The remaining hours of that dreadful night, and all the next dismal day, passed as a walking nightmare for Elizabeth. When Tarleton spoke of the perils of travel, she had only half believed him, thinking he exaggerated the evil that could befall her. But the brush with Sir Robert, then the horrific encounter with the robber had more than convinced her of the wisdom of her disguise. Even so, the vagabond’s ear had caught the truth of her sex. Elizabeth realized how careful she must be in the future until she was safely at court. The jester and his frightened apprentice did not speak much that day, turning all their energies to their flight across the wet countryside.
Tarleton allowed them only a few rests. Though his head throbbed from the blow he had suffered at the thief’s hands, he made no mention of it to his companion. His only concern was for Elizabeth’s safety.
It was a blessing Elizabeth didn’t realize what a near thing their encounter with that brute had been. If it wasn’t for Tarleton’s swift reflexes, both he and his sweet lady would be now lying in their own blood, their throats slit wide open. He shuddered to think of the hell Elizabeth would have suffered before that devil finally killed her. Tarleton closed his eyes momentarily and thanked God for Elizabeth’s courage. Unlike most women of his experience, she had not screamed her fool head off, nor fainted on the spot. In fact, her one small cry had provided Tarleton with just the opening he needed to deal effectively with the blackguard.
Elizabeth was so tired her nerves ached, yet she did not complain of her fatigue. The energy engendered by the initial shock and horror of the encounter gave way to a nearstupor. Only Tarleton’s solid, reassuring presence and his kind words softly spoken at her side encouraged her on.
Just when she thought she would faint from exhaustion, Tarleton found a field with several large haystacks still waiting to be gathered. Selecting the most solid-looking one, he scooped out a small nest for them. There they thankfully burrowed in for the night under her cloak.
“What will we do tomorrow, Tarleton?” Elizabeth’s green eyes looked enormous with the dark circles under them.
His face softened “We shall make for Banbury. ‘Tis nearby.”
“Oh, Tarleton!” She clutched at his arm. “Will it be safe to go there?”
His large hands framed her face, holding it gently. “Do you know what an actor does when he has forgotten his next line and the groundlings are pelting him with rotten cabbages?”
Elizabeth blinked, wondering what that had to do with their problem.
Tarleton continued. “He picks himself up with a grand display, and he makes his mistakes even bigger. When all else fails, bluff and bluster is the answer. It has gotten me out of many a scrape!”
“And at Banbury?” Her eyes burned dryly from sleeplessness.
“We are two players on the road, passing the time of day at a small, friendly alehouse where we can eat, drink and hear the news. That should tell us if the countryside has been raised against us. Which I highly doubt,” he added with a smile. “Our would-be robber did not strike me as being a respectable law-abiding citizen himself.” Tarleton did not mention the more likely threat—Sir Robert La Faye’s minions could be there. No point in alarming Elizabeth any further.
Elizabeth did not answer him. She had fallen asleep, still clutching her meager supper.
Tarleton gently eased the bread out of her fingers. Then he gathered her into his arms, pulling the cloak snugly over them.
“You forgot to say your prayers tonight, my lady,” he whispered in the hollow darkness of the sweet-smelling hay. “Though ‘tis not my habit, I’ll say them for you. Perchance that guardian angel of yours will listen to me.”
Tarleton stumbled through a silent prayer for their safety. He did not remember falling asleep.
The next morning brought the welcome promise of better things to come. The day dawned chill, but a warming sun rose in a clear blue sky, signaling a fine harvest day. Tarleton smiled when he woke. Sunshine always put him in a good mood. Rising from their straw bed, he stretched happily in the welcoming rays, feeling much better after a sound night’s sleep. He rubbed the tightness from the muscles of his shoulders and legs as he scanned their surroundings.
“‘Wake, and see/The dew-bespangled herb and tree!’” He cheerfully shook Elizabeth awake.
Opening one eye, she blinked at him. “What was it you said?” she murmured, her voice still drowsy with sleep.
“A bit of poetry for your breakfast.” Tarleton hopped lightly up and down, swinging his arms in the air.
Elizabeth watched him with amused interest. “What on earth are you doing, Tarleton? I’m not in the mood for a private performance.” Yawning, she snuggled deeper into the sweet-smelling hay.
“‘Tis no jig, prentice boy. I need to loosen my muscles. How can I gimbal and gambol, if I am as stiff as a wooden Dutch doll?”
Elizabeth sat up with a start. “Do you mean to seek out a performance today?” she gasped.
“If we plan to eat anything, I think ‘twould be a wise idea,” he replied jauntily. “Come, up!” He held out his hand to her, smiling like an elf intent on whisking her off to faerie land. His syrupy-sweet voice dripped over her like honey. “I know you are still tired. So am I, but we must be off. I am sorry for it, chuck.”
Sighing, Elizabeth took his hand. She was immediately aware of its strength and warmth. Tarleton pressed his lips lightly to her fingers, sending an unexpected tingling through her.
He cleared his throat loudly. “If I were a lady’s maid, I would suggest that my mistress attend to the hay that is sprouting from her hair and clothing. As I am a man, I dare not take such liberties,” he remarked, hoping he kept his true desire out of his voice.
Smiling at her companion’s overflowing good spirits, Elizabeth took out her comb and carefully worked through the tangles that had crept into her hair during the night. She was glad Tarleton’s good humor had returned. He had been so silent and serious the day before. Rubbing her face with her sleeve, Elizabeth thought longingly of a basin of warm, soapy water, clean clothes and a hot breakfast. She plucked out the odd bits of straw that had worked their way under her shirt.
Tarleton pretended not to watch Elizabeth. He gladly would have offered his assistance in removing the offending sprigs from their delightful nesting place between those milk white breasts of hers—breasts he had glimpsed often enough these past few days. To take his mind off such tempting thoughts and to relieve the sudden stiffness between his legs, Tarleton practiced several cartwheels and handsprings across the field.
“I’m ready,” Elizabeth called after the whirling figure. “Which way?”
Tarleton stopped, spun comically around, then pointed. “There!”
Just on the other side of the haystack lay a broad highway. Even though the sun was barely above the horizon, the road was already full of traffic, all headed in one direction.
“Is it wise?” Elizabeth regarded the road with apprehension.
Tarleton grinned broadly. “Aye! The wisest thing we can do! Bluff and bluster, Robin.” He handed her the pack. “Don’t forget yourself today, my boy. Apprentices always carry their master’s bag.” His voice softened as he added, “Our fellow travelers would think it most strange if you didn’t.”
Elizabeth grasped the strap and tentatively hefted the heavy load. “I didn’t have to carry it before,” she muttered grumpily.
“We were on less-traveled roads before,” he reminded her. “Now we must look natural as a master and his boy. Banbury is not far! Nor is breakfast!” he enticed seductively.
Taking a deep breath, Elizabeth slung the pack onto her back, shifting its weight into the best position across her slight shoulders.
A brief smile played over Tarleton’s lips as he watched her struggle with the baggage. Then, squaring his own shoulders, Tarleton walked briskly toward the road, snapping his fingers at her to follow.
“Good morrow, mistress!” Tarleton addressed the farmer’s wife, who had stopped to watch the jester and his boy climb over the stile.
“And to you,” she answered, eyeing their dusty appearance and travel-worn clothes with some suspicion.
“Could you tell us which way Banbury is, for we lost our bearings in the dark last night?” Tarleton smiled beguilingly at her.
The woman allowed herself a small nod in return. “‘Tis this way. I, myself, am going there to help my husband with his stall. He took the wagon there last night to make ready for today.”
Tarleton fell into step with the woman, leaving Elizabeth to follow along behind them. “And, I pray you, good mistress, what stall would that be? Perchance, I can give your good man some custom.”
The woman grinned warmly at Tarleton. “Why, beer is his trade! We have six fine barrels to sell at the harvest fair. Thank St. Luke, ‘twill be a warm day! Sunshine makes everyone more thirsty.” Straightening her shawl, she cocked her head at Tarleton. “And what is your business, sir?”
“I am a teller of tall tales, a singer of sweet songs, a riddling rhymer, a punster of exceeding proportions! I jig and gibe, tumble and tickle your fancies with delight! In short, I am Tarleton, court jester to Her Most Gracious Majesty, and a traveling entertainer. That is my apprentice, Robin,” he added, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.
He executed a short two-step down the road, then turned a cartwheel. The woman, clearly delighted with Tarleton’s short performance, laughed with a high-pitched squeal.
“Well met, Master Player! And if your wit is as nimble as your tongue and feet, ye shall turn many a penny this day. Aye! And hearts, too!” she simpered.
Elizabeth shifted the pack to her other shoulder and snorted softly to herself. That brazen woman is staring at Tarleton like some lovesick cow!
“I am Mistress Johnson, though ye may call me Bess, seeing as I am named for the Queen ye serve!” The giggling woman gave Tarleton’s arm a little squeeze.
Elizabeth made a face at the woman’s back.
“Bess! Ah, sweet Bess! Did you know Elizabeth is a favorite name of mine?” The charmer shamelessly winked at the woman.
Bess giggled again, sounding like a cross between a schoolgirl and a stuck pig.
This is really too much on an empty stomach! Elizabeth glowered under the weight of the pack.
Over the crest of the next rise, the market town of Banbury spread out before them. Even from a distance, Elizabeth could see people hurrying to and fro. The morning breeze carried sounds of excited voices, cheerful music, and the warm smell of fresh-baked bread and roasting meat.
Banbury’s streets were bedecked with colorful banners and pennants, as the local population prepared themselves for a day of buying and selling in celebration of the late summer harvest. Excited dogs and equally excited children were everywhere, especially underfoot. Stalls of every description lined the high street and crowded around the great stone cross in the town square. Geese and pigs hissed and squealed in their pens; their owners extolled their virtues of fatness and cheapness to everyone within earshot. Vendors hawked their wares in loud, singsong voices. After two days of rain, gray skies and numbing fear, the color and bustle of the marketplace was a gladsome sight to the jester’s apprentice.
With many a promise to visit her booth and buy her beer later in the day, Tarleton and Mistress Bess parted company with a loud smacking kiss at the edge of town.
“Will we stay here, Tarleton?” Elizabeth asked him, as soon as the woman rounded the corner of the street with many a coquettish wave.
“Aye, Robin, and make our fortune!” Tarleton grinned broadly, his eyes sparkling in anticipation. “Don’t look so solemn, chuck!”
“I thought we were in a hurry to get to Hampton Court,” Elizabeth muttered, though she hoped they might stay long enough to get some breakfast. The delicious smells from the cook stalls made her stomach rumble in anticipation.
Tarleton cocked one eyebrow at her. “Aye, but it would look very strange if a traveling entertainer did not stop when there’s a great fair to play. Think, my boy! What would people remember as suspicious, a jester who played in the marketplace, or one who pulled up his collar and hurried quickly out of town?”
Elizabeth sighed and nodded. She saw his point and, to be honest, the sounds and the color of the harvest fair were very tempting.
“First, we need to find the bailiff!” Tarleton started down the street, looking this way and that.
Elizabeth’s heart stopped. Had Tarleton completely lost his wits? What if Sir Robert had lodged an inquiry about her? She was sure that he had. And what about that man they had left lying on the floor of the abandoned church? Suppose he had died from Tarleton’s blow?
“Tarleton!” She pulled at his sleeve. “What about…you know?”
Grinning, he clapped his hand roughly between her shoulder blades.
“I am thinking, prentice! We cannot entertain without first registering with the bailiff and paying our license fee. Besides, we are safe enough. What is that devil’s whelp going to do? Walk up, bold as you please, to the bailiff and say, ‘I want to lodge a complaint against a jester who attempted to kill me as I tried to rob and kill him?’” Tarleton wiggled his thick brows at her, bringing a chuckle from his apprentice. “Good. I’m glad to see you are being sensible!”
Tarleton stopped the nearest man and asked directions to the town hall.
“No stall, you say?” The bailiff regarded the jester and his apprentice with an appraising eye.
“Nay.” Tarleton grinned. “We need only a small pitch— and a goodly crowd to please.”
“Have you letters patent? I brook no masterless vagabonds in Banbury.” The bailiff stuck out his jaw and tried to look important.
Grinning even more broadly, Tarleton pulled an impressive-looking document from his pouch.
The parchment crackled as the bailiff unfolded it. He drew in a breath when he saw the royal seal. “Do you know what this says?” he inquired searchingly.
In answer, Tarleton took the letter from him, and began to read easily.
“Know ye by all men that the bearer of this letter patent is one Richard Tarleton, member of Her Most Gracious Majesty’s company of players known hereafter as The Queen’s Men. The said Master Tarleton has been a member of this company since its founding in the year of our Lord 1583, and, as such, he enjoys all rights and privileges thereto. Moreover, he hath, by divers jigs, songs, wit, swordplay and conversation, the particular patronage of Her Most Gracious Majesty, Elizabeth, and by Her Expressed Command is to receive all manners of courtesies wherever the said Master Tarleton may perform. Given under my Hand and Seal, Sir Christopher Hatton, Lord Chamberlain of the Royal Household, this eighth day of June in the year of Our Lord 1586.”
Tarleton handed the letter back to the bailiff, whose face creased into a greasy grin. “This scamp is my apprentice, lately hired.” Tarleton pointed toward Elizabeth.
The bailiff barely glanced at her. He was clearly awed by the arrival of such a celebrity as the Queen’s own jester. “You do our fair honor, Master Tarleton. In faith, I have heard of ye!”
“And I trust your reports have been good?” Tarleton cocked his head.
“They say that none can make the Queen smile when she has a black mood upon her, except her fool, Tarleton. They say you can mend her body better than her physician, and her spirit better than a priest,” the bailiff replied warmly, showing off his knowledge of court gossip.
“You are are too kind.” Tarleton murmured with mock humility.
Elizabeth was most impressed by the bailiff’s words. Up to now, she had only half believed Tarleton’s boasting.
The bailiff took out a license from his desk. “The fee for entertainers is two shillings.”
Tarleton sighed with a dramatic flourish. “Alas, sir, I have but one shilling about my person. Could you advance me the other shilling on my bond, and I will pay you at day’s end?” Taking out the single coin, Tarleton placed it on the desk before the bailiff. “There would be, of course, a little extra in consideration of your charity,” he added in a low voice.
The official quickly pocketed the shilling. “Seeing that you are the Queen’s own man, so be it.” Making a second notation on the license, the bailiff signed it and passed it across to Tarleton. “You may play by the market cross near the dancing bear.”
Tarleton respectfully touched his cap, then he sailed out the door, Elizabeth following in his wake.
“‘Twas a knavish cony-catcher to be sure,” Tarleton muttered under his breath to Elizabeth as they made their way through the crowded streets. “He knows full well that the fee is only a shilling.”
“Shall I sing the song about the roast swan, Tarleton?” Catching his infectious excitement, Elizabeth looked forward to performing.
Tarleton brushed his knuckle lightly down her nose. “Nay, chuck! Not today.”
Surprised, Tarleton glanced at her, then his eyes softened with understanding. “Nay, ‘tis not that I think you would do poorly,” he said in a comforting voice. “But I fear that Sir Robert La Faye may have some of his hirelings about. The less seen of your fair face and bright hair, the better.”
They entered the town square, which was filled with people bent on enjoying themselves. Enclosed in a shallow pit in one corner, the first of the day’s cockfights was in progress, attracting a great many noisy patrons.
In the center of the square, a sad-faced scholar sat on the steps of the ancient market cross and penned simple love poems for country swains who hoped to catch the hearts of milkmaids. On the far side, a large brown bear shambled at the end of a chain held by a small black-haired man playing upon a reed pipe.
“‘Tis a real beast!” Elizabeth breathed, looking at the lumbering animal with a mixture of apprehension and amazement.
Tarleton grinned at her childlike reaction. “He is old and toothless, and has had all his claws pulled out.”
“How cruel!” Elizabeth protested.
“He could still squeeze you to death if he had a mind to, but he’s used to being petted and fed on honeyed loaves.”
Tarleton selected a spot on the opposite corner, between a stall selling spiced cakes, and one that was doing a brisk trade in trinkets and small household items. “We’ll set up here.”
“Tarleton, I’m so hungry,” said Elizabeth wistfully, smelling the aroma of the cakes so near at hand. “Could we get one of those on credit?”
Tarleton cocked his eyebrow at her. “Credit is what the gentry use to put off their just debts until Judgment Day. There is no credit for poor, honest folk.”
Her face turned down with disappointment.
Tarleton held out three peonies. “I trust these will buy you a wealth of spiced cakes, and some cider to wash them down.”
“I thought we had no money!” Elizabeth looked into his mischievous eyes. “Oh, Tarleton, you didn’t—?”
“Upon my honor—if I had any—I did not steal them. Let this be a lesson to you. Never let anyone know exactly how much money you have.”
Grinning her thanks, Elizabeth snatched the pennies out of his hand before Tarleton had a chance to reconsider his offer. She bought a half-dozen cakes, studded with nuts and currants, and two brimming jack mugs of tangy cider. Seating herself comfortably on the ground and leaning against the pack bag, she happily regarded the colorful panorama before her.
Tarleton watched Elizabeth with amusement and warm pride. We’d make a fine team, she and I. We could travel the highways together and— Abruptly reminding himself of her true identity—and his—he silently cursed his idle fancy.
The sun edged toward noon when Tarleton finally decided the time was ripe for his first performance. Elizabeth helped him dress in his motley. In the glaring brightness of daylight, she saw how shabby his jacket of colored patches really was. Some of the green velvet diamonds were worn down to bare cloth. One red sleeve had a large moth hole in it. His gaudy purple and gold ribbons were badly frayed, and there was a faded wine stain on his soft white collar, which she knew would never come out in a week of washings. Several of his brass bells were missing from his points. To add insult to injury, the whole garment smelled foul.
I shall order a new motley for Tarleton when we get to court, Elizabeth vowed, as she tied his cap strings under his chin. And I shall take great pleasure in personally burning this one.
“Stand in the shade, and mind our pack,” Tarleton whispered to her. “At the end of the show, be my gatherer. Pass your hat among the crowd on your side. Be sure to let no one escape your sweet smile.”
Rattling a tambourine, Tarleton leapt into the center of the dusty square, where he proceeded to enchant the citizenry. He sang rollicking songs and danced his famous jigs. He juggled six colored balls at one time. Cartwheeling and tumbling, his body became a spinning, jingling, colorful blur. His jokes were outrageous, and the swelling crowd loved them, especially jests ridiculing tax collectors and lawyers. He danced a country reel, partnering many pretty, young farm maids and elderly dames alike.
Elizabeth felt a sharp prick of envy. How she wished she was the one he twirled in his hands! Watching his easy grace, his flashing smile and the nimble movements of his lithe body, her pulse skittered alarmingly. Every time Tarleton glanced over at her, Elizabeth’s heart fluttered in response. If he were a nobleman, I would—
The thought froze in her brain. Elizabeth gave herself a shake. Tarleton wasn’t the least bit interested in her. Didn’t he openly flirt with every woman in sight? Besides, the man was a commoner. The whole idea was utterly ridiculous!
At the finale of his performance, Tarleton sang “The Greenwood Tree,” his rich baritone filling the square. “‘Here shall he see/No enemy But winter and rough weather.’” As he sang the last lingering line, he looked directly at Elizabeth, his gaze as soft as a caress.
The very air around her seemed to sparkle. There was a thundering crash in her ears, which was a far cry from the applause that followed his last note. She felt she had been kissed by a white-hot bolt of lightning.
“Your hat, prentice!” Tarleton’s call broke the spell. He worked the crowd on the far side, shaking his tambourine as the coins fell into it. Laughing and flirting, the jester kissed many a blushing maid, and the not-so-innocent housewives, on the cheek.
Pulling herself together, Elizabeth cried, “Come, what say you for my master, Tarleton?” Holding out her cap, she waded into the nearest clutch of people, catching their silver tribute.
Tarleton jingled up to her, his face shiny with perspiration, and the tambourine full.
“We shall dine well this night, Robin Redbreast!” he chortled. “Come, help me out of this jacket, and we shall drink to our newfound fortune.”
With trembling fingers, Elizabeth drew off his motley. She was afraid to look into his eyes. Did Tarleton feel the same flash of sensation when he looked at her?
“My throat is as parched as a preacher on Sunday.” Tarleton ruffled his hair. “‘Tis time we sample Mistress Bess’s brew.”
Elizabeth swallowed her disappointment. Her magic glow evaporated. It was only her imagination playing tricks in the noonday sun.
The beer-seller’s wife was in a jovial mood, having liberally sampled some of her husband’s wares. She eagerly shared the bits and pieces of the news she had already heard that morning. There was no report of any traveler being set upon by thieves, but only the hanging of some poor fellow in Warwickshire for beating his wife and mother-in-law to death.
Sipping her beer, Elizabeth shuddered quietly as she listened to the gruesome tale. Why did so many people take such pleasure in recounting others’ pain, she wondered.
Spying Elizabeth’s reaction, Tarleton flashed a broad smile at the beer seller. “Come now, Mistress Johnson. Surely you have a more amusing tale to tell.” He thumped his mug for another round.
“Aye, Tarleton, though ye must promise not to steal my story for your own.” Bess liberally poured him more beer from her large brown pitcher. “‘Tis mine to tell, and that’s the long and the short of it.”
“What fine bit of gossip have you?” Tarleton grinned encouragingly.
Mistress Bess drew herself up importantly. “Marry, have ye heard of the runaway wife?”
Elizabeth almost choked on her drink, though she covered her dismay by lapsing into a coughing fit.
Tarleton’s mischievous brown eyes opened wide. “Prithee, what is so interesting about this runaway wife?”
“Why, in faith, she is some grand lady from near Kenilworth. ‘Tis said she left Sir Robert La Faye a-standing at the altar, calling him a rogue and a devil. It so scandalized the curate, that the poor man fell stone dead on the spot. But she, headstrong lass! She set not a fig for it, but she leapt over the body, and ran out of the church, whereupon she jumped on Sir Robert’s huge black charger—astride, mind you—and away she rode.”
“Such a lady of spirit!,” Tarleton murmured. “And have they discovered where she went?” He noted with approval that Elizabeth managed to look interested without blushing.
“But no! You have not heard the whole telling of my story! The lady was met by her secret lover, a Scottish lord, they say. He whisked her up in his great coach and four and they made for the border, where they might be married at Gretna Green afore Sir Robert could find them. But he—Sir Robert, that is—he has set out after them, and ‘tis said they have gone to ground near Sherwood Forest, just as Robin Hood and Maid Marian did of old. Now, what think you of that?”
Throwing back his head, Tarleton laughed richly. “‘Tis a worthy tale, and I’ll not steal it. You do a better piece of work on it than I ever could. Here is for your fine beer, and for your fine story!” He handed Mistress Johnson four pennies.
She dimpled at him with gap-tooth pleasure. “You are a real gentleman, Master Tarleton, and there’s no mistake!”
“Come, Robin, we have more work in hand. Ye cannot be listening to stories all day!” Tarleton snapped his fingers at Elizabeth.
“How your tale has grown!” Elizabeth marveled, running to keep up with him.
“Aye, Goodwife Fletcher did her work well, much better than I expected.” Tarleton chuckled. “I hope, by tomorrow, we shall learn that the lady and her lover have crossed the border. It would be true justice if Sir Robert chased after them, and was met by the reavers.”
“Who are they?” Elizabeth asked.
“Bandits of ill repute, who steal good English cattle and sell them for even better Scottish prices,” Tarleton informed her.
Elizabeth smiled slowly at the thought. “And what would they do to Sir Robert, if they captured him?”
“Strip him of his clothes and money, then tie him backward on a goat, and send him on his way—if he is lucky. In any event, he must be miles from here. Come, Robin! We burn daylight! There is more money to be made!”
The afternoon’s performance drew an even larger crowd, some of whom returned to see the Queen’s jester a second time. As before, Tarleton capered, danced, juggled, told bawdy jokes and sang suggestive songs, all of which pleased the throng. Again he directed the last line of “The Greenwood Tree” to his apprentice.
Elizabeth’s cheeks colored under the heat of his gaze. A tumble of confused thoughts and feelings assailed her, though outwardly she pretended not to notice his favor. This strange aching she felt for the Queen’s favorite player bewildered her. Her common sense reminded her that she must not allow herself to fall under his spell. She was a lady, destined for a “good match,” if not to the odious Sir Robert, then to some other lord. Tarleton’s path led down the byways of England with merry disregard for dowries and marriage portions. Indeed, considering his past behavior, Tarleton had a merry disregard for marriage altogether.
And yet—
I would marry him, Elizabeth realized with a sudden fearful clarity, as she watched him flash his elfin smile at a shy little maid of ten. If Tarleton ever said, “Come away with me and we will wander the world together,” Elizabeth knew deep in her heart, that all her sensible thoughts would disappear like an April shower.
“Ho, prentice!” Tarleton called to her. “Instead of gathering wool, gather pennies!”
Dragging herself roughly out of her daydream, Elizabeth moved among the crowd, holding out her hat as the silver pieces rained into it. The good nuns, who had taught her so carefully in France, would be shocked to the core if they could see her now. Surprisingly, Elizabeth found she didn’t care a groat’s worth. Here, in the warm afternoon sun of a late summer day, she could almost forget why she had started out on this improbable adventure. Sir Robert La Faye was as far from her care as Scotland, where, she fervently hoped, that vile lord might be even now riding his own goat, preferably backward.
“How now, Robin Redbreast?” Tarleton asked, pulling off his motley jacket and raking his fingers through his damp hair.
“Didn’t we do well!” Elizabeth giggled as she began adding up the pile of groats, farthings, pennies and halfpennies.
Tarleton watched her, a smile playing over his lips. “Give you another week on the road, prentice, and you’ll be able to estimate the take by the size of the crowd!” Then his face darkened as if a cloud blocked out the sun. “But I forget. In another week, the chill winds of autumn will be here, and you will be sitting in front of a roaring fire at Hampton Court.”
“I pray we get there safely,” she whispered, though her heart was not as eager as her voice.
“Amen to that,” Tarleton answered gruffly. Then he cleared his throat. “By the looks of our goodly fortune, we shall be able to buy a fine dinner and a bed for the night, even after paying that shag-eared bailiff!”
“A bed?” Jesu! When had she last slept in a proper bed?
Tarleton grinned down at her surprised expression. “Yes, a bed, Robin Redbreast. I am sure you have heard of a bed before? Fine lords and ladies often sleep in them, I’m told. Of course, if you prefer a ticklish haystack, we could—”
“No, no!” Elizabeth stopped his banter with a giggle. “I would not deny you the pleasure of a bed!”
But I must deny myself the pleasures of sharing it with you the way I would wish, he thought bitterly. Tarleton roundly cursed the noble lord who would someday lay claim to Lady Elizabeth.
“Do you need some of my money?” Elizabeth started to reach for her bag, hidden under her shirt and vest.
Tarleton stayed her hand, holding her fingers for an extra moment. “Nay! That’s not to be touched! We’ve earned enough here. Let us enjoy the rest of the fair before the sun sinks too low!”
While Tarleton went off to pay his debt to the bailiff, Elizabeth watched the great old bear dance one more time. A young couple strolled past her, the boy’s arm about the girl’s waist. He dangled a bunch of brightly colored ribbons before the girl’s delighted eyes.
“For your wedding dress,” the boy murmured, nuzzling her ear. “To tie into many love knots, for I love you many times over.”
The girl blushed and laughed softly.
Elizabeth swallowed a hard lump in her throat. Why can’t I look forward to my wedding day as happily as she? I’m only chattel ready to be sold to the highest bidder! Will I never taste love like those two simple souls?
“What a sad look of longing!” Tarleton’s deep voice broke into her thoughts. “Here’s something for you then.” Reaching into his pouch, Tarleton pulled out a round object.
“A ball?” Elizabeth asked incredulously. Tarleton was carrying her disguise a little too far. “I think I am too old to play with a ball!”
Tarleton feigned a hurt look. Tossing the ball up in the air, he caught it with a quick flick of his wrist.
“Ah, well,” he said with an exaggerated sigh. “Perhaps not. I wonder if that bear over there would be interested in my soap. No doubt, he’d try to eat it and—”
“Soap?” Elizabeth could scarcely believe her ears. “Oh, please, Tarleton! Is it truly soap?”
“I thought you said you were too old for a ball.” He grinned, wiggling his brows playfully at her.
“It depends what the ball is made of,” she answered pertly.
“Then you have learned another valuable lesson, prentice. Never be too quick to judge a thing by its outward appearance. Here.” Tossing it lightly to her, he seemed pleasantly surprised when she caught it.
Soap! Her fingers caressed its waxy contours. She inhaled its sweet lavender fragrance—a lady’s soap. She smiled shyly at Tarleton.
“Thank you, Dickon,” she whispered, hoping he wouldn’t mind her using his real name.
Tarleton cupped her chin between his thumb and fingers. For a moment, he looked as if he were going to bend down and kiss her on the lips. Her heart beat hopefully at the thought. She rose on tiptoe, not realizing that she had moistened her lips in expectation. He paused, as if he remembered something. Giving her a tight smile, he tapped her gently on the cheek.
“Take the pack, boy,” he said hoarsely. “‘Tis time we find an inn before all the rooms have been taken.”
As he turned away from her, Elizabeth felt as if she had been dropped from a high wall. Something had happened between them just now, but she wasn’t sure what it was.
Within the half hour, Tarleton engaged a dormer room at The White Swan, a large, friendly inn off the highroad. Though the room was small, it had the advantage of privacy. There was only space for a single bed and a small table. For an extra halfpenny, one of the serving girls brought a bowl and a large pitcher of hot water. Giggling in sheer delight, Elizabeth rolled up her sleeves and gave herself over to the pure pleasure of washing her hair.
Tarleton sat on the bed, watching her. “I could have made a full bath and shaved with that water,” he mused. “You have managed to use it all up in ten minutes.” He tossed her the thin hucktoweling that the wench had also provided.
“Ah, but it was worth it.” Elizabeth sighed, rubbing her head vigorously. “My hair was full of hay and dust.”
She propped Tarleton’s piece of mirror up against the pitcher, and regarded herself as she combed out the shining bob. Bending closer to the mirror, she rubbed her nose.
“By the book, I’m turning to freckles! And look how brown I’ve become! I shall stand out at court among all the ladies.”
“You look healthy!” Tarleton snorted. “All those fine ladies at court cover themselves with a white paste. It makes them look like painted dolls.”
“Even the Queen?” Elizabeth grinned wickedly over her shoulder.
“Especially the Queen, but don’t you dare tell her I said so. In the mood she has been in these past few months, she’d have my head grinning from Tower Bridge!”
She would have my brains stewed and served up as a dog’s breakfast if Her Majesty knew what thoughts I am having about her bewitching goddaughter, Tarleton added to himself.
Elizabeth, her toilette completed to the best of her abil ity, stood up and shook out her waistcoat before slipping i back on. She glanced at Tarleton through her lashes. Good Lord! He looked far too at home, stretched out on her bed.
“Tarleton, I have a question,” she began, pretending to look again in the mirror so that he would not see the blush she knew stained her cheeks.
“What is your question this time, chuck?”
“There is only one bed. Where do you intend to sleep to night?”
Tarleton pressed his lips tightly together to keep from blurting out the truth: I wish to sleep in your arms tonight. Instead, he stood up and smoothed the coverlet. Her sim ple question hurt him. She had slept in his arms before, wha was the difference now? But he knew there was a difference. This afternoon, he had come far too close to kissing her.
“I will lie on the floor at your feet, my lady, like a good guard dog should,” he answered coolly.
Elizabeth bit her lip when she realized she had offended him. “There is no need, Tarleton,” she answered stiffly. “You bought and paid for it, the bed is yours. I shall make do with a pillow and my cloak on the floor.”
He stared at her for a moment, his eyes glowing darkly in the gloaming of the twilight.
“So be it,” he snapped. Then he opened the door and hurled himself down the narrow stairs.
“Tarleton, where are you going?”
“To supper! If you wish, you may follow along, prentice boy!” he growled as he turned on the landing.
Elizabeth shut the door behind her with a bang and stomped after him. Just who does he think I am? A doxy whose favors he can buy with soap, hot water and the promise of a night in a real bed?
Yet, oddly enough, Elizabeth found herself wishing Tarleton would forget her noble birth, just once.