Fool's Paradise

by Tori Phillips

  Elizabeth’s heart felt as if had been wrenched in two by the girl’s whispered gratitude. She looks to be my age, though the years have been more cruel to her.

  Tarleton stood, wiping the dirt from his hands. “‘Tis done, young mistress. Now, you must be gone from this place,” he told her somberly. “It will do you no good to be caught out in the storm that’s brewing. Have you a place to stay?”

  The girl nodded. “I have been living with an old woman nearby. They say she’s a witch, but she has been good to me, when everyone else turned me out of doors.”

  “Go off then, and be of lighter heart. Thy babe is laid sweetly to rest.” Tarleton took out Sir William’s coin purse. Placing it in the girl’s thin hand, he closed her fingers over it. “Take this. ‘Tis not much. ‘Twill not bring your babe back, but it will help you and your old woman find some comfort this winter.”

  “Oh, sir, I cannot—!” The girl’s eyes were wide with amazement as she hefted the weight of the bag.

  “Take it!” Tarleton gruffly ordered. “It pays a debt of mine. Now, go quickly, lass.”

  Without another word, the thin girl spun on her bare heels and dashed into the stubble field on the far side the road. Stopping for a moment, she turned back to them and dropped an awkward curtsy. Then, like a startled doe, she disappeared over the rise.

  “Let us begone from here!” Tarleton heaved the pack on his back and hurried off. Elizabeth, disturbed by what had taken place, followed close behind him.

  They walked on in silence, each with their own heavy thoughts. At length, Tarleton realized that his companion was weeping silently.

  Stopping, he spoke gently to Elizabeth. “Have I set too fast a pace? Are you tired?” he inquired, throwing the pack down under a sheltering oak. “Sit down, ladybird, and tell me what is it? Are you hurt?”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “That poor, poor girl!” she sobbed, burying her face in the crook of her elbow. “Why didn’t she have a parson bury the child, and say prayers for his soul? Why did that sweet innocent babe have to be buried beside a highway in a d-ditch?” Elizabeth could not forget the sight of the young mother’s haunted look, nor the utter degradation of the scene in which she had played a part.

  “Because the child was born a bastard,” snapped Tarleton angrily, though his anger was not directed at Elizabeth. “And that is why that whoreson pastor of hers told her it was damned. God’s teeth, but I would like to put these hands around that sanctimonious neck!” He clenched his fist until his knuckles stood out white against his skin.

  “It was kind of you to tell her that her baby would play with the angels, Tarleton,” said Elizabeth, regarding him through teary lashes. “And it was good to give her the money, too. What did you mean when you said it paid a debt?”

  She saw his jaw tighten. His eyes, usually so full of merriment, glowed with a cold fire. His new demeanor frightened her. She suddenly realized how very little she knew about the man she had entrusted herself with.

  “That lass could have been my own mother,” Tarleton said finally, his voice sounding as if it were pulled from the bottom of a deep, empty well. Turning his head, he stared at Elizabeth, locking her eyes with his penetrating stare. “But for God’s grace, that babe could have been me. Does that shock you, Lady Elizabeth Hayward?”

  Elizabeth shivered, not because of his admission, but because of the wholly different person he had suddenly become. “A little,” she whispered truthfully. She could not read the look in his soul-searing eyes; they were dark and depthless. “You are telling me that you are a… a…”

  “A bastard!” He spat the word out as if it were bitter bile. “‘Tis all right to say the word, Lady Elizabeth. ‘Tis what I am. I was born in a ditch by the side of a road such as this one, and I was left there to die, so I’m told.”

  “To die?” she gasped in horror. Tarleton usually seemed so cheerful, as if he had never known a care in the world. “Who found you?”

  Tarleton’s eyes sought a spot on the horizon while he continued in a hollow tone. “The steward of the household in which my mother had worked as a chambermaid—before the master dismissed her for her so-called loose morals. The steward guessed her time had come when she was missing one morning. There had been a heavy frost and he was able to follow her footsteps. By the time he got to the place, she was gone, but I remained, wailing for my life. He brought me back and the cook raised me. Perhaps that is why I am so fond of cooks!” There was no mirth in his voice.

  Each word stabbed Elizabeth’s heart like an icy dagger. She shuddered, thinking what a hardship it must have been for Tarleton’s mother: alone, afraid, outcast and bearing a child in a frosty ditch. “And your mother?” she prodded gently.

  Tarleton’s lips curled back. “They found her body a week later. She drowned herself in the cow pond. Naturally, they buried her at a crossroads, because the priest said she was a suicide and therefore surely damned. I don’t even know where she lies.” His voice caught in his throat.

  “I am so sorry, Tarleton,” Elizabeth whispered.

  She wanted to put her arms around him to ease away his pain and bitterness, but it was as if he had erected a great barrier between them—a barrier between her class and his, between the warm velvets of the manor house and the chill mud of the road. Finally he spoke again, though he still stared across the years of sorrow and abandonment.

  “You have more compassion than the church, ladybird. I gave that girl our money in the hope she will not drown herself, but instead, will find courage for a new life.”

  “And so your debt is paid.” Elizabeth sighed with understanding.

  Turning on her angrily, his eyes blazed dark fire. “That debt will never be paid, Lady Elizabeth Hay ward!” he told her bitterly. “There are not enough tears, not enough money, not enough prayers that will ever pay for my mother’s shameful death, my father’s cowardly sin, or the black mark of my birth!”

  Elizabeth flinched at his words, each a blow to her face. She had no idea what she could do—or what he would permit her to do—to help him.

  Snatching at the food basket, Tarleton rifled through it and took out a bottle of ale. Pulling the cork with his teeth, he tilted his head back and drained the brew in silence. Then he tossed the bottle into a tall clump of wayside grass.

  Not knowing what to say, Elizabeth quietly retrieved the basket. Taking out two more boiled eggs, she peeled them, then offered one to Tarleton. He looked at her, then at the egg she held out to him with a trembling hand.

  His face softened a little, when he saw his pain mirrored in her dark green eyes, now glittering with unshed tears. “‘Tis not your fault, chuck. Forgive my outburst. But ‘tis best you know the truth about me. What did you expect when you plucked a protector from the side of the road? There are no more Knights of the Round Table in England, I fear. Only jesters with stained backgrounds. But, at least, I’m honest—in my own fashion.” He wolfed down the egg.

  “I didn’t pick you as my protector,” Elizabeth said quietly. “I believe my guardian angel did so. I’m glad. He chose very wisely.”

  Startled by her simplicity and her unquestioning faith, Tarleton looked at her for a long moment, then slowly his warm smile melted the icy contours of his face. It had been a long time since he had seen such a look in a woman’s eye. He dared not hope it was one of love, and he did not want to think what else it might be.

  “Well, prentice,” he remarked lightly, though his heart pounded within his chest. “How long is it going to take you to unpack the rest of that food, or do you plan to starve us both to death?”

  The storm, which had threatened all day, began with a spattering of fat raindrops. The blackened sky split asunder and a deluge poured down. The torrent caught Elizabeth and Tarleton traveling through open countryside. Shielding his eyes against the wind-lashed rain, Tarleton scanned the horizon in search of a deep forest, or, at the very least, a large haystack. A jagged fork of lightning leapt from the clouds to the receivin
g earth. The air was rent by an earsplitting clap of thunder. Jumping in fright, Elizabeth huddled closer to Tarleton.

  “This way! Run!” he cried over the howl of the wind. Seizing Elizabeth by her hand, he plunged into the fallow meadow beside the road.

  Muffled in her hooded cloak, Elizabeth could not see where they were running. Trustingly she hung on to Tarleton’s strong hand and sloughed through the pelting rain. The sky lit up with another flash of lightning. The attending crash of thunder made Elizabeth’s skin prickle and shiver. From her earliest childhood, she had feared thunderstorms.

  “Almost there!” Tarleton called encouragingly over the wind.

  The next flash of lightning revealed a stone building just ahead. Concentrating on keeping her footing in the wet grass and mud, Elizabeth raced after Tarleton.

  The shelter proved to be an abandoned Norman church— a casualty of the late King Henry VM’s argument with the pope—now left to fall into quiet ruin. The roof had collapsed into the nave. The empty windows bore mute testimony of the stained glass they once held. Two of the walls had vanished to become hearths and chimneys of the local farmers. The round baptismal font stood like a stark sentinel in the exposed vestibule. Pulling Elizabeth under the gallery, Tarleton dropped his pack with a wry chuckle.

  “Well, sweetling, I knew you would lure me into a church sooner or later, but I don’t think you had this one in mind!”

  Elizabeth was not in the mood to appreciate his humor. Instead she cringed as the thunder rolled over their heads. Despite her cloak, she was chilled and soaked to the skin. “Where are we?” she asked.

  “Off the road and out of the wet. As for our exact location, I would say that tomorrow we should reach Woodstock, and from there it will be on to Oxford.” Tarleton eased the rain-soaked cape from her shoulders, and shook the water off it. “For tonight, this will be our lodging.”

  “Here?” Looking dejectedly at the rubble on the cold stone floor, Elizabeth remembered Peg’s warm, friendly kitchen.

  Tarleton ran his fingers through his wet hair, squeezing the droplets from his thick curls. “I’ve slept in worse places, so don’t turn up your pretty nose at this one, ladybird. Next time, you’ll be thankful for a nice dry stable. Or perhaps you wish you were cozy in Lady Margaret’s bed?” he added with a smirk.

  “I’ll take my chances here, thank you, Sir Jester!” she answered quickly, though her voice did not sound as con vincing as her words.

  Tarleton grinned. Illuminated by the lightning, he looked like a cheerful devil sprung from hell. “Gather up what ever dry wood you can find here, prentice, while I see wha is at the other end. We shall have a fire going soon enough!” With a wink at her, he darted along the remaining freestanding wall of the country church, stooping here and there amid the rubbish.

  In the dry section, Elizabeth found a number of twigs and boughs lodged in a protected corner where they had been blown in through the gaping roof. Charred pieces of wood and a large black smudge on the stone floor gave evidence that the abandoned church had been a sanctuary for other travelers. At least, it was dry and out of the wind here. After sweeping the spot clear with her foot, Elizabeth knelt and began to snap the twigs into kindling. Tarleton returned, holding several large pieces of paneling.

  “‘Tis the pulpit, or what’s left of it, but ‘twill make a merry fire. We shall be warm and dry in no time!” Briskly Tarleton broke up the rotten wood and piled it on the makeshift hearth stone. Then he lit the kindling with a spark from his tinderbox. A small, cheerful blaze sprang up.

  “Lay out your cloak so it will dry, my Robin.” Tarleton undid his pack, pulling out his spare clothing that Peg had so recently brushed and packed for him. “Damp as a dungeon!” he snorted, shaking out his motley, its bells jingling softly. “If our bread is wet as well—”

  A loud crash drowned out Tarleton’s next words as a heavy branch from a nearby oak fell through the hole in the roof. Cowering against the back wall, Elizabeth screamed and covered her ears. Instantly Tarleton was by her side, his arms wrapped around her.

  “‘Twas only a bit of wind and thunder, sweetling!” he murmured, though he did not mind the chance to hold her close to his heart.

  “Storms frighten me!” Elizabeth shivered, burying her head against his damp jerkin. The thick cloth smelled like a woolly sheep in spring. She jumped as the thunder rolled over them again.

  “‘Tis nothing but a great deal of bluster,” Tarleton crooned softly in her ear. He noted how pink and perfectly formed it was. “‘Twill be gone soon, sweet lady, and w shall be none the worse for it, I swear.”

  “My nurse used to say the same thing.” Elizabeth shut he eyes and clung to him, her fingers digging into the thic muscles of his arms.

  “Then I shall hold you until it is over,” Tarleton whis pered comfortingly. Outside the church, the storm raged o while another brewed inside Tarleton’s soul.

  Her slim body pressing closer against him, Elizabet wound her arms inside his jerkin and around his back. Th sweetness of her hair held all the sunshine now driven awa by the boiling mass of black clouds. I could take her now, this moment, Tarleton realized as her trembling limbs clun to him. He closed his eyes but could not blot out the vivi images that assailed his senses. He saw himself laying Eliz abeth down on her cloak, his hands gently stripping the we garments from her yielding body. His fingers stroked he downy cheek as he imagined kissing her sugared mouth, hi warm tongue leading her in a dance of love and passion.

  Another brilliant flash of lightning caused Elizabeth t bury her face against his throat. Tarleton felt her warm breath caress his skin, as she trembled like a frightened faw in his arms. Gritting his teeth, he fought down the hot wave of passion that threatened to engulf him.

  Elizabeth’s arms tightened around his neck, bringing he full, ripe lips temptingly closer to his own. Her eyes close in her terror, she didn’t see the fires of lust that Tarleto knew blazed within him.

  Madness! Feeling feverish, he fought against his natur; urges which tightened his loins. His blood sang hotl through his veins. She’s a virgin—and the Queen’s ow goddaughter! If I harm her, or ruin her, Ican count my brief remaining days as a guest in the Tower of London.

  Tarleton swallowed at the thought of the grisly fate that would be the inevitable end to such a pleasurable begin ning. Roughly he pushed the cringing girl away from him and leapt to his feet. He stood with his back to the startled Elizabeth so she would not see the change she had worked upon his body.

  “The storm is passing,” he remarked, his voice raw with his desire and inner struggle. “Stop your sniveling, my lady. ‘Twill only rain gently for the rest of this evening.” Taking several deep breaths, he prodded the fire, willing his body to relax. He wondered if Elizabeth would think him mad if he went for a brisk, wet walk.

  Elizabeth, stung by this sudden change in Tarleton’s mood, wiped her face with her sleeve, then leaned back reflectively against the dry wall. What had she done wrong now? One minute Tarleton was kind and comforting. In fact, it was very pleasant to be held so closely in his arms, feeling the tingly sensations that danced a strange jig in her blood. Then, without warning, Tarleton acted as if she had the plague. Perhaps he didn’t like women who cried in thunderstorms. Feeling a dull ache where only moments before there was such pleasure, Elizabeth watched the raindrops spatter into a large puddle in the center aisle.

  “I am sorry if my fears annoy you, Master Tarleton,” Elizabeth said coolly. “Please remember that I am not a man like you, but a woman. I am entitled to one or two womanly emotions.”

  Hearing the rebuke in her words, Tarleton clenched his teeth. “I do nothing but remember, Lady Elizabeth, and I am counting the moments until I can safely deposit you at Hampton Court!” He kept his face averted so she could not see the anguish on his face.

  The unaccustomed sharpness of his reply was a sword thrust to her heart, but Elizabeth vowed not to show the pain he inflicted. “If my company has become burdens
ome to you, you are more than welcome to leave me at any time,” she said bravely, praying her voice would not betray her whirling emotions. Drawing the money bag out of her shirt, Elizabeth extracted two gold angels.

  Rising to her feet, she held the coins rigidly out to him. “Here is the payment I promised you, and I thank you for getting me this far. Just point me in the right direction to Woodstock, and I shall trouble you no further.”

  Turning slowly around, Tarleton stared at the tiny fig ure, her trembling chin tilted at a brave angle. Once again, his good resolutions slipped from his grasp.

  “Put your money away, Lady Elizabeth,” he muttered gruffly. “Are you truly thickheaded? You keep forgetting what I told you about flashing your coin in public. And sit down by that fire! ‘Twill do neither of us any good if I must deliver you, shaking with a fever, to the Queen. And, for sweet Jesu’s sake, stop sniveling! I know that I’ve landed you in a hard place, but, in a few days’ time, you will be back with all your finery and comforts. In the meantime, let us make the best of this bargain. Now, what is there left to eat?”

  Elizabeth’s anger boiled inside her. By what right did this… this knave speak to her in such a manner? Tucking the coins away, the Queen’s goddaughter took out her comb and began to carefully groom what was left of her hair.

  “I have no idea what food there is,” she remarked in an icy tone. “You have my leave to unpack the basket and prepare our supper, varlet.” She stared into the fire with haughty pride, though she felt her heart cracking inside her. He is only worried about what the Queen will do to him if I should come to any harm. I am nothing to him but a handful of gold angels.

  Tarleton, hearing the coldness in her voice, ground his teeth in anger against himself. Roughly he opened the basket and spread out the remains of Peg’s feast. They ate apart with studied disdain.

  Swallowing the last of his cheese-and-onion tart, Tarleton cleared his throat loudly. “If it pleases your ladyship, I think your cloak is dry enough. You can roll up in it and sleep close to the wall.” He stood and made an elaborate bow to her. His tongue was heavy with sarcasm. “I shall sleep downwind so that my common presence will not disturb your dreams.”