A blinding, murderous rage gripped Tarleton. Curses spewed from his lips as the two men struggled over possession of La Faye’s rapier. Though Sir Robert was both taller and heavier than his adversary, he did not possess the expert skills that Tarleton had acquired over the years in the service of Sir Francis Walsingham. Using La Faye’s weight against him, Tarleton tripped his bulky opponent, wresting the sword from his attacker’s grip. Sir Robert rolled into a group of brawling students who were beating one of his henchmen into a pulp.
His face contorted with scalding fury, Tarleton bore down on the scrambling butterball before him. The thought of Elizabeth being touched by this piece of offal inflamed his brain.
Snatching a dagger from the belt of a startled onlooker, Sir Robert faced his vengeful opponent.
“Cut me, varlet, and you’ll hang for it, I promise you!” Sir Robert threatened, circling the overturned table.
Tarleton bared his teeth. “I have no intention of cutting you, Sir Robert. I mean to kill you!” Tarleton executed a series of lightning parries that were barely deflected by La Faye’s frantic use of the dagger.
Widening his eyes with surprise at Tarleton’s ability with the sword, Sir Robert backed away from the flashing blade. Tarleton’s lips curled with contempt as he pressed his advantage. His savage attack ripped open one of Sir Robert’s expensive sleeves. Only the padded wings on La Faye’s shoulders protected him from a bloody injury.
Finding himself outfought and outmaneuvered, Sir Robert looked frantically for a means of escape. Tarleton knew if that happened, there might never be another chance to face down the pompous lord. Lunging, the jester felt his point sink into Sir Robert’s thigh. The nobleman fell to the floor, screaming like a skewered pig, as he called for his minions to save him.
“The watch! The watch!” One of the younger students, stationed near the door, gave warning above the din. The discordant rasping of the proctor’s whirling alarm rattles could be heard coming from the street.
Suddenly mindful of their studies and other pressing engagements, many of the collegers bolted through the back door. Running upstairs, a few others climbed out the windows, seeking the safety of Oxford’s roofs.
Seeing that his quarry still lived, Tarleton damned his lost opportunity. Bowing to prudence, the wily player sent Sir Robert’s sword skittering under stools and benches, far away from the scene of the fray.
When the proctors found them a few moments later, Sir Robert was being supported by one of his men, who was trying to staunch the flow of blood from the graze in the fat lord’s leg. Tarleton coolly leaned against the counter, drinking deeply from an abandoned jug of beer. Though most of the students had vanished, Jonathan remained, lounging near the jester.
His brow furrowed, Tarleton scanned the emptying room for Elizabeth.
“Philip took the lady,” Jonathan murmured quietly. “She is safe.”
Tarleton allowed himself a tight smile. Relieved she was out of danger, the player turned his full attention to the matter at hand.
“I have been most foully attacked!” shrieked Sir Robert, pointing his dagger at Tarleton. “That pernicious knave has killed me!”
The proctor glanced from the armed lord at his feet to the unarmed Tarleton at the counter.
“I see no weapon about the player,” remarked the proctor slowly. “What was the cause of this brawl?”
“I am Sir Robert La Faye!” the injured man screamed. “I was escorting my wife home, when this villain attacked me!”
“What wife?” The proctor looked around the alehouse, littered with broken furniture and crockery. “Forsooth, sir, I see no lady here.”
The reek of beer hung heavy about the room. The proctor glanced at Sir Robert, convinced that the fat lord had fallen victim to its spirits.
“She was here! I swear to it!” Sir Robert’s little pig eyes glinted at Tarleton. “And that smiling rogue kidnapped her!”
“Know you his meaning?” The proctor stared sharply at Tarleton.
“The gentleman took a liking to my young apprentice, sir,” replied Tarleton with a shrug of his shoulders. “I admit Robin is fair of face, but I am not a panderer to any man’s perverted pleasures. I sent my prentice back to our lodgings.”
“Liar!” Sir Robert’s face purpled with rage. “That smooth-talking whoreson has wounded me most grievously. Look you! I bleed!”
“You will note I am unarmed, sir.” Tarleton smiled, though his eyes glittered like ice chips. “The floor is slippery with beer, and, as you can see, things did get out of hand. Perhaps the gentleman tripped upon his own dagger,” he suggested innocently.
“Your name, jester?” The proctor did not like players in general, but the officer of the law decided that he liked Sir Robert even less.
“I am Tarleton, a member of The Queen’s Men.” Fumbling in his pouch under his motley, he pulled out his letter of patent. “I also have the pleasure of Her Majesty’s particular favor. As a matter of fact, I am on my way to Hampton Court at her command.”
Reading the paper by the lantern light, the proctor scrutinized the lord chamberlain’s seal. Tarleton’s credentials were impressive, while Sir Robert’s claim was only the angered ravings of a drunkard. The proctor decided against waking the justice of the peace at this ungodly hour.
“I need not detain you, Sir Robert, as I perceive you are in sore need of a physician. Please present yourself at the town hall tomorrow morning at nine. The justice will give you his full attention then,” promised the proctor.
“But that varlet tried to kill me!” sputtered Sir Robert.
“I see no life-threatening wound, and I see no weapon in the player’s hand. I see no witnesses against him…” The proctor paused, while his gaze swept around the room.
Sir Robert’s henchmen, seeing that the lady had slipped away, held their tongues.
“Who drew his weapon first?” the proctor asked the assembly.
“The gentleman.” Jonathan spoke up clearly. “And so say all of us!” The few remaining students nodded their assent.
“And the lady?” asked the proctor.
“We saw the player’s apprentice only,” said Jonathan, relishing the opportunity to split legalistic hairs.
The proctor nodded again.
Sir Robert struggled to his feet, his eyes blazing. “What about my wife?”
The proctor groaned inwardly. Fie upon all drunken lords! And people wonder why the youth of Oxford run so wild.
“As there is no lady present, I cannot attest to your wife, my lord. I suggest you tend to your wound, lest it fester. I promise you, my lord, you will be served full justice in the morning.”
With a final glare at Tarleton, Sir Robert gave himself up to wailing over his injury. His henchmen quickly escorted him from the scene.
Sighing, the proctor turned back to the player. “And you, jester, must be gone from Oxford by first hght. If Sir Robert decides to press charges once he is before the justice, I will be forced to seek you out. Do you understand my meaning, player?”
Tarleton nodded. “By first light, I shall be but a memory, good sir.”
The chief proctor merely grunted and left. Drawing a ragged breath of relief, Tarleton tossed a few pennies on the counter to pay for the beer he had quaffed. Then he strode out into the night, followed by a grinning Jonathan.
Elizabeth floated up from a sickening haze of pain. When she opened her eyes, she discovered she was lying in a bed, the rough sheeting tucked tightly across her breasts and under her arms. Her body felt heavy as lead, and she burned with an incredible thirst.
“Water…” she whispered weakly.
Holding a cup in his hand, Philip leaned over her. “Try not to move, Lady Elizabeth,” he said gently. “Or you will start bleeding again. Just a sip, now.” Slipping his hand under her head, he held her carefully.
“Dickon…” she murmured. Where was he? And where was she?
Philip smiled. “I believe he had some unfinished business with Lord La Faye. He’ll be here directly, lady. ‘Tis you who is in danger. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”
“You… ?” Elizabeth felt strangely giddy. She had trouble forming complete thoughts.
“Did you forget I am in Oxford to study medicine?” Philip touched the strip of cloth bandaging that wound around around her shoulder and under her arm. “I am right glad you were unconscious,” he continued. “I had to cauterize the wound to stop the bleeding. Then I sewed you up with some fine silk thread—black, I’m afraid.” Philip grew more serious. “You will carry that scar for the rest of your life, Lady Elizabeth. For that I am sorry.”
“Water, please…” Elizabeth’s tongue flicked across her lips.
“Only sip a little. I shall give you a draft to help you sleep.” Pressing his hand against her forehead, Philip found it warm. A frown knotted his brow. As he had feared, she was already running a temperature.
“I want to see Dickon,” his patient protested in a shallow voice.
“In good time,” Philip soothed. Then he turned to the pale Smith, who lingered at the door. “Warm some wine and bring it directly. Also, get me some rose water in a basin and a piece of toweling. Hop to it, Smith!” The boy scampered out of sight. Philip grinned at Elizabeth. “Smith is a good servant, but a poor physician’s assistant. I fear he lost his dinner while I was tending you.”
Realizing she was naked under the covers, Elizabeth tried to draw the sheet higher. She winced with the effort.
“My clothes…” she mumbled.
Philip nodded understandingly. “I had to cut you out of them, I fear.”
A look of horror crossed her face.
Philip pretended to ignore it as he busied himself with his bottles and powders. “I am a doctor, Lady. Well…almost. I have been at study here for the past six years, and before that, I learned much from the local midwife. I have seen men, women and children in every state of undress. I’ve delivered babies, on occasion. I’ve even doctored horses, cows, and dogs in my time. Once, I mended a rabbit’s torn ear. You are a just a patient to me.”
He dabbed some ointment on to a cloth. “This is camphor. ‘Twill promote healing the cut on your lip. I fear ‘twill sting badly.”
Looking into Philip’s gray eyes, Elizabeth knew she could trust him. She nodded. Gently he applied the strong-smelling medicine to her injured mouth. He understated the pain. It felt as if he had touched her lips with a live coal.
Philip stroked her forehead. Though the medical student considered himself the most peace-loving person in the world, he would have cheerfully cut out Sir Robert’s heart for the injuries done to the lady. Her white skin would be bruised and swollen for days.
Smith returned with the wine and rose water. Philip mixed some powder into the wine, then supported Elizabeth’s head as he urged her to drink.
“‘Twill ease your pain, and bring you blessed sleep,” he cajoled.
“I want to see Dickon,” Elizabeth whispered as she sipped the comforting brew. Its warmth immediately flowed through her.
“He will come soon, my lady, and when he does, he will want to see you fast asleep.” Philip handed the cup back to the awed bed maker.
After soaking a cloth in the basin of rose water, the student doctor wiped Elizabeth’s burning forehead with it. The sweet smell reminded her of the gardens at Esmond Manor. She felt herself slipping into a mindless drowsy state.
“Wake me… when Dickon comes…” she murmured.
“Aye, my lady,” Philip whispered.
Sunlight streamed through the streaked windows when Elizabeth woke again. Disoriented, she could not remember where she was. The reality of her injury returned with a sudden, blinding pain as she struggled to sit up.
Hearing her cry out, Tarleton rushed into the room. Brokenly murmuring incoherent endearments, he knelt beside the bed. He had not slept since returning from the Bulldog to find Elizabeth wounded and running a fever. Throughout the long hours of the night, Tarleton paced the adjacent sitting room, frantic with worry for Elizabeth and furious at both Sir Robert and himself for her condition. Would she ever forgive him for all the trouble he had brought upon her?
“Feeling better, sweetling?” he managed to croak as he stoftly stroked her brow. It was still very warm.
“Much.” She licked her cracked lips and tried to smile at him. “You are here.”
Tarleton winced when he heard how frail she sounded.
Blinking, Elizabeth tried to clear her head. The pain in her shoulder settled into a dull ache and her fingers felt stiff.
“Philip has gone to get you something from the kitchens.” Tarleton tried to sound cheerful. He slopped some water into a cup. “I’m afraid I make a terrible nursemaid. Philip said you would probably be thirsty. Here, let me help you,” he urged. He brought the cup to her lips. His hand trembled as he held her. Elizabeth seemed to weigh almost nothing.
Weakened from her exertion, Elizabeth sank against the pillow. Gingerly she touched her lips and bruised cheek.
Tarleton took her hand in his, caressing her fingers as he spoke. “Forgive me for saying so, chuck, but it looks as if you’ve been in a schoolyard brawl,” he bantered, praying for Philip’s swift return. “If you were a boy, you would be very proud of those marks on your face.”
“Do I look very ugly?” Elizabeth whispered.
Tarleton kissed her fingers. “Ugly? Nay, my sweet, you have the face of an angel—though I must admit, I’ve never seen an angel with such a black eye before. You are the envy of every young colleger here.” Tarleton smiled impishly, though his heart was full sore. Elizabeth looked as if she might fly up to heaven at any moment—black eye and all. How long can I keep up this jesting? This is the hardest performance of my career. Blast you, Robinson! Where are you?
Fortunately, Philip arrived at that moment, bearing a covered bowl.
“You took your sweet time, prentice physician!” Tarleton growled.
Instead of being offended, Philip smiled as he crossed to Elizabeth’s bedside. “You look less feverish this morning,” he told her, feeling her forehead. “How are you?”
“Weak,” she answered.
Drawing up a stool beside her, Philip held out the bowl of soup. Its aroma stirred even Elizabeth’s peckish appetite. Joining them in the cramped sickroom, Jonathan stood nearby, holding a cup of watered wine. Tarleton supported Elizabeth’s head as Philip endeavored to get some nourishment into her.
“‘Tis your doctor’s prescription that you eat all of this, my lady,” intoned Philip as he spooned the hot, savory soup into her. “I had to promise a great number of things to the undercook to give me this beef broth.”
“Surely not your virtue,” joked Jonathan halfheartedly.
“Nay, I gave that away long ago,” Philip remarked. “And watch your language, Jonathan. We are entertaining a lady here.”
“And what of yesterday?” Jonathan defended himself.
Philip flushed. “I plead ignorance,” he said, holding out another spoonful to Elizabeth.
During this exchange, Tarleton, the master of puns and quips, remained strangely silent. He could not trust himself to say anything; too many emotions rubbed his heart raw. Instead, he cradled Elizabeth’s golden head gently while he gazed at her as if she might disappear from his grasp at any moment. After taking each spoonful of broth, Elizabeth smiled weakly at Tarleton. Her luminous green eyes spoke volumes of her love.
Watching Tarleton and Elizabeth exchange their silent dialogue, Jonathan sighed. Exactly what was the jester to the lady, the student lawyer wondered enviously. In the Bulldog the night before, Tarleton fought like a madman— or perhaps a knight of old defending his lady. In fact, Jonathan concluded, Tarleton had acted exactly like Elizabeth’s lover.
After several more mouthfuls, Elizabeth waved away the broth. “Last night… what happened?”
“I fear I lost my temper with that swine,” Tarleton murmured gently. “Unfortunately, I could only give him a little nick, instead of a sound thrust to the heart—if the whoreson possesses a heart.”
Elizabeth clutched his hand. “Sir Robert is hurt? Oh, my love! ‘Tis a hanging offence to strike a nobleman!”
Looking at the marks on the face of his beloved put there by La Faye, Tarleton gritted his teeth. “Have no fear, sweet Elizabeth. I’ll not hang yet. If I ever do, ‘twill be for killing Sir Robert La Faye, not for scratching him.”
Elizabeth went very white.
“You jackass!” Philip swore under his breath at Tarleton. The young doctor’s fingers closed over Elizabeth’s pulse; her heartbeat was racing. “There is no need to go into all the details at the moment.”
“We must flee this place!” Elizabeth tried to rise. “You will be arrested!”
Tarleton eased her back against the pillow. “Fret not, my dove.”
“Nay, lady! ‘Tis dangerous for you to move now,” protested Philip, placing his hand on her forehead. He shot a worried look to Tarleton. Elizabeth felt much warmer.
“And no one must know you exist,” added Jonathan softly from his place near the doorway.
Taking the wine cup from his friend, Philip mixed in white powder.
“Why?” Elizabeth held Tarleton’s hand tighter, as if she could keep him from being dragged away to the gallows.
Ignoring Philip’s angry looks, Jonathan continued in a quiet tone. “Sir Robert’s men are combing Oxford for you even now. There is a huge reward for your whereabouts. Lord La Faye swore before the justice this morning that Tarleton had stolen his wife, and that he, Sir Robert, was in the act of reclaiming her when Tarleton attacked him.”
Elizabeth gasped at the accusation. She looked from one to the other of them in turn. By their grim expressions, she knew Jonathan spoke the truth. Tarleton tried to grin at her, but his usual imp’s smile came out lopsided. Philip silently offered her the drugged wine. She sipped it, not realizing it would make her sleep again.
“But if no wife can be found, then Sir Robert’s story holds no water,” Jonathan continued. “And there isn’t a man in Oxford who will swear that any person, other than the jester’s apprentice, was at the Bulldog last night.”
Jonathan was pleased with himself. He had spent most of the night going from college to college making sure that his fellow students understood his legal logic. To a man, everyone vowed they would remain true to the lady’s secret, despite the lure of Sir Robert’s gold.
“And what about Dickon?” Elizabeth whispered, large tears forming in her deep green eyes as she glanced up at him.
Tarleton pressed her fingers to his lips once again, wishing he could suck her fever from them. “We are safe enough now, and when you are stronger, we shall be on our merry way, singing for pennies, my sweetest Robin, until we reach the Queen.”
“How… long…will…that…be?” Elizabeth’s eyelids grew heavy as Philip’s sleeping potion began to take effect.
“By and by, my love. By and by,” Tarleton whispered, watching her drift back into oblivion.
“Methinks I should give you a cup of my brew, as well, good player,” Philip remarked after the three of them withdrew to Jonathan’s sitting room, leaving the faithful Toby asleep at Elizabeth’s feet. “You look in sore need of rest yourself.”
“In good time, Philip.” Tarleton stared out the dirty window.
“The Lady Elizabeth was right to fear for you, Tarleton,” Jonathan observed after a prolonged silence. “You should have left at the crack of dawn as the proctor warned you. I heard the complaint Lord La Faye lodged against you. I think ‘twill be only a matter of time before ‘tis discovered you are still in Oxford. The proctor cannot be so lenient again, even if you are under the patronage of the lord chamberlain. Sir Robert has set out a hue and cry against you.” Jonathan burst into a surprising laughter. “Especially after he was ordered to pay for all the damages due the landlord of the Bulldog. ‘Twas a most expensive evening for him.”
“You could leave the lady with us,” Philip suggested carefully, not at all sure how Tarleton would react to this suggestion. “You could make all speed for London. Jonathan and I will care for her and will see that she arrives safely to the Queen when she is well.”
Turning from the window, Tarleton fixed both students with a hollow-eyed glare. “Would you abandon your heart to another to save your own neck?” he asked heatedly. “If you were me, would you leave such a lady? Would you?” he snapped at Jonathan. “Could you?” he questioned Philip. Philip gazed at the feeble fire burning in the grate. Tarleton sounded like a man who was on the brink of losing all reason. “Nay,” the student doctor at last admitted. “For such a lady, I would stay by her side come rack, or fire, or doomsday.”