvious wish to stay aloof hurt—a feeling which both perplexed and disturbed Elizabeth.
Despite the ominous gathering of dark clouds in the northern sky, Tarleton and Elizabeth met with more travelers on the road. A pleasant morning’s hour was spent with a chatty yeoman’s wife, buxom Mistress Fletcher, who sat astride a small, laboring ass. She was on her way to the next village to sell the eggs she carried in her basket, exchange medicinal recipes with the village’s wisewoman, and pass a long afternoon in gossip. It was clear to Elizabeth that gossip was the staff of life for Mistress Fletcher. Even Tarleton was hard-pressed to get in a word or two between the goodwife’s rambling monologues.
“Plant rosemary, I says to her.” Mistress Fletcher produced a small sprig of the herb, and thrust it under Elizabeth’s nose. “Plant rosemary near the kitchen wall, and if it grows well, says I, then you will be the ruler of your household. That’s what I tell every young bride, I do. So let that be a warning to you, young man. If your wife takes to planting rosemary, you’ve lost your place by the fire!” Mistress Fletcher rocked back and forth in her saddle at this witticism.
Tarleton, walking beside her wheezing animal, wiggled his eyebrows mischievously at Elizabeth. “Suppose, if I should have a wife, that I plant onions by the kitchen wall? What say you to that, Mistress Fletcher?” he asked innocently.
“I tell you true, you are a knave!” The goodwife laughed as she wagged a finger under his nose. “Onions, as you know full well, will arouse such manly desire in you that you would keep your poor wife in bed a week!” She laughed again, delighted with her answer.
If Tarleton thinks he can catch me blushing this day, he must bait his hook better, Elizabeth said to herself with a smile.
“And so, Master Player, what’s the news from the north?” The goodwife looked encouragingly at Tarleton.
“Why, good mistress, the wind blows from the north and so brings the winter. The farmers near Warwick are afraid ‘twill be a cold one. They say the signs show an early freeze, and they are hurrying the harvest.”
“This is no news to me!” Mistress Fletcher snorted importantly. “I could have told you that a week ago! Nay, what news have you heard of the folk hereabouts? Forsooth, you’ve got a pair of handsome ears!”
“Aye, mistress,” he replied thoughtfully, “there is a bit of news I heard bandied about up north.”
“Tell! Tell!” she commanded, her eyes sparkling.
Elizabeth looked at Tarleton over the neck of the ass. Something in his tone made her wonder what jest he was going to loosen upon his unsuspecting audience. She recognized that impish grin.
“Have ye heard of the runaway wife?” he inquired.
At these unexpected words, Elizabeth’s heart lurched. She glanced quickly at Tarleton. He, however, smiled innocently at Mistress Fletcher.
“Nay! Tell all!” cried the woman, her ears greedy for the tale.
“As I heard it, a nobleman, Sir Robert La Faye by name, has misplaced his betrothed. The Lady Elizabeth Hayward, who lives near Kenilworth, ran away last week, leaving her anxious bridegroom at the altar!” The goodwife dissolved into rollicking laughter, for Tarleton told his story with a great deal of comic expression.
“‘Tis true, upon my soul, mistress,” he continued, improvising the details as he went along. “Left him flat in church, standing there in his new silken hose and silverparted doublet. They say that when the preacher asked the lady ‘Wilt thou take this man?’ she cried out ‘Nay! The devil can take him!’ Then she picked up her skirts and petticoats, bolted from the church as fleet as a hare, mounted Sir Robert’s own black horse and rode away, still dressed in all her wedding finery!”
Mistress Fletcher slapped her thigh as tears of laughter rolled down her cheeks. Even Elizabeth was forced to smile at Tarleton’s fictional recounting. How she wished she had the courage to do exactly that if ever she found herself before the altar with the odious Sir Robert by her side!
“And did Sir Robert catch her?” Mistress Fletcher wiped her eyes.
“Nay! For the lady was a good rider. They do say that she left a trail of colored love knots all the way to Coventry. And that is where Sir Robert has gone to search for her—to Coventry.” Tarleton emphasized the town’s name.
“I pray the sweet lady gets clean away, if that marriage is so loathsome to her!” said the goodwife, her eyes twinkling.
“Amen to that,” Elizabeth whispered under her breath.
They parted company with the amiable Mistress Fletcher shortly thereafter, watching her sway contentedly down the lane toward the village of Little Rollright.
“Why on earth did you tell her that story about me?” Elizabeth asked Tarleton, once they were alone again.
“There is method in my madness, chuck, or don’t you trust me yet?” He looked like Puck on a madcap spree. “That good woman will go into Little Rollright, and she will tell my story a dozen times, at least. No doubt she will elab orate upon it, so that if we heard it again tomorrow, we would scarcely recognize the details. But she will make sure to say that the poor runaway Lady Elizabeth was headed for Coventry—to the north, mind you—and far away from our true destination. If our luck holds, perhaps Sir Robert will hear this story himself, and he will turn his piggy snout toward Coventry, while we stroll merrily through the gates of Hampton Court!”
Elizabeth dimpled becomingly. “Tarleton, you are a genius!”
The merry prankster basked happily in her warm approval. He would tell the tale of the runaway wife a thousand times if it rewarded him with such a smile from her. “Haven’t you heard the old saying ‘Better a witty fool than a foolish wit for company’?”
“Nay, but I think I have the wittiest fool in England for my company.” She smiled again. “And I shall tell the Queen so.”
Tarleton’s eyes danced. “Good! Perhaps Her Grace will be moved to pay me more!”
Not all their encounters were so pleasant.
In the early afternoon, as the sky grew increasingly blacker, Tarleton and Elizabeth came upon a ragged girl by the side of the road. She was sobbing as she scooped out a small hole in the bank under a hawthorn hedgerow.
Approaching the distraught girl, Tarleton spoke kindly. “What ails thee?”
She gazed up at him with her face tear streaked. “Oh, sir, I beg you, for the sweet love of God, help me bury my child!”
She pointed to a tiny bundle that Elizabeth had not noticed before. It was pathetically wrapped in the coarse sacking used to carry grain. The young mother herself looked thin and sickly. She shivered in the rising wind, which blew through her tangled chestnut hair. Elizabeth felt a tight lump in her throat.
Tarleton knelt beside the grieving girl. His voice was soft and caressing. “Aye, my lass, let old Tarleton do this sad office for you. Sit back and rest.” He drew his dagger and began to hack out large clods of the black earth. “Robin,” he said over his shoulder, “give her something to eat. She looks half-starved.”
Elizabeth, stunned by this unforeseen encounter, felt her own tears well up behind her eyes. Quickly busying herself with the basket, she drew out a thick wedge of yellow cheese and some of Peg’s fine-milled white bread, which she offered to the girl.
“I am so very sorry for you. Was he ill?” Elizabeth whispered, watching the girl nibble at the food.
“Nay, he died a-borning. Poor little thing! He was unbaptized. It pains my heart to think him down in hell. ‘Twas not his fault! The sin was mine!” She fell into a fresh round of heartrending tears.
Pausing in his labor, Tarleton again spoke comfortingly to the grieving young mother. “He’s not in hell, lass. The angels have him for a playfellow in the heavenly kingdom.”
“But the priest said he was damned!” the girl wailed.
“Then that priest should be burned in his own pulpit!” Tarleton stabbed the ground viciously.
“Drink some of this.” Elizabeth offered a small bottle of cold cider. The girl took a long draft, then hiccuped. Elizabeth peeled a boiled egg and handed it to her. “‘Twill give you strength,” she murmured encouragingly.
“The hole is deep enough,” said Tarleton gruffly, wiping his blade on his thigh. “Do you wish me to lay the babe in it?”
The girl nodded, her eyes huge and red rimmed with tears. “Do ye know a prayer to send him on his way?” she asked the player hopefully.
“I’m not a praying man,” Tarleton answered shortly. “But my prentice prays daily. Say a prayer for the babe, Robin.” Tarleton’s brown eyes darkened as he gently laid the tiny corpse in the ground.
Elizabeth knelt beside the makeshift grave. She could not bring herself to look down at the still bundle.
“What was his name?” she asked the mother quietly.
“He came and went so fast, there was no time to name him,” the girl said, and wept.
Elizabeth’s lower lip trembled with pity for both mother and child. “Do you wish to name him now? I am sure his soul is not too far away. He will hear it.” She swallowed back the lump in her throat.
“I would have called him Mark, had he lived,” the girl whispered.
“Then I shall pray for Mark,” Elizabeth said, and she composed her thoughts, hoping her prayer would ease the living, as well as the dead. “Dear Lord, look down upon this poor babe, Mark, who died before he could know you. As you loved children when you were on earth, take this little one to your heart and let him play forever in your heavenly fields. May his soul and the souls of all the faithful departed—” here Elizabeth gulped as she remembered her own recent loss “—rest in thy peace.” Elizabeth scooped up a handful of earth and scattered it over the small wrapped form. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, until the day of resurrection. Amen.”
“Amen,” whispered the young mother, while Tarleton clutched his cap, his head bowed. The three of them knelt in silence for a moment while the wind added its own keening through the elms and beeches overhead.
“Distract her, while I cover him up,” whispered Tarleton to Elizabeth.
Nodding, Elizabeth moved between the weeping mother and the shallow grave.
“Take a bit more of the cheese,” Elizabeth urged. “Eat it. You are so pale.”
“Ye are kind, lad,” the girl said softly. “And ye said a fine prayer. I shall never forget this kindness.”
Elizabeth’s heart felt as if had been wrenched in two by the girl’s whispered gratitude. She looks to be my age, though the years have been more cruel to her.
Tarleton stood, wiping the dirt from his hands. “‘Tis done, young mistress. Now, you must be gone from this place,” he told her somberly. “It will do you no good to be caught out in the storm that’s brewing. Have you a place to stay?”
The girl nodded. “I have been living with an old woman nearby. They say she’s a witch, but she has been good to me, when everyone else turned me out of doors.”
“Go off then, and be of lighter heart. Thy babe is laid sweetly to rest.” Tarleton took out Sir William’s coin purse. Placing it in the girl’s thin hand, he closed her fingers over it. “Take this. ‘Tis not much. ‘Twill not bring your babe back, but it will help you and your old woman find some comfort this winter.”
“Oh, sir, I cannot—!” The girl’s eyes were wide with amazement as she hefted the weight of the bag.
“Take it!” Tarleton gruffly ordered. “It pays a debt of mine. Now, go quickly, lass.”
Without another word, the thin girl spun on her bare heels and dashed into the stubble field on the far side the road. Stopping for a moment, she turned back to them and dropped an awkward curtsy. Then, like a startled doe, she disappeared over the rise.
“Let us begone from here!” Tarleton heaved the pack on his back and hurried off. Elizabeth, disturbed by what had taken place, followed close behind him.
They walked on in silence, each with their own heavy thoughts. At length, Tarleton realized that his companion was weeping silently.
Stopping, he spoke gently to Elizabeth. “Have I set too fast a pace? Are you tired?” he inquired, throwing the pack down under a sheltering oak. “Sit down, ladybird, and tell me what is it? Are you hurt?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “That poor, poor girl!” she sobbed, burying her face in the crook of her elbow. “Why didn’t she have a parson bury the child, and say prayers for his soul? Why did that sweet innocent babe have to be buried beside a highway in a d-ditch?” Elizabeth could not forget the sight of the young mother’s haunted look, nor the utter degradation of the scene in which she had played a part.
“Because the child was born a bastard,” snapped Tarleton angrily, though his anger was not directed at Elizabeth. “And that is why that whoreson pastor of hers told her it was damned. God’s teeth, but I would like to put these hands around that sanctimonious neck!” He clenched his fist until his knuckles stood out white against his skin.
“It was kind of you to tell her that her baby would play with the angels, Tarleton,” said Elizabeth, regarding him through teary lashes. “And it was good to give her the money, too. What did you mean when you said it paid a debt?”
She saw his jaw tighten. His eyes, usually so full of merriment, glowed with a cold fire. His new demeanor frightened her. She suddenly realized how very little she knew about the man she had entrusted herself with.
“That lass could have been my own mother,” Tarleton said finally, his voice sounding as if it were pulled from the bottom of a deep, empty well. Turning his head, he stared at Elizabeth, locking her eyes with his penetrating stare. “But for God’s grace, that babe could have been me. Does that shock you, Lady Elizabeth Hayward?”
Elizabeth shivered, not because of his admission, but because of the wholly different person he had suddenly become. “A little,” she whispered truthfully. She could not read the look in his soul-searing eyes; they were dark and depthless. “You are telling me that you are a… a…”
“A bastard!” He spat the word out as if it were bitter bile. “‘Tis all right to say the word, Lady Elizabeth. ‘Tis what I am. I was born in a ditch by the side of a road such as this one, and I was left there to die, so I’m told.”
“To die?” she gasped in horror. Tarleton usually seemed so cheerful, as if he had never known a care in the world. “Who found you?”
Tarleton’s eyes sought a spot on the horizon while he continued in a hollow tone. “The steward of the household in which my mother had worked as a chambermaid—before the master dismissed her for her so-called loose morals. The steward guessed her time had come when she was missing one morning. There had been a heavy frost and he was able to follow her footsteps. By the time he got to the place, she was gone, but I remained, wailing for my life. He brought me back and the cook raised me. Perhaps that is why I am so fond of cooks!” There was no mirth in his voice.
Each word stabbed Elizabeth’s heart like an icy dagger. She shuddered, thinking what a hardship it must have been for Tarleton’s mother: alone, afraid, outcast and bearing a child in a frosty ditch. “And your mother?” she prodded gently.
Tarleton’s lips curled back. “They found her body a week later. She drowned herself in the cow pond. Naturally, they buried her at a crossroads, because the priest said she was a suicide and therefore surely damned. I don’t even know where she lies.” His voice caught in his throat.
“I am so sorry, Tarleton,” Elizabeth whispered.
She wanted to put her arms around him to ease away his pain and bitterness, but it was as if he had erected a great barrier between them—a barrier between her class and his, between the warm velvets of the manor house and the chill mud of the road. Finally he spoke again, though he still stared across the years of sorrow and abandonment.
“You have more compassion than the church, ladybird. I gave that girl our money in the hope she will not drown herself, but instead, will find courage for a new life.”
“And so your debt is paid.” Elizabeth sighed with understanding.
Turning on her angrily, his eyes blazed dark fire. “That debt will never be paid, Lady Elizabeth Hay ward!” he told her bitterly. “There are not enough tears, not enough money, not enough prayers that will ever pay for my mother’s shameful death, my father’s cowardly sin, or the black mark of my birth!”
Elizabeth flinched at his words, each a blow to her face. She had no idea what she could do—or what he would permit her to do—to help him.
Snatching at the food basket, Tarleton rifled through it and took out a bottle of ale. Pulling the cork with his teeth, he tilted his head back and drained the brew in silence. Then he tossed the bottle into a tall clump of wayside grass.
Not knowing what to say, Elizabeth quietly retrieved the basket. Taking out two more boiled eggs, she peeled them, then offered one to Tarleton. He looked at her, then at the egg she held out to him with a trembling hand.
His face softened a little, when he saw his pain mirrored in her dark green eyes, now glittering with unshed tears. “‘Tis not your fault, chuck. Forgive my outburst. But ‘tis best you know the truth about me. What did you expect when you plucked a protector from the side of the road? There are no more Knights of the Round Table in England, I fear. Only jesters with stained backgrounds. But, at least, I’m honest—in my own fashion.” He wolfed down the egg.
“I didn’t pick you as my protector,” Elizabeth said quietly. “I believe my guardian angel did so. I’m glad. He chose very wisely.”
Startled by her simplicity and her unquestioning faith, Tarleton looked at her for a long moment, then slowly his warm smile melted the icy contours of his face. It had been a long time since he had seen such a look in a woman’s eye. He dared not hope it was one of love, and he did not want to think what else it might be.
“Well, prentice,” he remarked lightly, though his heart pounded within his chest. “How long is it going to take you to unpack the rest of that food, or do you plan to starve us both to death?”
The storm, which had threatened all day, began with a spattering of fat raindrops. The blackened sky split asunder and a deluge poured down. The torrent caught Elizabeth and Tarleton traveling through open countryside. Shielding his eyes against the wind-lashed rain, Tarleton scanned the horizon in search of a deep forest, or, at the very least, a large haystack. A jagged fork of lightning leapt from the clouds to the receiving earth. The air was rent by an earsplitting clap of thunder. Jumping in fright, Elizabeth huddled closer to Tarleton.
“This way! Run!” he cried over the howl of the wind. Seizing Elizabeth by her hand, he plunged into the fallow meadow beside the road.
Muffled in her hooded cloak, Elizabeth could not see where they were running. Trustingly she hung on to Tarleton’s strong hand and sloughed through the pelting rain. The sky lit up with another flash of lightning. The attending crash of thunder made Elizabeth’s skin prickle and shiver. From her earliest childhood, she had feared thunderstorms.
“Almost there!” Tarleton called encouragingly over the wind.
The next flash of lightning revealed a stone building just ahead. Concentrating on keeping her footing in the wet grass and mud, Elizabeth raced after Tarleton.
The shelter proved to be an abandoned Norman church— a casualty of the late King Henry VM’s argument with the pope—now left to fall into quiet ruin. The roof had collapsed into the nave. The empty windows bore mute testimony of the stained glass they once held. Two of the walls had vanished to become hearths and chimneys of the local farmers. The round baptismal font stood like a stark sentinel in the exposed vestibule. Pulling Elizabeth under the gallery, Tarleton dropped his pack with a wry chuckle.
“Well, sweetling, I knew you would lure me into a church sooner or later, but I don’t think you had this one in mind!”
Elizabeth was not in the mood to appreciate his humor. Instead she cringed as the thunder rolled over their heads. Despite her cloak, she was chilled and soaked to the skin. “Where are we?” she asked.
“Off the road and out of the wet. As for our exact location, I would say that tomorrow we should reach Woodstock, and from there it will be on to Oxford.” Tarleton eased the rain-soaked cape from her shoulders, and shook the water off it. “For tonight, this will be our lodging.”
“Here?” Looking dejectedly at the rubble on the cold stone floor, Elizabeth remembered Peg’s warm, friendly kitchen.
Tarleton ran his fingers through his wet hair, squeezing the droplets from his thick curls. “I’ve slept in worse places, so don’t turn up your pretty nose at this one, ladybird. Next time, you’ll be thankful for a nice dry stable. Or perhaps you wish you were cozy in Lady Margaret’s bed?” he added with a smirk.
“I’ll take my chances here, thank you, Sir Jester!” she answered quickly, though her voice did not sound as con vincing as her words.
Tarleton grinned. Illuminated by the lightning, he looked like a cheerful devil sprung from hell. “Gather up what ever dry wood you can find here, prentice, while I see wha is at the other end. We shall have a fire going soon enough!” With a wink at her, he darted along the remaining freestanding wall of the country church, stooping here and there amid the rubbish.
In the dry section, Elizabeth found a number of twigs and boughs lodged in a protected corner where they had been blown in through the gaping roof. Charred pieces of wood and a large black smudge on the stone floor gave evidence that the abandoned church had been a sanctuary for other travelers. At least, it was dry and out of the wind here. After sweeping the spot clear with her foot, Elizabeth knelt and began to snap the twigs into kindling. Tarleton returned, holding several large pieces of paneling.
“‘Tis the pulpit, or what’s left of it, but ‘twill make a merry fire. We shall be warm and dry in no time!” Briskly Tarleton broke up the rotten wood and piled it on the makeshift hearth stone. Then he lit the kindling with a spark from his tinderbox. A small, cheerful blaze sprang up.
“Lay out your cloak so it will dry, my Robin.” Tarleton undid his pack, pulling out his spare clothing that Peg had so recently brushed and packed for him. “Damp as a dungeon!” he snorted, shaking out his motley, its bells jingling softly. “If our bread is wet as well—”
A loud crash drowned out Tarleton’s next words as a heavy branch from a nearby oak fell through the hole in the roof. Cowering against the back wall, Elizabeth screamed and covered her ears. Instantly Tarleton was by her side, his arms wrapped around her.
“‘Twas only a bit of wind and thunder, sweetling!” he murmured, though he did not mind the chance to hold her close to his heart.
“Storms frighten me!” Elizabeth shivered, burying her head against his damp jerkin. The thick cloth smelled like a woolly sheep in spring. She jumped as the thunder rolled over them again.
“‘Tis nothing but a great deal of bluster,” Tarleton crooned softly in her ear. He noted how pink and perfectly formed it was. “‘Twill be gone soon, sweet lady, and w shall be none the worse for it, I swear.”
“My nurse used to say the same thing.” Elizabeth shut he eyes and clung to him, her fingers digging into the thic muscles of his arms.
“Then I shall hold you until it is over,” Tarleton whis pered comfortingly. Outside the church, the storm raged o while another brewed inside Tarleton’s soul.
Her slim body pressing closer against him, Elizabet wound her arms inside his jerkin and around his back. Th sweetness of her hair held all the sunshine now driven awa by the boiling mass of black clouds. I could take her now, this moment, Tarleton realized as her trembling limbs clun to him. He closed his eyes but could not blot out the vivi images that assailed his senses. He saw himself laying Eliz abeth down on her cloak, his hands gently stripping the we garments from her yielding body. His fingers stroked he downy cheek as he imagined kissing her sugared mouth, hi warm tongue leading her in a dance of love and passion.
Another brilliant flash of lightning caused Elizabeth t bury her face against his throat. Tarleton felt her warm breath caress his skin, as she trembled like a frightened faw in his arms. Gritting his teeth, he fought down the hot wave of passion that threatened to engulf him.
Elizabeth’s arms tightened around his neck, bringing he full, ripe lips temptingly closer to his own. Her eyes close in her terror, she didn’t see the fires of lust that Tarleto knew blazed within him.
Madness! Feeling feverish, he fought against his natur; urges which tightened his loins. His blood sang hotl through his veins. She’s a virgin—and the Queen’s ow goddaughter! If I harm her, or ruin her, Ican count my brief remaining days as a guest in the Tower of London.
Tarleton swallowed at the thought of the grisly fate that would be the inevitable end to such a pleasurable begin ning. Roughly he pushed the cringing girl away from him and leapt to his feet. He stood with his back to the startled Elizabeth so she would not see the change she had worked upon his body.
“The storm is passing,” he remarked, his voice raw with his desire and inner struggle. “Stop your sniveling, my lady. ‘Twill only rain gently for the rest of this evening.” Taking several deep breaths, he prodded the fire, willing his body to relax. He wondered if Elizabeth would think him mad if he went for a brisk, wet walk.
Elizabeth, stung by this sudden change in Tarleton’s mood, wiped her face with her sleeve, then leaned back reflectively against the dry wall. What had she done wrong now? One minute Tarleton was kind and comforting. In fact, it was very pleasant to be held so closely in his arms, feeling the tingly sensations that danced a strange jig in her blood. Then, without warning, Tarleton acted as if she had the plague. Perhaps he didn’t like women who cried in thunderstorms. Feeling a dull ache where only moments before there was such pleasure, Elizabeth watched the raindrops spatter into a large puddle in the center aisle.
“I am sorry if my fears annoy you, Master Tarleton,” Elizabeth said coolly. “Please remember that I am not a man like you, but a woman. I am entitled to one or two womanly emotions.”
Hearing the rebuke in her words, Tarleton clenched his teeth. “I do nothing but remember, Lady Elizabeth, and I am counting the moments until I can safely deposit you at Hampton Court!” He kept his face averted so she could not see the anguish on his face.
The unaccustomed sharpness of his reply was a sword thrust to her heart, but Elizabeth vowed not to show the pain he inflicted. “If my company has become burdensome to you, you are more than welcome to leave me at any time,” she said bravely, praying her voice would not betray her whirling emotions. Drawing the money bag out of her shirt, Elizabeth extracted two gold angels.
Rising to her feet, she held the coins rigidly out to him. “Here is the payment I promised you, and I thank you for getting me this far. Just point me in the right direction to Woodstock, and I shall trouble you no further.”
Turning slowly around, Tarleton stared at the tiny fig ure, her trembling chin tilted at a brave angle. Once again, his good resolutions slipped from his grasp.
“Put your money away, Lady Elizabeth,” he muttered gruffly. “Are you truly thickheaded? You keep forgetting what I told you about flashing your coin in public. And sit down by that fire! ‘Twill do neither of us any good if I must deliver you, shaking with a fever, to the Queen. And, for sweet Jesu’s sake, stop sniveling! I know that I’ve landed you in a hard place, but, in a few days’ time, you will be back with all your finery and comforts. In the meantime, let us make the best of this bargain. Now, what is there left to eat?”
Elizabeth’s anger boiled inside her. By what right did this… this knave speak to her in such a manner? Tucking the coins away, the Queen’s goddaughter took out her comb and began to carefully groom what was left of her hair.
“I have no idea what food there is,” she remarked in an icy tone. “You have my leave to unpack the basket and prepare our supper, varlet.” She stared into the fire with haughty pride, though she felt her heart cracking inside her. He is only worried about what the Queen will do to him if I should come to any harm. I am nothing to him but a handful of gold angels.
Tarleton, hearing the coldness in her voice, ground his teeth in anger against himself. Roughly he opened the basket and spread out the remains of Peg’s feast. They ate apart with studied disdain.
Swallowing the last of his cheese-and-onion tart, Tarleton cleared his throat loudly. “If it pleases your ladyship, I think your cloak is dry enough. You can roll up in it and sleep close to the wall.” He stood and made an elaborate bow to her. His tongue was heavy with sarcasm. “I shall sleep downwind so that my common presence will not disturb your dreams.”
If he is going to continue to act like that, I shall ignore him completely, Elizabeth fumed. Inclining her head slightly, she pulled the heavy cloak around her, then walked regally to the darkest dry spot at the base of the belfry. She swept the area clear of the dust and other debris, then knelt to say her nightly prayer.
Tarleton watched her, the firelight casting its spell on the gold of her hair. His heart felt as if it were locked in hot iron bands. Flinging himself down on the other side of the fire, he pillowed his head on his pack. God’s teeth! he swore as he drew himself up against the chill night air. I let the minx keep the whole cloak to herself!
Tarleton’s bellow of rage startled Elizabeth out of a deep sleep. Every nerve in her body quivered. A violent crashing intermixed with low guttural sounds came from the darkness. Steeling herself to face a large dog or wolf, Elizabeth slowly rolled over and looked toward the fire. What she saw by the feeble light of the dying embers made her blood freeze.
A large bear of a man, his hair and beard matted with dirt, and dressed in flimsy rags, grappled with Tarleton. Both men fought for possession of Tarleton’s dagger. Its naked blade gleamed dully in the dim light. Inadvertently Elizabeth uttered a small cry of alarm from her dark corner.
The intruder turned his head at the sound. “‘Tis a lass ye’ve got with ye?” the attacker snarled. “I’ll sport with her once I’ve—”
But the man never finished his vile threat. Tarleton used the momentary distraction to wrench his hand free. Moving with the fluid speed born of practice in the service of Her Majesty’s spy master, Tarleton sharply kicked his opponent’s groin, then followed through with a heavy blow to his face. There was a sickening sound of bones crunching as the ruffian fell heavily to the stone floor and lay still. Tarleton sank down beside the brute.
“Tarleton!” Elizabeth ran to his side. Her protector panted heavily from his unexpected midnight exercise. She gingerly touched his bruised face. “Oh, sweet Dickon, are you hurt badly?”
“Water… to drink,” he whispered in a raw croak. His head swam from the vagabond’s first blow—a blow that was meant to kill.
Frantically looking around, Elizabeth saw the baptismal font, filled to the brim with fresh rainwater. Scooping up some in her cupped palms, Elizabeth offered her hands to Tarleton.
“I have no cup, Dickon,” she apologized.
He smiled weakly at her as he steadied her hands with one of his. Then he guided her palms to his lips and sucked the rainwater noisily.
“More,” he said, and coughed. His legs were weak and seemed to have little feeling in them.
“Oh, my sweet Dickon!” Elizabeth held out another handful of water to him. “I thought you had been killed! Are you badly hurt?” He again sipped from her hands, his lips brushing the delicate soft pads of her palms. A delicious spark ran through her fingers, and Elizabeth tightened them to keep from spilling the remaining water.
Tarleton gazed into her eyes, which glowed in the dark with the fire of emeralds. His answering smile was warm and loving. “I believe there is no finer cup in all this world than your sweet hands, ladybird. Fret not, chuck. I am in one piece, though my head is ringing a merry tune.”
Sitting beside him, Elizabeth drew his head into her lap. Gently she massaged his temples with her cool, wet fingers. “Does it hurt mightily? Oh, sweet Dickon, I was sure he was going to kill you!”
Tarleton grunted with satisfaction. “I do believe I could lie on this hard floor all night long with your blessed nursing, my sweet.” Tarleton kissed her hands, his lips softly caressing her fingers.
A warm current suffused her. Elizabeth’s head felt light and momentarily dizzy. A delightful shiver of wanting ran through her. She completely forgot the vagabond who lay nearby. Closing her eyes as Tarleton’s lips worked sweet magic on her palms, she moaned softly.
Her passionate sound jarred Tarleton back to their present predicament. With a regretful sigh, he sat up and eyed the inert form beside him. “I fear we must cease this pleasant pastime, my heart.”
Tarleton crawled over to the unconscious man. The huge attacker lay on his stomach. Touching the man’s scalp, Tarleton felt a large knot forming where he had struck the ruffian with the hilt of the dagger.
“Thank the good Lord, I’ll not have this scum’s death on my hands, but he will have a rare headache for the next few days,” he observed. Tarleton struggled shakily to his feet, supporting himself against the font. Splashing more water across his face, he shook his head gingerly.
“Now, my sweet Elizabeth, we ourselves will become like thieves in the night. This one may have a confederate lurking nearby.”
Elizabeth shivered as she looked out into the blackness surrounding the old church. “What if his friend should set up a hue and cry after us?” Never, in her wildest nightmares, did she think she would be running from the law officers of the parish for assault.
Noting her anxiety, Tarleton held her tightly by the arms and stared deeply in her frightened eyes. “Now listen to me, Elizabeth! No one is going to set up any hue and cry after us, lest it be this oaf here for his own purposes. Fear not, sweetling. You are under the protection of the best in the land.”
“But you are only a player,” she whimpered.
Tarleton allowed a brief smile play across his lips. “Aye, a player who happens to be in the service of Sir Francis Walsingham. Have you heard of him?”
“He’s…he’s one of the Queen’s ministers, I think.” Elizabeth licked her dry lips.
“Aye, he is her principal secretary. The Queen calls him her ‘Moor,’ for he is not only dark of face, but devious of mind, as well. He is the man who knows what is happening in the hidden corners throughout the land, and abroad, too. He is a master spider who sits in the middle of a large web of spies and informants. In short, he is a very powerful man, Elizabeth.”
“How is he your friend?” Her voice cracked with nervousness.
“Because I… I gather information for him.”
“You are a spy?” Elizabeth’s eyes gleamed like a cat’s in the night.
Tarleton’s lips twitched into a rueful smile. “‘Tis not as bad as you make it sound. Let us say, I keep a finger on the pulse of the times. As a jester, I travel throughout the realm with my long ears and good memory. I have been in Sir Francis’s employ for many years now. If need be, he will give us his protection. He has done so for me in the past.”
“Have… have you ever… ?”
“Aye,” Tarleton answered her unspoken question curtly. “I’ve killed a man, but not for personal pleasure or revenge. ‘Twas in my own defense. Now, my brave little one, let us be off and away from this place. We need to put miles between us and this devil’s wrath, or, trust me, there will be nothing left of us for Sir Francis to protect. Do you understand, my sweet?”
Elizabeth nodded slowly. She gritted her teeth to keep them from chattering. “Aye, Tarleton.”
“That is my brave ladybird! There is no moon to tell the time, but I think, by the smell of it, morning is only a scant hour away.”
“Can you walk? Oh, Dickon, you are not well!” Elizabeth saw him wince as he moved away from the font. She put out her hands to steady him.
Tarleton smiled grimly into her pale face. “I can travel well enough, ladybird. With you by my side, I would gladly travel to hell and back. Come, gather your things.”
Sidestepping around the large, still form, Elizabeth hastily packed up the food basket.
Tarleton stamped out the remains of the fire and scattered the ashes across the floor. He winced again as he hefted the pack onto his shoulder. Then he held out his hand to Elizabeth.
“We’ll cut roundabout the fields. If this man and his friends come looking for revenge, they will search for us on the main road first. Our way to Oxford will be longer, but safer.”
Without a backward glance at his assailant, Tarleton helped Elizabeth climb over the ruined wall of the church. Like two wandering spirits, they glided through the graveyard and melted into the rising mist.