Good-natured clientele, warmed by a day of sunshine, profitable business and pleasure, filled the noisy taproom of The White Swan. Huge bowls of savory stew, trenchers of bread and assorted mugs of ale and beer covered the long, rough-hewn tables. The three serving girls and the tap boy ran back and forth under the scolding tongue of the hostess and the vigilant eye of the host. Many of the company were travelers from other parts of England, who had come to trade at the fair. A smattering of foreigners clustered in pockets among the gathering.
In a small corner booth away from the fire, Tarleton and Elizabeth ate their meal in silence. If it hadn’t been for their sharp words earlier, Elizabeth would have enjoyed the meal spread before them: juicy hunks of beef, a cobbler of stewed apples, crusty wheat bread with a crock of melted cheddar and cool ale. As it was, she ate but tasted nothing: Tarleton’s churlish behavior had taken away her appetite.
Whenever one of the serving girls passed by their table, Tarleton chatted warmly with her, pointedly ignoring Elizabeth opposite him. As the evening wore on and he consumed more beer, Tarleton put his arm around one of the wenches, pulling the tittering girl onto his lap, where he openly fondled her to her evident delight.
Keeping her head down, Elizabeth sipped her ale in embarrassed silence. Dimly through the babble round her, she overheard two men in the next booth quietly speaking French. Drawn to her mother’s language, Elizabeth listened to their conversation.
“Do you understand their speech?” Tarleton quietly asked.
Elizabeth glanced up at him in surprise. It was the first civil thing he had said to her in nearly two hours. “Of course,” she answered archly, trying to look superior. “Though their accent is horrid.”
“They’re not Frenchmen?” Tarleton’s eyes narrowed. It would be of great interest to the Queen’s spy master if there were those who pretended to be French when they were not. The Queen’s imprisoned cousin, Mary of Scotland, was mustering many secret supporters in the realm who longed to depose Her Grace and put Catholic Mary on England’s throne.
“Do they have the accent of a Scot?” Tarleton asked.
“Nay, they are French. What I meant was they are not from Paris,” she explained with a show of studied patience.
“Most of the world is not from Paris,” Tarleton testily reminded her. “What do they say?”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “One of them just remarked that no business can be done by the English without pots of beer to wash it down.”
“Typical remark!” Tarleton snorted. “What else?”
Elizabeth suddenly blushed deeply. “They are talking about one of the wenches, the redheaded one.”
Tarleton glanced across the room at the girl in question. A lively, pert creature, she looked seventeen in age and twenty-seven in experience.
“They have good taste in women,” he observed knowingly. “Tell me what they say of her.”
Elizabeth took a deep drink of her ale. “They…they are talking about her breasts, and her… oh, by the stars!”
“Her what?” Tarleton’s eyes sparkled wickedly. “Tell me exactly what they say about her breasts and her… other parts.”
“Please, Tarleton,” Elizabeth begged him quietly. “It’s very vulgar.”
“Good!” Tarleton taunted. “I’m common enough for some good French vulgarity. Tell what they say of yon wench.”
Banging her mug down on the table, Elizabeth glared at him. Her eyes flashed with a dangerous green fire. “I am sure you can understand their meaning, if you listen hard enough. They are not leaving much to the imagination.” She slid out of the booth. “As for me, I will not stay here a minute longer, and entertain your shameful whims.”
Elizabeth turned on her heel with her head held proudly high, pushed her way through the mob around the bar, then ran outside to the inn’s privy. Fortunately, it was deserted. Afterward, she scampered up the stairs to their room. Wrapping herself in her cloak, she knelt by the small window, and gazed up at the stars that sparkled like ice chips in the sky.
“Dear Lord,” she whispered. “Why is Tarleton so cruel to me? Please, Lord, deliver me soon to the Queen, and I pray you send me a good, true man to be my loving husband!”
With a heavy sigh, she pillowed her head on the pack and fell quickly into a deep sleep, worn out by the long day’s activities.
Tarleton silently watched her through the crack of the door. His heart tightened with self-loathing when he saw her bed down on the rough floor. The rising moon caught her hair in its beams, turning it into a silver halo glowing around her head. Tarleton drew in his breath. Though he had seen this unearthly shine before, it never ceased to amaze him. Recalling her whispered prayer, he cursed himself for each bruising word he had uttered.
Pushing open the door softly, he tiptoed in and knelt by her side. A small crystal tear glistened on her cheek, its mute witness a searing firebrand to his soul. Gently he brushed it away with his fingertip. Scooping up her sleeping form in his arms, Tarleton held her for a moment close to his chest. Stirring slightly in her sleep, Elizabeth snuggled against him, instinctively seeking his warmth.
Though her weight was nothing in his arms, Tarleton trembled as he gazed on the sleeping innocent he held. Fierce waves of love and protection welled up inside him. He wanted to press her tightly against himself, to meld with her for eternity. His heart beat faster as if he had been running for his life. Fighting the natural urges within himself, Tarleton carried her to the bed, where he laid her head gently on the pillow, smoothing the wisps of her hair from her eyes. He covered her with the thick woolen blanket.
“I don’t know if you are my salvation or my damnation, sweetling,” he whispered into her ear. “If there is a voice that can fly to your heart, hear mine. I have not the strength to fight against the truth any longer. I love thee, Elizabeth Hayward, with every part of my being. I know I can never have thee, and that will be my penance for the life I have led. Be thou an angel to bless me or a devil to tempt me, I will love thee forever.”
He kissed her lingeringly on her warm, parted lips. In her sleep, Elizabeth softly responded, then she turned on her side. Shaking as if he burned with a fever, Tarleton rolled himself tightly in her cloak. It was still warm from Elizabeth’s body, and smelled faintly of lavender soap.
Sleep finally came to Tarleton, relieving his tormenting thoughts.
When Elizabeth awoke the next morning, she was surprised to find herself tucked comfortably in the bed. Sitting up quickly, she looked around for Tarleton. She was alone, though the jumbled cloak on the floor gave evidence of where he had slept. She stretched luxuriously, like a cat in the sun. She felt new made after the first real night’s sleep she had since her father’s death. An early morning mist hovered over the cobbled streets below her dormer window, but she knew it would burn off soon. Through the ghostly air, a lone church bell rang, calling worshipers to service.
Slipping on her shoes, Elizabeth ran her comb through her hair. Then, wrapping the cloak around her to ward off the morning’s chill, she made her way down to the pump in the courtyard. Only a few of the inn’s patrons were stirring. Tarleton was nowhere to be seen.
“By my faith, Maude, ‘tis the jester’s pretty boy!”
Shaking the cold water out of her eyes, Elizabeth saw two of the inn’s serving girls appraising her.
“Good morrow, pretty youth!” called Maude, the younger of the two.
The other, the redheaded wench, displayed a knowing grin as she sauntered closer to Elizabeth, who stood rooted to the spot.
“See, Maude? The boy blushes to hear you call him,” the redhead teased. “Pray tell us, boy, have you never spoken to a girl before?”
Wiping her face on her sleeve, Elizabeth’s mind desperately sought a way out of this latest encounter. God’s teeth! Where the devil was Tarleton when she needed him?
“Aye, mistress, I speak often to girls.” Elizabeth assumed her best boyish voice. “But never so early in the morning.” Elizabeth began walking briskly toward the inn’s back door.
The redheaded girl and Maude dashed ahead of her, blocking the way.
“Where are you going so quickly, pretty lad?” the redhead crooned.
Elizabeth licked her lips as she regarded the forward maid.
“I must find my master to wait upon him,” Elizabeth replied, looking quickly around for another escape route.
“He is in the taproom at breakfast,” Maude informed her shyly.
“We shall let you by if you pay us a forfeit,” the redhead teased.
“I fear I have no money about me.” Elizabeth backed up a step. Though she was tempted to push both girls into the mud, Elizabeth knew that was not how a boy was supposed to act.
“Then a kiss, sweet lad. One each! By my troth, you look to have sweet lips and I’ve not tasted fresh kisses since midsummer’s eve!”
Giggling, the redhead advanced toward Elizabeth, while Maude circled around, cutting off her retreat.
At that moment, Tarleton appeared at the doorway. Taking one look at his apprentice’s latest scrape, he chuckled.
“Nay, sweethearts!” he called to the girls, striding into the yard. “Robin is not for the likes of ye!”
Slipping his arms around the girls, Tarleton gave them each a squeeze. “My prentice is for the church,” he told them, nibbling the redhead on her ear. “I am to see him safely as far as Oxford, where he will spend his days shut up with heavy books of religion.” Grinning impishly, Tarleton wiggled his brows at Elizabeth.
“Don’t waste your temptations on fair Robin! But, sweet ducks, please tempt me, for I gave away my soul long ago.”
He kissed the redhead lustfully on the mouth, followed by another, more chaste kiss for Maude. His hands crept up from their waists until he held a breast in each, gently playing with them through the thin fabric of their bodices. The girls giggled with pleasure as Tarleton dipped his head, peppering their necks with his kisses.
Swallowing back a tight, hard lump that had crept into her throat, Elizabeth dashed around the threesome to the safety of the cool dark taproom. She tried to eat the cheese, bread and hot ale that the tap boy set before her. She refused to look up when Tarleton sat down on the bench across from her.
“Well, Robin Redbreast, what do you have to say for yourself? It seems I cannot leave you alone for two minutes without you getting into trouble.”
“I trust you enjoyed getting me out of my trouble,” she muttered into her ale pot. She dared not look up into those dancing eyes of his. She wanted to nurse her anger at him, not fall under his spell like every country maid.
Tarleton chuckled. “A kiss, a tickle—and a penny each.”
“Is that all? I am surprised you didn’t take… take what was so plainly offered, especially from the redheaded wench.” Elizabeth tried to sound unconcerned. A mass of conflicting emotions seethed within her.
Tarleton answered softly. “‘Twas money that they chiefly wanted—that, and a little kindness. Besides, they were too young for my tastes.”
“Oh!” Elizabeth felt her cheeks grow hot, and she was thankful for the dimness of the room. If the redhead was too young for him, so was she. No doubt Tarleton considered Elizabeth only a heartbeat out of the schoolroom. That thought was singularly disappointing!
Abruptly Tarleton stood up. “Finish your breakfast, my lad. The day grows apace and we must be gone.”
“Why do you do it?” Walking briskly down the road to Oxford, Elizabeth suddenly blurted out the question.
“Do what?” The jester cocked his head as he regarded the girl by his side. Obviously she had been mulling over something important ever since they left Banbury, but Tarleton hadn’t a notion what she meant.
Elizabeth stared straight ahead with a determined set to her chin. “Back there at the inn—at the fair—on the road—in kitchens. Why did you always kiss and touch serving girls as if they were your…” Her voice trailed off in confusion.
“As if they were my lovers?” Tarleton finished the sentence for her, a smile creeping to the corners of his mouth. Did he detect a little green worm of jealousy sitting on her shoulder?
“Well… yes. Everywhere we go, you pay all manner of personal attention to women—to women of all ages.” Except to me! she wanted to scream.
Tarleton chuckled. “Why not? A kiss, a hug, the feel of a willing wench pressed against me—there’s no harm done, only a bit of pleasure. Great Jove, my Lady, you are turning a deep shade of scarlet!” he added with amusement in his voice.
“But how can you love those women? You hardly know them!” Elizabeth protested.
“I tell them I love them, and that is enough. ‘Tis all a game. Why? What ails you, Robin Redcheeks?” he asked casually, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. He could not let her suspect what he truly desired.
“But that’s so cruel! You are no better than Sir Robert!” A festering anger rose in her throat.
“Nay, ladybird, Sir Robert is more of a knave, by far,” Tarleton said evenly. “He loves your money. I love a merry wench to suit my pleasure—and hers. If I pass her a coin or two for her time and company, at least mine has been an honest bargain. We both know the rules of the game.”
“Love should not be so lightly taken nor given,” said Elizabeth quietly. “Don’t you dream of a wife and family, Tarleton?” Looking up at him, her green eyes were huge.
“My trade keeps me from a home,” he replied shortly.
“You could settle down, find a new trade.”
“At my age?” He chuckled at the thought. “Nay, I have too much of the wanderlust and love of adventure in me yet. It takes all my time and skill to please the Queen and her subjects. The Queen, especially, is a jealous mistress. She wants her Tarleton’s heart to pine only for her.”
“And does it?” Elizabeth asked carefully. Why did his answer matter so much to her?
“When I am at court, the Queen is my lodestar and my affection turns only to her. That is true for all her male courtiers. Her Majesty seldom allows wives to stay at Court except on rare occasions. She wants all the attention herself.”
“Really?” Elizabeth was surprised. “You mean the court is full of husbands without wives? But that must be very difficult—for the husbands, I mean. And for their poor wives who are left at home.”
Tarleton’s brown eyes twinkled with mischief. “Oh, it is! That’s why there are so many short tempers at court, and why there are so many anxious wives in the country. Perhaps you can understand why some of them become like Lady Margaret Fairfax.”
Elizabeth shuddered at the recollection. Never would she sink as low as that! “But don’t you…? Haven’t you ever truly loved someone?”
Tarleton turned away from her. It was so easy to whisper his heartfelt words of love into her sleeping ear. Now, by the day’s bright sun, he had to hide the truth, lest it prove the ruin of them both.
“I do love a lady—a very great lady,” he finally replied in a guarded manner, “but she is too far above my station. And, she is promised to a wealthy lord of high esteem.”
Elizabeth suddenly felt very hollow inside. “Does this lady know you love her?”
“Nay, what good would that do? If I fell on my knee and professed my love, she’d laugh and think I was jesting. Or she would grow angry at my boldness, and banish me forever. I dare not risk that.” Tarleton gazed deeply into her eyes. “There are some things, chuck, which are best left unspoken.” Let Elizabeth think his tale was true. It was, but not in the telling of it.
“Who is this lady?” Elizabeth could barely voice the question.
“She can be found at court when we get there, but I won’t tell you her name, chuck. So don’t ask.”
Tarleton looked so grim that Elizabeth wished she had not brought the subject up. It was obvious she had hit some raw nerve. She sighed. What would it be like to be loved by Tarleton? It was true he was a rogue, and lived only a little bit within the law, but at least, he was honest about his character. Elizabeth knew in her heart that if he ever loved truly, his passion would be deep and abiding.
“Are you tired?” Tarleton asked, hearing her sigh.
Angry at herself for giving in to wishful thinking, Elizabeth tossed her head. “I am no simpering fine lady in silks and satins, Master Jester. I can walk as far as you can, and as well as you can. If you are not tired, then neither am I. And I am most anxious to reach my destination.” She skipped a few steps ahead to prove her point.
Tarleton hid his amusement at her show of spirit. “Very well then, prentice. We’ll walk another hour—or two.”
In the midafternoon, they passed by a large stone gateway, marking the entrance to a manor estate. The house itself was hidden from view by a long avenue of oak and conifer trees. Elizabeth was surprised when Tarleton hurried past it, his eyes averted.
“Tarleton, wait!” She stopped before the imposing stone lions that guarded the portals.
“What?” He looked over his shoulder at her. “Don’t tarry there, prentice, or they will set the hounds upon you.”
“This looks like a goodly place to spend the night. We could go round to the kitchen like we did before, and perhaps the master of the house—”
Tarleton didn’t allow her to finish. Grabbing her by the arm, he nearly jerked her off her feet as he pulled her away from the gate.
“The master of this house is a white-livered dog!” he hissed. “And I’ll be damned to the lowest circle of hell if I cast my shadow across his threshold!” Tarleton’s eyes darkened alarmingly. Under his tan, his face grew white with anger; his mouth was tight and grim. He strode quickly down the highway, dragging Elizabeth behind him. His fingers bit painfully into her arm.
“Let go of me!” she panted. “You are hurting me!” As if she had suddenly caught fire, he released her, though he did not stop. “Tarleton, please wait!”
At the crest of the hill, he finally drew to a halt and waited for her to catch up. Below them, the manor house nestled in the crook of the valley. Its many mullioned windows sparkled like the facets of a diamond in the rays of the afternoon sun. Tarleton stared at the place as if he could will its instant destruction.
“What is it? I didn’t know-”
“You couldn’t know,” Tarleton spoke quietly, his voice coming from a dark cavern deep inside him.
“You’ve been there before?” she whispered.
Tarleton glared at her with a blood-chilling eye. “Been there? Aye, my fine lady! I was raised in its kitchen!” He laughed bitterly.
“That’s where you were born?” Elizabeth stared at the grand building incredulously.
Tarleton bared his teeth. “Nay, have you forgotten my story already? I was born somewhere along this road. For all I know, we could be standing on the very spot.”
Elizabeth looked around at the countryside. It seemed inviting and pleasant enough in the warm sunshine, but what had it looked like to Tarleton’s young mother as she struggled in a frosty ditch, suffering alone the pains of childbirth? Elizabeth shuddered.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, placing her hand in his.
Visibly softening under her gentle pressure, Tarleton’s thunderous eyes cleared when he looked down at her. “‘Twas long ago, chuck,” he whispered hoarsely.
“Then the master of the house took you in?” Elizabeth prodded.
“He had little choice.” Tarleton snorted. “When he discovered me mewling by the kitchen fireside, he was of a mind to toss me out with the slops, but the local curate told him it was his Christian duty to keep me. Christian duty! Ha! At the age of five I was tending the pigs.” Tarleton’s lips curled back with distaste. “Have you ever met a pig? Mean-spirited, devil-ridden beasts. They terrified me. They bit me more than once. I think the good master of the house hoped the pigs would make a dinner of me, instead of the other way around!”
“The master?” Elizabeth arched her eyebrow. “I think you mean your father,” she added quietly.
Tarleton’s eyes widened at her perception, then he nodded. “Aye. Richard, Earl of Fawkland, indeed sired me. The biggest jest is that I am his only surviving child. Three wives, innumerable mistresses, God knows how many children, and only I lived to adulthood. That grand house down there, Breden Hall, should have been mine someday, but my… father did not see fit to make an honest woman of my mother.” He laughed mirthlessly.
“Because she was his servant,” Elizabeth murmured understandingly.
Tarleton nodded. “And she was reputed to be a Gypsy. The master claimed she bewitched him with a love potion. That was his excuse to turn her out when he discovered my impending debut. He made my childhood a merry hell in payment!”
It wrung Elizabeth’s heart to hear the pain in Tarleton’s voice. She laid her head against his shoulder. “That frightened little boy grew up to become a very brave man.”
Elizabeth’s soft voice and gentle touch acted as a soothing oil poured over the open raw wounds of Tarleton’s soul. All the poisonous pent-up anger of the years drained away from him, as he recounted his story for the first time.
He put his arm around Elizabeth, drawing her closer to him. “I wasn’t as brave as you may think. I ran away—often. Each time, I was caught by one of the gamekeepers and brought back, trussed up like a maddened dog. Aye, and beaten well for it, too. When I was twelve years, I set out on my own.”
“Twelve?” Elizabeth gasped. “Likel-”
“I was the guttersnipe you only pretend to be, and I tell you truly, sweetling, you lead the life of a prince compared tome.”
Elizabeth squeezed his hand and tried to think of something comforting to say. “Your mother must have been very pretty and had a sweet temperament,” she observed after a short silence. “For you have survived a harsh life with no marks of cruelty upon you, and everyone finds you… very pleasing to look upon.” She cleared her throat as his hand closed warmly around her own.
“There are marks, Elizabeth,” he said huskily, “but I keep them hidden. I thank you for your kind words about my mother. Though I never knew her, it pleases me to think well of her.”
“I never knew my mother, either,” Elizabeth said gently. “She died of a fever when I was quite young. My father often told me that I resembled her.”
“Then she must have been very beautiful, indeed.” Raising her hand to his lips, he kissed it fervently.
Elizabeth blushed at his compliment, but she did not pull her hand away from his. The print of his warm lips burned on her skin.
Tarleton cleared his throat. Any moment now he might confess his love for her. If he read the signs correctly, Elizabeth was more than half in love with him. It wouldn’t take too much to push her over the edge.
“Hungry, chuck?” he asked abruptly. When she nodded, he withdrew his hand from her gentle fingers. “Then we are in luck, for over there I spy a thick bramble of bushes loaded down with blackberries. They will go right well with our bread and cheese. So let us pick a capful or two.”
Laughing happily, Elizabeth plunged into the thicket. Soon she was stuffing more blackberries into her mouth than in her hat.
Tarleton, his black mood lifted by Elizabeth’s loving spirit, grinned as he joined her.
They spent the night in another friendly haystack, Elizabeth nestled once again in Tarleton’s protective arms. She awakened just after midnight, whimpering from a nightmare.
“There, there, chuck,” Tarleton said drowsily. “‘Tis only a dream.” He held the trembling girl tightly, stroking her cheek with the edge of his thumb.
“I dreamt of him—that man.” She shivered.
“What man, sweetling?” Tarleton murmured.
“The one who tried to… kill you.” Gulping down a sob, she buried her face in Tarleton’s vest. His heart beat in a steady, comforting rhythm under his shirt. “We were back in that church, and I tried to knock him out but he didn’t fall! Instead he started walking toward me, pointing his finger at me and saying he was going to murder me. He just kept coming at me, and I couldn’t move. I wanted to run, but I couldn’t. And I couldn’t find you!”
Tarleton continued to smooth the worry lines from her soft face, wishing he could kiss her fears away. Elizabeth was not used to the violence Tarleton had known since childhood. How long would this specter haunt her dreams?
“Try to put him out of your mind, sweetling,” he whispered.
“But we just left him lying there. Suppose he died! I’d be a…an accomplice to murder! And you? Oh, sweet Dickon, they would hang you!” Elizabeth’s tears renewed. “I shall burn in hell for it,” she whispered fearfully. “I am not sorry for what you did. Indeed, I would have done it myself, had I the strength. That’s a very wicked thought, isn’t it?”
Tarleton brushed his lips lightly through her silky hair. “There are a lot more evil people in hell already, Elizabeth. The devil has no time for the likes of you.”
“Truly?” She looked up at him; her eyes were huge and moist in the darkness of the night.
Tarleton’s throat tightened. “Truly, my dove, now go to sleep for we still have a long way to go before the end of our journey.”
Comforted by his words and the warmth of his embrace, Elizabeth soon drifted back to sleep. Cradling her tenderly, Tarleton looked up at the stars twinkling through the loose covering of straw. Of all the women he had known in his life—and admittedly there were a great many whose names and faces ran together—why was he so shaken by this fragile blossom from a noble family tree? She belonged in a tapestry, seated under a spreading oak, with the mysterious white unicorn bowing at her feet. Elizabeth was brave and kind and so innocent. Yet she had stolen Tarleton’s heart when he wasn’t looking.
He lay awake a long time, musing over the Fates who had cast Elizabeth into his life.