At the Earl of Leicester’s Hunting Lodge near Kenilworth September 1587
Smiling with deep affection, Queen Elizabeth signaled the young couple bowing before her to rise. “Truly, it gladdens our heart to see you both looking so well, my dears. You must find country living agreeable.”
Even though Tarleton now sported a trim fashionable mustache, his famous imp’s smile was plainly recognizable. “I am the happiest of men, Your Grace, especially now that I am in your bright company again.”
Tarleton and Elizabeth had not seen the Queen since that last horrible day of October the year before. The young marrieds were very excited when word came to them at their quiet retreat that the Queen was hunting nearby and desired to see them.
“No complaints? You do not miss your former life?” The Queen arched her eyebrow playfully.
“Nay, Your Grace, save that my lady wife has pushed me into this fool’s garb of satin and velvet.” Tarleton shrugged his shoulders inside the tight-fitting jacket. “In truth, I feel like a stuffed and gilded peacock, ready to be served up in the great hall. Were it not in your honor, I would have asserted my husbandly prerogative and told her exactly where to put this deuced doublet and hose!” Tarleton’s eyes twinkled merrily as his glance fell upon the golden head of his lady wife.
“In truth, Your Grace, does not my Dickon cut a handsome figure?” remarked Elizabeth, gazing proudly at her well-dressed husband.
The Queen nodded with a laugh. “You would put all the young bloods at court to shame, Tarleton!”
“That is why I am happy to keep him by my side in the country,” Elizabeth hastily added, in case the Queen might decide to have her beloved jester back in his new guise.
“And you, my dear Elizabeth! You are well?” the Queen asked with motherly concern, though the answer fairly glowed in front of her.
“Exceedingly so, thanks to Your Grace, and to God.”
“Oh?” The Queen cocked her head. “In that particular order?”
Elizabeth blushed as she stole a glance at her grinning husband. “I thank God for answering my prayers to send me a loving husband, but I am deeply grateful to you, Your Grace, for making this happiness possible.”
“Just so,” remarked the Queen, more than pleased with Elizabeth’s reply. “And the child? Is she well?”
“Aye, and thriving, Your Grace! We would have brought her along with us to show you, but sweet Robin is much fretful with a new tooth, and when she is displeased you can hear her all the way to Coventry.” Tarleton beamed with pride of his daughter’s vocal accomplishments. “With those lungs she will make a fine singer—as soon as all her teeth come in.”
“Robin is such a pretty name. ‘Tis one of my favorites,” remarked the Queen, casting an openly fond look at Robert, the Earl of Leicester, her closest friend from childhood. The Queen’s “sweet Robin” bowed at the compliment.
“Indeed, Your Grace. Robin is also a favorite of mine.” Tarleton bowed to his own Elizabeth who dimpled prettily in return.
“Fatherhood agrees with you, I see,” the Queen observed. Her brows lifted in surprise to see Tarleton flush a little.
“Aye, Your Grace. In sooth, my lady wife has told me we shall be adding another to our number next year.” Tarleton sighed dramatically. “At this rate, I shall be woefully outnumbered in short order.”
The Queen smiled with secret satisfaction. “Then I see I have come in good time.”
“How so, Your Grace?” Elizabeth prayed the Queen was not going to disrupt her blissful home life.
“With such a growing family, it is time you move to a larger establishment,” the Queen observed.
Elizabeth drew in her breath. They had been so happy, living the simple life as a yeoman and his wife on one of Esmond Manor’s remote tenant farms. She feared the Queen would to command them to return to the court. But how could that be? After all, the jester was supposed to be dead and the disgraced Lady Elizabeth locked away in an abbey. “Your Grace?” she asked weakly.
Tarleton, understanding his wife’s feelings, took her hand in his and squeezed it. To his Queen he said smoothly, “Our lodge is as large as necessary, Your Grace. That way I am able to keep an eye on both my ladies.”
The Queen smiled with even more satisfaction. How she loved surprises! Aloud, she remarked. “I have recently been informed of the death of the Earl of Fawkland.”
Tarleton’s lips tightened as he heard his father’s name. He nodded curtly. “Aye, so I have been told.”
“He has left no heir,” the Queen continued pleasantly.
“Not for lack of trying, Your Grace,” Tarleton muttered.
“It would be a shame to let such a pretty place as Breden Hall fall into rack and ruin all for the want of a strong hand and a wise head.”
“And for a titled lord, Your Grace,” Tarleton reminded her. He tried to keep the bitter taste out of his mouth.
“Ah! Thou hast hit the nut and core of it! Kneel, my fool!” The Queen, still smiling broadly, took the sword which her host, the old Earl of Leicester, proffered to her.
Elizabeth’s eyes shone when she realized what was about to happen. As for Tarleton, he looked as if he had been poleaxed as he obediently dropped to one knee on the bare wood floor of the hunting lodge.
“Richard Tarleton, for your many years of loyal service to the crown, for the gratitude your Queen bears you, and for the love, loyalty and protection you have given our most beloved goddaughter, I hereby knight thee.” She tapped the blade on one of Tarleton’s padded shoulders, then the other. “Arise, Sir Richard, Earl of Fawkland. Arise, and serve your Queen!”
Elizabeth clapped her hands with joy, then looked with surprise at her husband, who still knelt. His face had turned a bright red.
“La, Your Grace! I do believe you have made my good lord blush—a most rare sight.” She giggled.
Tarleton shook his head. “Not so, Your Grace, but I beg one further boon of you.” His puckish expression played across his countenance. “Since you are wielding that sword with so skilled a hand, could you please cut off this deuced ruff from my neck? I find ‘tis choking me worse than a hangman’s noose—and I do speak from experience.”
Laughing, Elizabeth of England granted her newest knight’s request. “Now, my Lord of Fawkland, here is your first command from your sovereign. I spy a new countess in our midst. Greet her with a kiss.”
Grinning,
Tarleton executed a sweeping formal bow. “I am, as ever, your humble servant, Your Grace.” Then turning to Elizabeth, he bowed again with mock solemnity. “Countess of Fawkland, will you do me the honor?’
Her heart singing with joy, Elizabeth stepped into his arms. “I have never kissed an earl before,” she said demurely, though her green eyes sparkled with mischief.
“Then, prentice, let me show you how ‘tis done,” murmured the new Earl of Fawkland, as his mouth closed over hers.