Fool's Paradise

by Tori Phillips

  “Aye.” Elizabeth shivered deliciously.

  “And did she ask you to slip into bed to keep her warm?”

  “Something like that.” Elizabeth’s green eyes flashed as she looked up at him. “Oh, Tarleton! You didn’t!”

  He chuckled wryly. “Aye, years ago, when I first came here. I was seventeen and hot-blooded to boot, with no more sense than a newborn pup. The lady was willing—nay, demanding—and she paid me well. But ‘twas only once, sweetling, I swear. She frightened the very devil out of me. I had no desire to be horsewhipped by Sir William’s men. Like you, I ran to Peg, and she became my… my protection. We have been fast friends ever since. Ned is safe from Lady Margaret only because of his pockmarked face. I should have guessed she would seek you out as a bear seeks honey. Forgive me, chuck, but I was… was not myself tonight. Sometimes, I forget that you are not really a boy.”

  He swallowed and tried to ignore her gentle fingers resting over his heart and her soft curves molding to the contours of his lean body. Tarleton felt himself grow hot with his suppressed urges. He strove to banish them. Elizabeth needed his love and protection, not his selfish lust.

  “How did you escape Lady Margaret’s claws?” he asked gruffly.

  “I played the part of a young cleric. I told her that I had taken the vow of chastity and that I was bound for the church. Then I ran!”

  Tarleton chuckled as he hugged her tighter. “‘Tis a pity you cannot act upon a stage.”

  “Nay.” Elizabeth sighed. “I have no wish to do that. I only want to be safe at home, and to be a woman again. Being a boy is far too dangerous.”

  Peg returned with a steaming posset. Sitting on the bed next to Tarleton, she passed the cup to Elizabeth.

  “Drink it up, my pet.” Peg smiled kindly at her. “‘Tis made with the master’s good sack. ‘Twill help ye sleep without another worry in the world.”

  Elizabeth smiled shyly at her, then drank the rich mixture down. The warm concoction of milk, cinnamon, honey and wine was comforting, as well as filling. Elizabeth felt its healing seep through her. Relaxing as the horror of the night’s encounter faded, she fell asleep in Tarleton’s arms.

  “Such a pretty boy!” Peg remarked as she watched Tarleton tuck the covers around his apprentice. “And when her hair grows back, she will make an even prettier girl.”

  Tarleton looked up sharply at Peg, then he laughed lightly. “What do you mean, Peg? Have you been in the master’s sack wine yourself?”

  “Nay, good Dickon. ‘Tis a sweet lass whom you counterfeit as a boy. Ye cannot fool old Peg, you rogue! What mischief are ye up to now?”

  Looking unconcerned, Tarleton pulled on his shirt. “How did you come to this conclusion, pray tell?”

  In answer, Peg smiled knowingly. “I suspected it when I watched her play at chess with young Ned. Though she is clever, I thought I spied the coy mistress underneath the breeches and waistcoat. She had poor Ned half-smitten with her, though he never realized it. Just now, when she came to us, all a-tremble, you took her into your arms and gentled her as if she were a kitten. La, if ye had seen the look in your eye!” Peg laughed merrily. “‘Tis not the look a master gives a cowardly apprentice. Nay, I’ve seen that look afore, my sweet lad. I have seen it when you sing your songs of love.”

  “You amaze me, Peg.” Tarleton smiled ruefully. “And I thank you for pointing out the chinks in our disguise. The next time she is frightened out of her wits, I will throw Robin against the wall, and tell her to act like a man!”

  Peg patted his arm affectionately. “Now, now! Let there be no secrets between us, Dickon. Who is this young minx who has twined your heart around her little finger?”

  Tarleton sighed as he regarded his exhausted employer. Her silky lashes rested on her cheeks like butterfly wings.

  “She is no minx, but a fine lady, lately educated in France, who seeks to flee from a heartless marriage. I have been hired to take her in secret to Hampton Court. She is no passing fancy of mine, Peg. She is a goddaughter of our most Gracious Queen.”

  Peg whistled softly under her breath. “Poor sweet lady! And you, my fine friend, ought to be ashamed of yourself for what you have done to her! Now, harken to your Peg. This time, you aim too far above yourself, and ‘twill only lead to perdition.”

  “Not so!” retorted Tarleton hotly, though he kept his voice low. “She thinks of me only as her guardian and escort. This time next week, God willing, her world will be in its proper place again.”

  Peg stared deeply into his eyes. “And what of your heart? For I spy it on your sleeve. Hide it away again, good Dickon, else it be badly bruised in good time.”

  “Aye,” he answered shortly.

  Peg changed her tone, becoming at once a co-conspirator. “Methinks it would be wise if you and your apprentice leave by early light before the good Lady Margaret is about.”

  Tarleton nodded in agreement.

  Peg continued, “I will give you a goodly provender to see ye through a day or two. In faith, your lady looks as thin as a cony rabbit.”

  “You have a good heart, Peg, as ever!” Tarleton embraced her, kissing her on the cheek.

  Peg smiled, then took up her candle. “Ye best stay here, lest she waken and take fright again. I am sure you have slept with her before,” she added archly.

  “As chastely as I would with the goddess Diana,” Tarleton protested ruefully.

  “For the rest of the night I’ll be Tess’s bedfellow, though that will take some explanation.” Peg chuckled as she prepared to leave. “I shall have to tell her that you bite!” Still laughing to herself, Peg closed the door.

  Tarleton smiled after her, then lay down on the bed next to Elizabeth. Though fast asleep, she sensed his warmth and snuggled again into his arms. Smoothing the covers over them both, he kissed her softly on her forehead.

  Hampton Court seemed a world and a half away.

  Chapter Seven

  The next day dawned gray and dank. The wind blew an autumn chill from the north, heralding the end of summer and the promise of the cold winter months ahead. After a filling breakfast of pease porridge, coddled eggs with onion, and crusty bread dripping with butter and honey, Elizabeth and Tarleton made preparations for their departure from Addison Hall.

  “Take good care of your charge, Dickon, then come home to me,” Peg whispered fiercely in Tarleton’s ear as she kissed him goodbye.

  “I shall do the first, Peg. As to the other, only the Fates know for certain.” Returning her kiss warmly, he looked at Elizabeth, who held a willow basket filled with generous provisions from Peg’s larder. “And why are you standing there, boy? We’ve miles to cover before that storm catches us.” Whistling a merry tune and snapping his fingers to his apprentice, he set a brisk pace down the lane toward the highway.

  “Why does Peg call you Dickon?” Elizabeth asked Tarleton as they headed south once more.

  “‘Tis my name!” Tarleton grinned at his companion. “My Christian name is Richard—hence, Dickon. Did you think I had but one name?”

  Elizabeth nodded ruefully. “I fear I did. I never thought of jesters having real names. Shall I call you Dickon?”

  Tarleton’s eyes grew narrow. Just hearing her say his familiar name made her seem far too accessible. He needed to maintain some distance lest they both regret it. “Tarleton is my professional name, and that is how you, as my apprentice, should address me. Dickon is the name my close friends call me,” he answered stiffly.

  “Oh.” Miffed by his cool reply, Elizabeth shifted the food basket from one arm to the other. Of course Tarleton was right. She was not a close friend, merely his employer. But his obvious wish to stay aloof hurt—a feeling which both perplexed and disturbed Elizabeth.

  Despite the ominous gathering of dark clouds in the northern sky, Tarleton and Elizabeth met with more travelers on the road. A pleasant morning’s hour was spent with a chatty yeoman’s wife, buxom Mistress Fletcher, who sat astride a small, laboring ass. She was on
her way to the next village to sell the eggs she carried in her basket, exchange medicinal recipes with the village’s wisewoman, and pass a long afternoon in gossip. It was clear to Elizabeth that gossip was the staff of life for Mistress Fletcher. Even Tarleton was hard-pressed to get in a word or two between the goodwife’s rambling monologues.

  “Plant rosemary, I says to her.” Mistress Fletcher produced a small sprig of the herb, and thrust it under Elizabeth’s nose. “Plant rosemary near the kitchen wall, and if it grows well, says I, then you will be the ruler of your household. That’s what I tell every young bride, I do. So let that be a warning to you, young man. If your wife takes to planting rosemary, you’ve lost your place by the fire!” Mistress Fletcher rocked back and forth in her saddle at this witticism.

  Tarleton, walking beside her wheezing animal, wiggled his eyebrows mischievously at Elizabeth. “Suppose, if I should have a wife, that I plant onions by the kitchen wall? What say you to that, Mistress Fletcher?” he asked innocently.

  “I tell you true, you are a knave!” The goodwife laughed as she wagged a finger under his nose. “Onions, as you know full well, will arouse such manly desire in you that you would keep your poor wife in bed a week!” She laughed again, delighted with her answer.

  If Tarleton thinks he can catch me blushing this day, he must bait his hook better, Elizabeth said to herself with a smile.

  “And so, Master Player, what’s the news from the north?” The goodwife looked encouragingly at Tarleton.

  “Why, good mistress, the wind blows from the north and so brings the winter. The farmers near Warwick are afraid ‘twill be a cold one. They say the signs show an early freeze, and they are hurrying the harvest.”

  “This is no news to me!” Mistress Fletcher snorted importantly. “I could have told you that a week ago! Nay, what news have you heard of the folk hereabouts? Forsooth, you’ve got a pair of handsome ears!”

  “Aye, mistress,” he replied thoughtfully, “there is a bit of news I heard bandied about up north.”

  “Tell! Tell!” she commanded, her eyes sparkling.

  Elizabeth looked at Tarleton over the neck of the ass. Something in his tone made her wonder what jest he was going to loosen upon his unsuspecting audience. She recognized that impish grin.

  “Have ye heard of the runaway wife?” he inquired.

  At these unexpected words, Elizabeth’s heart lurched. She glanced quickly at Tarleton. He, however, smiled innocently at Mistress Fletcher.

  “Nay! Tell all!” cried the woman, her ears greedy for the tale.

  “As I heard it, a nobleman, Sir Robert La Faye by name, has misplaced his betrothed. The Lady Elizabeth Hayward, who lives near Kenilworth, ran away last week, leaving her anxious bridegroom at the altar!” The goodwife dissolved into rollicking laughter, for Tarleton told his story with a great deal of comic expression.

  “‘Tis true, upon my soul, mistress,” he continued, improvising the details as he went along. “Left him flat in church, standing there in his new silken hose and silverparted doublet. They say that when the preacher asked the lady ‘Wilt thou take this man?’ she cried out ‘Nay! The devil can take him!’ Then she picked up her skirts and petticoats, bolted from the church as fleet as a hare, mounted Sir Robert’s own black horse and rode away, still dressed in all her wedding finery!”

  Mistress Fletcher slapped her thigh as tears of laughter rolled down her cheeks. Even Elizabeth was forced to smile at Tarleton’s fictional recounting. How she wished she had the courage to do exactly that if ever she found herself before the altar with the odious Sir Robert by her side!

  “And did Sir Robert catch her?” Mistress Fletcher wiped her eyes.

  “Nay! For the lady was a good rider. They do say that she left a trail of colored love knots all the way to Coventry. And that is where Sir Robert has gone to search for her—to Coventry.” Tarleton emphasized the town’s name.

  “I pray the sweet lady gets clean away, if that marriage is so loathsome to her!” said the goodwife, her eyes twinkling.

  “Amen to that,” Elizabeth whispered under her breath.

  They parted company with the amiable Mistress Fletcher shortly thereafter, watching her sway contentedly down the lane toward the village of Little Rollright.

  “Why on earth did you tell her that story about me?” Elizabeth asked Tarleton, once they were alone again.

  “There is method in my madness, chuck, or don’t you trust me yet?” He looked like Puck on a madcap spree. “That good woman will go into Little Rollright, and she will tell my story a dozen times, at least. No doubt she will elab orate upon it, so that if we heard it again tomorrow, we would scarcely recognize the details. But she will make sure to say that the poor runaway Lady Elizabeth was headed for Coventry—to the north, mind you—and far away from our true destination. If our luck holds, perhaps Sir Robert will hear this story himself, and he will turn his piggy snout toward Coventry, while we stroll merrily through the gates of Hampton Court!”

  Elizabeth dimpled becomingly. “Tarleton, you are a genius!”

  The merry prankster basked happily in her warm approval. He would tell the tale of the runaway wife a thousand times if it rewarded him with such a smile from her. “Haven’t you heard the old saying ‘Better a witty fool than a foolish wit for company’?”

  “Nay, but I think I have the wittiest fool in England for my company.” She smiled again. “And I shall tell the Queen so.”

  Tarleton’s eyes danced. “Good! Perhaps Her Grace will be moved to pay me more!”

  Not all their encounters were so pleasant.

  In the early afternoon, as the sky grew increasingly blacker, Tarleton and Elizabeth came upon a ragged girl by the side of the road. She was sobbing as she scooped out a small hole in the bank under a hawthorn hedgerow.

  Approaching the distraught girl, Tarleton spoke kindly. “What ails thee?”

  She gazed up at him with her face tear streaked. “Oh, sir, I beg you, for the sweet love of God, help me bury my child!”

  She pointed to a tiny bundle that Elizabeth had not noticed before. It was pathetically wrapped in the coarse sacking used to carry grain. The young mother herself looked thin and sickly. She shivered in the rising wind, which blew through her tangled chestnut hair. Elizabeth felt a tight lump in her throat.

  Tarleton knelt beside the grieving girl. His voice was soft and caressing. “Aye, my lass, let old Tarleton do this sad office for you. Sit back and rest.” He drew his dagger and began to hack out large clods of the black earth. “Robin,” he said over his shoulder, “give her something to eat. She looks half-starved.”

  Elizabeth, stunned by this unforeseen encounter, felt her own tears well up behind her eyes. Quickly busying herself with the basket, she drew out a thick wedge of yellow cheese and some of Peg’s fine-milled white bread, which she offered to the girl.

  “I am so very sorry for you. Was he ill?” Elizabeth whispered, watching the girl nibble at the food.

  “Nay, he died a-borning. Poor little thing! He was unbaptized. It pains my heart to think him down in hell. ‘Twas not his fault! The sin was mine!” She fell into a fresh round of heartrending tears.

  Pausing in his labor, Tarleton again spoke comfortingly to the grieving young mother. “He’s not in hell, lass. The angels have him for a playfellow in the heavenly kingdom.”

  “But the priest said he was damned!” the girl wailed.

  “Then that priest should be burned in his own pulpit!” Tarleton stabbed the ground viciously.

  “Drink some of this.” Elizabeth offered a small bottle of cold cider. The girl took a long draft, then hiccuped. Elizabeth peeled a boiled egg and handed it to her. “‘Twill give you strength,” she murmured encouragingly.

  “The hole is deep enough,” said Tarleton gruffly, wiping his blade on his thigh. “Do you wish me to lay the babe in it?”

  The girl nodded, her eyes huge and red rimmed with tears. “Do ye know a prayer to send him on his way?”
she asked the player hopefully.

  “I’m not a praying man,” Tarleton answered shortly. “But my prentice prays daily. Say a prayer for the babe, Robin.” Tarleton’s brown eyes darkened as he gently laid the tiny corpse in the ground.

  Elizabeth knelt beside the makeshift grave. She could not bring herself to look down at the still bundle.

  “What was his name?” she asked the mother quietly.

  “He came and went so fast, there was no time to name him,” the girl said, and wept.

  Elizabeth’s lower lip trembled with pity for both mother and child. “Do you wish to name him now? I am sure his soul is not too far away. He will hear it.” She swallowed back the lump in her throat.

  “I would have called him Mark, had he lived,” the girl whispered.

  “Then I shall pray for Mark,” Elizabeth said, and she composed her thoughts, hoping her prayer would ease the living, as well as the dead. “Dear Lord, look down upon this poor babe, Mark, who died before he could know you. As you loved children when you were on earth, take this little one to your heart and let him play forever in your heavenly fields. May his soul and the souls of all the faithful departed—” here Elizabeth gulped as she remembered her own recent loss “—rest in thy peace.” Elizabeth scooped up a handful of earth and scattered it over the small wrapped form. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, until the day of resurrection. Amen.”

  “Amen,” whispered the young mother, while Tarleton clutched his cap, his head bowed. The three of them knelt in silence for a moment while the wind added its own keening through the elms and beeches overhead.

  “Distract her, while I cover him up,” whispered Tarleton to Elizabeth.

  Nodding, Elizabeth moved between the weeping mother and the shallow grave.

  “Take a bit more of the cheese,” Elizabeth urged. “Eat it. You are so pale.”

  “Ye are kind, lad,” the girl said softly. “And ye said a fine prayer. I shall never forget this kindness.”