“‘Tis a goodly room!” Tarleton’s deep voice filled the empty hall. “By my head, sweet Robin, you are getting spoiled. After playing in such a fine place, you will think yourself too grand to sing for pennies at an inn.”
“I will sing wherever you are… master,” Elizabeth answered softly.
Crossing the polished floor, Tarleton leaned over her so that only she could hear his words. “I would have you sing by my side forever, sweetling.”
Elizabeth dimpled with pleasure as his honeyed voice filled her ear.
Leaving Jonathan and Philip to themselves for an hour or two, the jester and his apprentice rehearsed for their evening’s performance in the middle of the great vaulted Dining Hall built by Cardinal Wolsey in King Henry VIII’s time. The magnificence of the carvings and stained glass matched anything Elizabeth had seen in France.
“Ah! But wait until you see Hampton Court! Wolsey built that one, too.” Tarleton rolled his eyes in appreciation.
“Yes… Hampton Court…” murmured Elizabeth quietly. Hampton Court meant the end of her time with this wonderful man who stood close beside her, his arm flung companionably around her shoulders.
“Aye, I know, chuck,” he whispered, understanding her hesitation. “But let us put that distant palace out of our minds. We are here now.”
“So long as Sir Robert is not here, I am content.” Elizabeth smiled crookedly.
Tarleton noticed that one of the serving men strained to overhear their conversation. He is probably thinking that we are plotting to steal the students blind, and take the college silver plate, as well. Whirling away from Elizabeth’s side, Tarleton executed several handsprings in succession, ending with a spinning leap.
“I shall start with that to warm things up,” he announced in a loud voice. “Now, let us practice a little juggling.”
He handed Elizabeth his six colored balls. “Toss them to me, one at a time, when I call for them. When I have finished, I will toss them back to you, one at time. Ready, boy?”
“Aye, master!” Assuming her best manly stance, Elizabeth pitched the balls to Tarleton.
In a few moments, he had them all in the air, his hands whipping effortlessly about them.
What clever hands he has! Elizabeth admired. And what wonderful things he can do to me with those supple fingers! The memory of yesterday’s tender lovemaking filled her with a warm glow. Tarleton’s cheerful voice broke into her sweet daydream.
“Now, Robin Redbreast, catch!” He flipped the balls back to her. She dropped the last one and it went bouncing away under the benches by the wall.
“If that happens tonight, pretend it is part of the act,” Tarleton told her. “Remember, play the part always. Bluff and bluster! Now, try out your voice with the love song.”
She is a bewitching nymph! Tarleton’s heart beat faster as he listened to her sing “The Greenwood Tree.” When he spied her secret smile, he knew she sang the words just for him. I would take you back to that greenwood glen, if I had no honor at all.
The sounds of several hands clapping startled Elizabeth as she ended her song. Two serving men, a few scullions from the kitchen, and the steward himself stood at the far end of the vast room, smiling at her. She bowed gracefully to them.
“Ye have a sweet-voiced boy, Master Jester,” remarked the steward to Tarleton. “After you have entertained the young gentlemen tonight, we would appreciate a song or two in the pantry. You will find the college’s beer is the best in Oxford,” he added by way of enticement.
Tarleton grinned. “Robin and I would be honored, sir, to enjoy both your company and your beer.”
Nodding, the steward waved his minions back to their duties.
Tarleton clapped Elizabeth soundly on the back. “I vow I have had better luck with you by my side, Robin, than I ever did alone.” His voice sank into a whisper. “And I am not only referring to the offers of free beer!”
Elizabeth blushed as her soul sang.
Formal dinner in the Hall that evening was everything Jonathan had promised it would be. Tarleton and Elizabeth waited in the anteroom while the stately dons and their robed students ate their noisy way through huge slabs of beef, thick wedges of cheese, buckets of beer, round loaves of crusty bread, and dishes of stewed apples and pears served in a sweet cinnamon sauce. Elizabeth’s mouth watered at the delicious savory smells that wafted through the crack of the door.
“Patience, sweetling,” said Tarleton, adjusting his cap. “Our dinner will be just as good anon. And Jonathan has offered us a place by his fire tonight. What more could we ask?”
Elizabeth arched her eyebrow mischievously. “A little privacy?”
Tarleton brushed her cheek with his finger. “In a college full of young men whose every thought is turned toward the fairer sex?”
The urge to kiss her seized Tarleton. Her tempting lips, glistening and pink, hovered near his. His desire for her swept over him like a sudden hot wind. It was all he could do to remember where they were, and that the steward would summon them at any moment. To distract himself, Tarleton fiddled with the ragged ribbons on his motley coat.
“I wish I had a needle and thread,” Elizabeth muttered, trying to take her mind off the exciting nearness of her love. Just now she thought he was going to kiss her. She was sure she had spied that intent dancing in Tarleton’s brown eyes. But the moment disappointingly passed. “Your tunic becomes more and more a shambles every time you put it on,” she grumbled.
Tarleton nodded. “Aye, it has seen hard wear these past two months. I must get a new one when I return to court.”
“In bright satins and gaudy velvets?” Elizabeth asked innocently, thinking of the new motley she planned as a surprise for him.
Tarleton snorted. “Nay, sweetling! I am no courtier! Can you see me in such a fine array?”
Yes, Elizabeth thought as she watched him practice a few notes on his penny whistle. I can see you in a doublet of silver satin and black velvet. You would make a finer gentleman than many who strut about in such clothing—like Sir Robert La Faye.
Poking his head through the double doors, the steward announced that the company awaited the players. Tarleton tossed the whistle to Elizabeth, winked broadly at her, then he bounded into the Dining Hall. Elizabeth followed close behind him.
Unlike the sedate audience of the priory of the night before, the Dining Hall of Christ Church was a roaring mass of high spirits, fueled by beer and youth. The budding physicians, mathematicians, lawyers, clergymen, philosophers and courtly gentlemen were in constant movement about the long trestle tables and benches. Leaping fires roared in the two large fireplaces opposite each other in the center of the chamber. At one end, on a raised platform, the dean and his dons quietly dined at the high table, as if the chaos below them was a mere figment of their imagination.
The entire company greeted Tarleton’s jingling appearance with loud cheers and stamping feet, since their hands were full of bread and mugs.
Throwing back his shoulders, Tarleton flexed his knees and tumbled the length of the hall between the two rows of tables. This feat was greeted with more cheers and stamping.
In midflight, Elizabeth saw another one of his bells fly off. Quietly moving down the side of the room, she retrieved it among the forest of feet. I vow I will find a needle and thread this night, she promised herself as she pocketed the brass trinket.
Tarleton’s performance continued its rollicking pace. He juggled the colored balls higher than he had at rehearsal. Elizabeth managed to catch everything thrown at her, including someone’s cap. Grinning, she tossed it back into the cheerfully rowdy mob. She good-naturedly ducked airborne rolls and greasy rib bones. Everyone, including a noisy pack of college dogs under the tables, had a rousing good time.
Grabbing her around her waist, Tarleton heaved her on top of a table.
“My prentice may look the angel, but he has a song which will please the devil in you,” announced Tarleton with a sly smile. “Sing the one about the wench with the rolling eye!” he whispered to her.
Elizabeth gaped at him. “But that’s not what we practiced this afternoon!” she protested under her breath.
“But that is what they want to hear, Robin Redbreast!” Though his lips were curved in a wide smile, Tarleton’s eyes pleaded. “Play the part.” His dark brows wiggled at her.
Elizabeth cleared her throat and began the first verse. As Tarleton predicted, it was exactly what the students wanted. After the third rendition, Elizabeth gratefully got off the table while Tarleton launched into a few of his bawdy stories and jokes, all with brilliant puns and wordplay, which delighted the student audience.
At the end of their performance, Tarleton held his hands out for silence. “Sweet Robin has a love song to sing you to your rest, good gentlemen, and I pray you give a careful ear to it.” Bowing, Tarleton turned to Elizabeth, who walked quietly to the center of the vast room.
“‘Under the greenwood tree…’” she began, lifting her voice as if it were on a dove’s wings, flying over the heads of the scholars.
Her eyes closed; she again envisioned the magic glade by the swift-flowing stream, as she sang of love on a summer’s afternoon. There was utter silence as her last note died away, then the Hall erupted into a frenzy of banging, stamping, cheers and cries for more.
Tarleton’s brown eyes glistened as he took her hand, and together they bowed before the high table. Even the venerable dean seemed pleased.
“Now, that is a love song, Biggs!” Philip called out, as Elizabeth and Tarleton made their exit toward the pantry.
Elizabeth grinned. She knew poor Jonathan would spend the next hour disputing the point.
In the darkened passageway between the hall and the kitchens, Tarleton’s hand sought hers. Lifting it to his lips, he kissed her fingers, grazing her skin with his teeth and tongue. Her heart dancing, she shamelessly wished there was some discreet alcove nearby.
“I have never heard you sing that song as well as you did this night,” Tarleton whispered.
“I sang it for you only,” she responded softly.
His lips caressed the tender pulse point on her wrist. “I know.”
The depth of his love, and his desire for her hung upon those simple two words. A delicious tremor inside her heated her thighs and the secret garden above them. After giving her hand a final squeeze, Tarleton dropped it as they entered the kitchens.
“Old Wolsey knew what he was doing when he planned these glorious rooms!” Tarleton enthused warmly over a mug of the promised “best beer in Oxford.”
The Queen’s favorite jester and his apprentice had sung a few songs, juggled a number of kitchen implements and told several ribald jokes for the appreciative kitchen staff. Comfortably seated on low stools in front of one of the massive fireplaces, the players tucked into a well-deserved supper.
“This is the king of all kitchens!” Tarleton continued, waving a bone in the air. “I am a collector of kitchens, my friends. In my humble opinion, ‘tis the best in all England. Why, I do believe you can roast a whole ox in that fireplace!”
The cook beamed with greasy appreciation. “Two, if they are not above average in size,” he boasted proudly.
While Tarleton and the cook waxed warmer over the comparative merits and sizes of the kitchens at Westminster Palace and Christ Church, Elizabeth sipped her beer and gazed dreamily into the fire. Filled with a good dinner, and secure in her love, Elizabeth allowed her fancy to wander. She imagined herself and Tarleton playing before the Queen at Hampton Court, not revealing Elizabeth’s true identity until after the Queen had applauded their performance. Surely, Her Majesty will see how much in love we are, and she will grant me my dearest wish—to marry where my heart is!
She felt a sharp kick against her stool’s leg. Yawning, Elizabeth rubbed her eyes.
Tarleton pulled her to her feet. “‘Tis time I put this scamp to bed. We have many miles to go on the morrow. Our thanks for the fine beer and supper!” Bowing, he pushed his apprentice out the door and down the stone staircase to the cloister below.
Kneeling on the cold flagged floor of the tiny Cathedral of Christ Church, Elizabeth whispered her night prayers. They had chanced upon this hidden church at the bottom of the hall’s staircase, and Elizabeth begged to slip inside for her evening’s devotions. Originally part of the Priory of St. Frideswide upon whose foundations Cardinal Wolsey had laid out his new institution of learning, the smallest cathedral in England was now completely surrounded by the college.
Finishing her prayers with a plea for the husband of her choice, Elizabeth rose and looked for Tarleton. She heard the soft tinkling of the belled coat that he still wore. Stepping out of the shadows, Tarleton went down on his knees before her.
“Since I know you were praying for forgiveness, I pray for yours, sweet lady,” he whispered thickly. Taking both her hands in his, he gazed up into her surprised eyes.
Elizabeth’s lips trembled. “You have no need to ask me for forgiveness, Dickon,” she assured him, hoping he didn’t regret his lovemaking.
“There is need, lady,” he responded softly. “I beg your forgiveness for all the hardships I have brought upon you. For cutting your fair hair, for dressing you in shameful rags, and for thrusting you amid rough company.” He grinned sheepishly. “I am particularly sorry about the goat. That was for my own amusement.”
“And it spared meeting Sir Robert face-to-face,” Elizabeth reminded him. She ran her fingers through the unruly tangles of his dark hair.
Tarleton continued doggedly. “Most of all, I beg your forgiveness for my failure to do what you asked of me. We should have been at Hampton Court by now. Instead I have pulled you hither and yon about the countryside.”
“That has not been your fault, Dickon.” Her throat felt dry. Was he planning on leaving her now? “There has been the weather, and avoiding Sir Robert’s men—”
Tarleton shook his head. “Nay, dear heart! ‘Tis because I was loath to part from you. Mother Catherine saw it clearly. And she reminded me of my place,” he added bitterly.
Elizabeth’s hands continued to softly stroke his hair. Her tender touch sent hot rivulets of liquid fire through him. Still kneeling, he wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his head in the folds of her shirt.
“I wish that your place was with me always, Dickon,” Elizabeth murmured. “Are you asking my forgiveness for loving me?”
Tarleton smiled, his teeth shone in the dim light. “Nay, never that, sweetling. But I ask your forgiveness for desiring you… as I am far below your station.” He placed a finger against her lips to stop her protest. “Nay, hear me out. That I will love you all my life, you know. That I wish to hide you away with me, I think you know. That the Queen would seek us out, and end this folly for both of us— that is a certainty. Forgive me, dearest Elizabeth, for putting us both in such an impossible position!” Bending his head, he kissed her hands, caressing the soft pads of her palms.
As his lips sweetly drained all her doubts and fears, a flood of overwhelming joy washed over Elizabeth. “I will never regret—nor forget—this time I have had with you, no matter what the future holds for either of us,” she told him, barely able to speak. “There is nothing to forgive.” She kissed his hair, inhaling the scent of fire smoke and a hint of lavender.
When he looked up at her, the light of desire illuminated his liquid brown eyes. “I have kept you in harm’s way because of my own selfishness. Sir Robert is close, by all accounts.” He started to tell her of the huge reward for her, then checked himself. Elizabeth had enough to worry her. “We should not have tarried here in Oxford today.”
Elizabeth lightly pressed her lips against his. “I would not have had it any other way.”
Rising and pulling her into the deepest shadow behind a thick pillar, Tarleton clasped her body to him. Hungrily his mouth covered hers with a long, lingering kiss as if he had been thirsty for many days and now drank from a cool mountain stream. His tongue delved into the sweetness of her mouth. A low growl rose deep from within his throat.
Clinging to him, Elizabeth was conscious of where his warm skin touched hers. She could feel his uneven breathing against her cheek as he held her in the darkness. His hard-muscled thigh brushed against her hip. The heat and fullness of his desire pressed against her as he took her mouth again. His nearness sent her senses spinning; she held wildfire in her arms. His little brass bells betrayed their presence, but no one heard them in that still, holy place.
Tarleton drew in a ragged breath. “If this were not a church, my love, I would lay you down right here on this cold stone, and show you again the depth of my love.” Again he sought her honeyed lips.
“Perhaps Jonathan and Philip have gone out,” suggested Elizabeth. A hot ache grew in her throat. “We could make use of their room for a bit.”
Tarleton’s eyes drank in her upturned face. “Perhaps,” he answered briefly. Reluctantly they parted, though he was loath to let her go. Elizabeth intoxicated him like a strong, heady brew. There was not a spot in all of Christ Church where they wouldn’t run some risk of discovery by one of the lusty students or their puritan masters. ‘Twas as bad as the priory, Tarleton cursed to himself. Now that he had tasted of Elizabeth’s sweet body, he craved her all the more. “Let us leave this place, sweetling,” he growled. “And, by all that’s holy, let’s both try to remember that you are a boy!”
Turning abruptly on his heel, he strode out the church door, snapping his fingers for her to follow.
Elizabeth waited until her quickened pulse subsided, then she padded after him. What I wouldn’t give for a nice, cozy haystack just now!
“What, ho, Tarleton!” Jonathan’s voice echoed across the dark quad as the jester and Elizabeth emerged from the gloom of the cloister. “We thought you had gone up in smoke but then we heard your bells!”
Damn! Elizabeth fumed silently.
“My prentice was saying his bedtime prayers in your chapel,” replied Tarleton easily, joining Jonathan and Philip near the college’s gate.
“Bedtime? Nay, the evening has just begun.” Jonathan wrapped his arms around each of their shoulders. “Your fame has traveled rapidly since dinner. There have been requests for your immediate appearance at the Bulldog yonder, where the sluggards of our sister colleges eagerly await your coming. Lighten their hearts—as well as their purses, Tarleton.”
“Surely your apprentice can stay up an hour longer,” Philip added good-naturedly. “No one in Oxford should miss hearing his sweet voice.”
Tarleton nodded, secretly glad of the diversion the students offered. Had he and Elizabeth returned to Jonathan’s room and found no one there, he knew he would have given in to his heart’s desire, without a second thought to the danger of discovery. Tarleton hated to think what would happen to Elizabeth should the young men of Christ Church suspect there was a “doxy” in Jonathan’s room.
“I would not deny the students of this great university the chance to throw away their money,” Tarleton acquiesced.
Looking up at the few stars that peeped between the clouds, Elizabeth heartily wished Jonathan and Philip at the bottom of a well.
“Aye, that’s the spirit!” Jonathan proclaimed loudly, as he and Philip propelled their guests across the rutted street and into a small, noisy alehouse that was crammed to overflowing with boisterous students.
Following closely behind Tarleton, Elizabeth silently cursed Jonathan’s ill timing. Tomorrow, the very first spot that looks inviting, I will seduce Tarleton no matter how many miles he insists we must travel!
Leaping up on a long table in the middle of the warm, smoky room, Jonathan banged two pewter mugs together for silence. When his command for attention went unnoticed, Tarleton joined him. The sight of the broadshouldered man standing tall in a coat of motley and bells, grinning like Robin Goodfellow, reduced the clamor to a manageable level.
“Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!” Jonathan began in his most pompous manner. “At great personal expense, we have with us this evening the finest songster and punster of the land. The Queen’s own favored player—”
“Here’s to good Queen Bess!” cried a voice in the back. There was a general cheer, while Jonathan struggled to regain the fragile order.
“As I was saying, for your pleasure and his profit, sponsored by the gentlemen scholars of Christ Church—”
“Merton College forever!” sang out a slightly tipsy voice. His cry was immediately drowned by representatives of the other colleges.
“Here’s to the lions of Oriel!”
“Balliolmen, tome!”
“Brasenose!”
Before a friendly riot could develop, Tarleton smilingly pushed Jonathan down to the floor. Picking up three wooden trenchers, the jester began to juggle them. Abandoning their partisan bickering, the students gave their noisy approval to the entertainment.
From juggling, Tarleton moved to a bawdy song concerning a fat friar and a thin widow, which was particularly well received.
“I hear tell you are partial to love songs,” Tarleton began.
“We may as well sing about it, as there is nothing else we can do about it!” answered one wag near the door.
Tarleton laughed with sympathetic understanding. “Then allow my apprentice to join me,’ and we will sing of Robin Hood and Maid Marian.”
Holding out his hand to Elizabeth, Tarleton pulled her up onto the tabletop beside him. Her white-gold hair caught the light from the lanterns.
“Ignore the noise and sing for me,” he whispered into her ear, then he began the first verse.
When Elizabeth’s soaring soprano joined the chorus, the room fell appreciatively silent. The students did not stir through the next five verses as Robin Hood sang of his prowess with a bow, and Marian asked if he had shot an arrow into her heart. The applause was thunderous at the conclusion.
“If they are as liberal with their pennies as they are with their enthusiasm, we shall make a fortune here tonight!” Tarleton whispered to Elizabeth as they bowed.
“Do you know the ballad of the runaway wife?” bellowed an older voice from a dim corner of the taproom.
Elizabeth’s heart froze midbeat. The voice was her nightmare come true. She felt Tarleton tense beside her, though his smile remained in place.
“Nay, sir! I have not heard it,” he answered smoothly. Inwardly Tarleton’s mind moved quickly, assessing the possibilities of this unwelcome encounter. He cursed that he had left his dagger in Jonathan’s room.
Sir Robert La Faye pushed his way through the press of students. His face flushed with drink and anger.
“Hast not heard it, Master Tarleton?” Sir Robert sneered, standing at the foot of the table. “Why, every whey-faced, punpled ass in this room knows the song of the man who could not keep his bride!”
A shrill voice began to sing “Oh, hast thou heard of the lady fair…” but the words died in his throat when one of Sir Robert’s men drew his sword, pointing it toward the offending youth.
A tense silence enveloped the taproom. Behind the counter, the landlord paled when he saw the black look in Sir Robert’s eye. In an undertone, the proprietor told one of the tap boys to ease out the back door, and run for the town watch. Nodding, the youth wriggled through the crowd like an eel and was gone.
Stepping behind Tarleton’s protective form, Elizabeth tried to control the spasmodic trembling within her. Sheer black fright swept through her. Jesu, don’t let me faint now!
“Perchance you would like another ditty? ‘The Fox and the Hens’?” Tarleton began to sing, but he was stopped by the rasp of metal against metal as Sir Robert drew his sword.
“No, you fool!” the man snarled. “I wish to hear your apprentice sing. Let’s hear your sweet voice again, appren tice!” Sir Robert’s little pig’s eyes glinted dangerously.
Keeping in Tarleton’s shadow, Elizabeth cleared her throat. “‘She had a dark and rolling eye/And her hair hung down in ring-a-lets—”
Sir Robert’s fist smashed down on the the tabletop. “For shame, Master Tarleton, to teach your young apprentice such a lewd song as that! What would the Queen say?”
“We will not sing it for the Queen,” replied Tarleton evenly. “Since we have displeased your worship with our sport, we will be gone.” He leaped lightly off the table, pulling Elizabeth with him.
With speed that was surprising for a man of his bulk, Sir Robert overturned the table, blocking their exit. The assembly quickly backed out of the way of the razor-sharp rapier.
Sir Robert leveled his sword’s point within an inch of Tarleton’s throat. “Do not move, apprentice, if you value this churl’s life,” he cautioned Elizabeth silkily.
“Leave the boy alone, Sir Robert!” Tarleton growled. Knotting his fists, the player watched for an opening to fling himself upon the drunken lord. All he needed was one moment’s distraction.
“Aye, knave! But I threaten no boy.” Moving the point of his rapier closer to Tarleton, he nicked the sensitive skin on the jester’s neck, causing a thin trickle of blood to run down into his collar.
“Run along, Robin,” Tarleton crisply ordered the tiny figure behind him. “The gentlemen is clearly in his cups. Go back to our lodgings.” Keep your head, sweet Elizabeth! he prayed.
“Don’t move!” Sir Robert cautioned her. Again he pricked Tarleton’s neck.
“Do as I bid thee, Robin!” Tarleton licked his dry lips as he stared down the wicked blade into the red eyes of the man who held it.
“Show yourself, apprentice, or my next cut to his throat will be deeper. Aye! “Twill leave this fool speechless!” Sir Robert giggled at his pun, though his eyes never wavered from the jester.
Quaking, Elizabeth stepped between the two men. She gasped in horror when she saw Tarleton’s bloodied neck. With his free hand, Sir Robert grasped her firmly around her wrist. His rings bit painfully into her flesh.
“Call her Robin? For shame! She is the Lady Elizabeth Hayward!” Sir Robert smirked his triumph.
At her name, a buzz ran round the room like a fire in a stable. Pressing closer, the excited students narrowed the circle around the threesome. Jonathan exchanged a startled look with Philip who nodded. The two friends quietly edged closer to Elizabeth.
Elizabeth flinched as La Faye tightened his grip on her. “I don’t know what you mean, my lord…” she began, hoping to bluff her way out of his grasp. Play the part, Tarleton’s eyes begged.
Wrenching her arm, Sir Robert brought Elizabeth to her knees. Tarleton leapt to her defense but the sword’s point scratched deeply across his chest.
“You don’t know what I mean?” mimicked Sir Robert nastily. “Then let me instruct you, you lying wench! I wondered when I saw you covered in mud. There was something that seemed familiar to me, but I put it out of my mind. I could not imagine my pretty little bride riding a goat! But when you opened those sweet lips and sang tonight, I knew who you were. In good time you will sing another tune, Lady Elizabeth.”
“Sir, you have had too much to drink,” Elizabeth blustered. Letting go of her arm, Sir Robert backhanded her viciously across her face.
Blood gushing from her nose and torn lip, Elizabeth lost all sense of place. Only the sticky floor of the alehouse seemed stable. Her head droned with a loud buzzing and she tasted the salt of her own blood. Dimly she heard Sir Robert’s voice screaming at her.
“Get up, you bitch, or I will run your lover through!”
Seeing Elizabeth fall at his feet, Tarleton’s heart hammered. Though his blood seethed and his raw nerves screamed in protest, he willed himself to remain still. The rapier in Sir Robert’s hand held steady at his throat.
“Run, Robin!” Tarleton sharply ordered her as he glared with cold fury at La Faye. Turn your eye away one moment, you bastard, and I’ll have my hands around your fat neck!
“Robin?” Sir Robert screeched into Tarleton’s face. “She is my own precious wife!”
“I am no man’s wife!” Elizabeth rose shakily to her feet. The room spun crazily around her, yet she was determined to play the part to the last.
Sir Robert’s face turned reddish purple; his eyes were almost lost in the folds of fat. “You are mine in all but wedding and bedding!” he shrieked at her. “The ceremony itself is a mere formality. As to the bedding, we shall do that here and now!”
Grabbing a handful of her shirt, Sir Robert ripped it open from neck to waist, bearing her lush breasts in the firelight. There was a general intake of breath at the surprising sight. Finally turning away from Tarelton, Sir Robert ogled Elizabeth hungrily.
“Dickon!” Elizabeth’s anguished cry pierced the rafters of the alehouse.
At her stricken cry, pandemonium erupted on all sides. The students, with cries of “for the lady’s honor!” fell upon Sir Robert’s hirelings in a seething mass.
Tarleton catapulted onto Sir Robert; his momentum sent them both crashing to the floor. Elizabeth backed away as the two men scrambled quickly to their feet. Sir Robert, his sword still in his hand, glanced first at Tarleton, then at Elizabeth.
“If I can’t have you, my pet, no one else will, I swear!” he screeched.
Elizabeth turned toward the safety of the crowd. At the same instant, Sir Robert lunged at her heart, while Tarleton grabbed him from behind, one arm locked around Sir Robert’s neck, the other hand closed over the wrist holding the sword, deflecting its thrust. The two men spun away, fighting for possession of the weapon.
Elizabeth felt a sudden flash of fire sear through left shoulder. Before she knew what happened, someone lifted her from behind and dragged her toward the rear of the Bulldog. Elizabeth fought her unknown abductor.
“Lady Elizabeth! ‘Tis Philip!” he said in her ear.
The lanky medical student carried her out the back door into the comparative safety of the cold alleyway behind the alehouse. When he set Elizabeth on her feet, she swayed.
Philip caught her before she hit the cobblestones. “Sweet Jesu!” he breathed. “You’ve been cut!” Her warm blood gushed over his hand. Supporting her, he wrapped her in his student gown.
“Dickon,” she murmured. Growing more dizzy, she heard a rushing sound in her ears.
“He is in good company, my lady. I’ll get you back to Jonathan’s, and tend your wounds.”
“Tell… Dickon…” Elizabeth fainted.
Philip swept her into his arms.
The porter at the gate of Christ Church only shook his head in disgust as he nodded to Philip. The noise at the Bulldog was more boisterous than usual. It wasn’t fitting for the young gentlemen to be out at all hours, carousing and drinking. At least, Philip Robinson was sober enough to carry home one of the younger boys, the porter thought, as he watched Philip weave unsteadily across the quad. The unconscious fresher was tossed over Philip’s shoulder like a sack of meal.
The tap boy of the Bulldog had a devil of a time finding the night watch. The proctors of Oxford were unusually busy that evening, and the tap boy was always one step behind them. He caught up with the officers as they took a quick pot of beer at the Golden Cross.
“My master at the Bulldog begs you come at once!” The boy was panting as he spoke to the dark-gowned official. “There’s a riot breaking out there, and methinks the jester will be lulled!”
The chief proctor blinked wearily. Rat-baiting, wenching and now—a jester? “A plague on higher education!” he swore as he downed the rest of his beer.