Fool's Paradise

by Tori Phillips

  “I am Mistress Johnson, though ye may call me Bess, seeing as I am named for the Queen ye serve!” The giggling woman gave Tarleton’s arm a little squeeze.

  Elizabeth made a face at the woman’s back.

  “Bess! Ah, sweet Bess! Did you know Elizabeth is a favorite name of mine?” The charmer shamelessly winked at the woman.

  Bess giggled again, sounding like a cross between a schoolgirl and a stuck pig.

  This is really too much on an empty stomach! Elizabeth glowered under the weight of the pack.

  Over the crest of the next rise, the market town of Banbury spread out before them. Even from a distance, Elizabeth could see people hurrying to and fro. The morning breeze carried sounds of excited voices, cheerful music, and the warm smell of fresh-baked bread and roasting meat.

  Banbury’s streets were bedecked with colorful banners and pennants, as the local population prepared themselves for a day of buying and selling in celebration of the late summer harvest. Excited dogs and equally excited children were everywhere, especially underfoot. Stalls of every description lined the high street and crowded around the great stone cross in the town square. Geese and pigs hissed and squealed in their pens; their owners extolled their virtues of fatness and cheapness to everyone within earshot. Vendors hawked their wares in loud, singsong voices. After two days of rain, gray skies and numbing fear, the color and bustle of the marketplace was a gladsome sight to the jester’s apprentice.

  With many a promise to visit her booth and buy her beer later in the day, Tarleton and Mistress Bess parted company with a loud smacking kiss at the edge of town.

  “Will we stay here, Tarleton?” Elizabeth asked him, as soon as the woman rounded the corner of the street with many a coquettish wave.

  “Aye, Robin, and make our fortune!” Tarleton grinned broadly, his eyes sparkling in anticipation. “Don’t look so solemn, chuck!”

  “I thought we were in a hurry to get to Hampton Court,” Elizabeth muttered, though she hoped they might stay long enough to get some breakfast. The delicious smells from the cook stalls made her stomach rumble in anticipation.

  Tarleton cocked one eyebrow at her. “Aye, but it would look very strange if a traveling entertainer did not stop when there’s a great fair to play. Think, my boy! What would people remember as suspicious, a jester who played in the marketplace, or one who pulled up his collar and hurried quickly out of town?”

  Elizabeth sighed and nodded. She saw his point and, to be honest, the sounds and the color of the harvest fair were very tempting.

  “First, we need to find the bailiff!” Tarleton started down the street, looking this way and that.

  Elizabeth’s heart stopped. Had Tarleton completely lost his wits? What if Sir Robert had lodged an inquiry about her? She was sure that he had. And what about that man they had left lying on the floor of the abandoned church? Suppose he had died from Tarleton’s blow?

  “Tarleton!” She pulled at his sleeve. “What about…you know?”

  Grinning, he clapped his hand roughly between her shoulder blades.

  “I am thinking, prentice! We cannot entertain without first registering with the bailiff and paying our license fee. Besides, we are safe enough. What is that devil’s whelp going to do? Walk up, bold as you please, to the bailiff and say, ‘I want to lodge a complaint against a jester who attempted to kill me as I tried to rob and kill him?’” Tarleton wiggled his thick brows at her, bringing a chuckle from his apprentice. “Good. I’m glad to see you are being sensible!”

  Tarleton stopped the nearest man and asked directions to the town hall.

  “No stall, you say?” The bailiff regarded the jester and his apprentice with an appraising eye.

  “Nay.” Tarleton grinned. “We need only a small pitch— and a goodly crowd to please.”

  “Have you letters patent? I brook no masterless vagabonds in Banbury.” The bailiff stuck out his jaw and tried to look important.

  Grinning even more broadly, Tarleton pulled an impressive-looking document from his pouch.

  The parchment crackled as the bailiff unfolded it. He drew in a breath when he saw the royal seal. “Do you know what this says?” he inquired searchingly.

  In answer, Tarleton took the letter from him, and began to read easily.

  “Know ye by all men that the bearer of this letter patent is one Richard Tarleton, member of Her Most Gracious Majesty’s company of players known hereafter as The Queen’s Men. The said Master Tarleton has been a member of this company since its founding in the year of our Lord 1583, and, as such, he enjoys all rights and privileges thereto. Moreover, he hath, by divers jigs, songs, wit, swordplay and conversation, the particular patronage of Her Most Gracious Majesty, Elizabeth, and by Her Expressed Command is to receive all manners of courtesies wherever the said Master Tarleton may perform. Given under my Hand and Seal, Sir Christopher Hatton, Lord Chamberlain of the Royal Household, this eighth day of June in the year of Our Lord 1586.”

  Tarleton handed the letter back to the bailiff, whose face creased into a greasy grin. “This scamp is my apprentice, lately hired.” Tarleton pointed toward Elizabeth.

  The bailiff barely glanced at her. He was clearly awed by the arrival of such a celebrity as the Queen’s own jester. “You do our fair honor, Master Tarleton. In faith, I have heard of ye!”

  “And I trust your reports have been good?” Tarleton cocked his head.

  “They say that none can make the Queen smile when she has a black mood upon her, except her fool, Tarleton. They say you can mend her body better than her physician, and her spirit better than a priest,” the bailiff replied warmly, showing off his knowledge of court gossip.

  “You are are too kind.” Tarleton murmured with mock humility.

  Elizabeth was most impressed by the bailiff’s words. Up to now, she had only half believed Tarleton’s boasting.

  The bailiff took out a license from his desk. “The fee for entertainers is two shillings.”

  Tarleton sighed with a dramatic flourish. “Alas, sir, I have but one shilling about my person. Could you advance me the other shilling on my bond, and I will pay you at day’s end?” Taking out the single coin, Tarleton placed it on the desk before the bailiff. “There would be, of course, a little extra in consideration of your charity,” he added in a low voice.

  The official quickly pocketed the shilling. “Seeing that you are the Queen’s own man, so be it.” Making a second notation on the license, the bailiff signed it and passed it across to Tarleton. “You may play by the market cross near the dancing bear.”

  Tarleton respectfully touched his cap, then he sailed out the door, Elizabeth following in his wake.

  “‘Twas a knavish cony-catcher to be sure,” Tarleton muttered under his breath to Elizabeth as they made their way through the crowded streets. “He knows full well that the fee is only a shilling.”

  “Shall I sing the song about the roast swan, Tarleton?” Catching his infectious excitement, Elizabeth looked forward to performing.

  Tarleton brushed his knuckle lightly down her nose. “Nay, chuck! Not today.”

  “Oh.” Her face fell.

  Surprised, Tarleton glanced at her, then his eyes softened with understanding. “Nay, ‘tis not that I think you would do poorly,” he said in a comforting voice. “But I fear that Sir Robert La Faye may have some of his hirelings about. The less seen of your fair face and bright hair, the better.”

  They entered the town square, which was filled with people bent on enjoying themselves. Enclosed in a shallow pit in one corner, the first of the day’s cockfights was in progress, attracting a great many noisy patrons.

  In the center of the square, a sad-faced scholar sat on the steps of the ancient market cross and penned simple love poems for country swains who hoped to catch the hearts of milkmaids. On the far side, a large brown bear shambled at the end of a chain held by a small black-haired man playing upon a reed pipe.

  “‘Tis a real beast!” Elizabeth br
eathed, looking at the lumbering animal with a mixture of apprehension and amazement.

  Tarleton grinned at her childlike reaction. “He is old and toothless, and has had all his claws pulled out.”

  “How cruel!” Elizabeth protested.

  “He could still squeeze you to death if he had a mind to, but he’s used to being petted and fed on honeyed loaves.”

  Tarleton selected a spot on the opposite corner, between a stall selling spiced cakes, and one that was doing a brisk trade in trinkets and small household items. “We’ll set up here.”

  “Tarleton, I’m so hungry,” said Elizabeth wistfully, smelling the aroma of the cakes so near at hand. “Could we get one of those on credit?”

  Tarleton cocked his eyebrow at her. “Credit is what the gentry use to put off their just debts until Judgment Day. There is no credit for poor, honest folk.”

  Her face turned down with disappointment.

  Tarleton held out three peonies. “I trust these will buy you a wealth of spiced cakes, and some cider to wash them down.”

  “I thought we had no money!” Elizabeth looked into his mischievous eyes. “Oh, Tarleton, you didn’t—?”

  “Upon my honor—if I had any—I did not steal them. Let this be a lesson to you. Never let anyone know exactly how much money you have.”

  Grinning her thanks, Elizabeth snatched the pennies out of his hand before Tarleton had a chance to reconsider his offer. She bought a half-dozen cakes, studded with nuts and currants, and two brimming jack mugs of tangy cider. Seating herself comfortably on the ground and leaning against the pack bag, she happily regarded the colorful panorama before her.

  Tarleton watched Elizabeth with amusement and warm pride. We’d make a fine team, she and I. We could travel the highways together and— Abruptly reminding himself of her true identity—and his—he silently cursed his idle fancy.

  The sun edged toward noon when Tarleton finally decided the time was ripe for his first performance. Elizabeth helped him dress in his motley. In the glaring brightness of daylight, she saw how shabby his jacket of colored patches really was. Some of the green velvet diamonds were worn down to bare cloth. One red sleeve had a large moth hole in it. His gaudy purple and gold ribbons were badly frayed, and there was a faded wine stain on his soft white collar, which she knew would never come out in a week of washings. Several of his brass bells were missing from his points. To add insult to injury, the whole garment smelled foul.

  I shall order a new motley for Tarleton when we get to court, Elizabeth vowed, as she tied his cap strings under his chin. And I shall take great pleasure in personally burning this one.

  “Stand in the shade, and mind our pack,” Tarleton whispered to her. “At the end of the show, be my gatherer. Pass your hat among the crowd on your side. Be sure to let no one escape your sweet smile.”

  Rattling a tambourine, Tarleton leapt into the center of the dusty square, where he proceeded to enchant the citizenry. He sang rollicking songs and danced his famous jigs. He juggled six colored balls at one time. Cartwheeling and tumbling, his body became a spinning, jingling, colorful blur. His jokes were outrageous, and the swelling crowd loved them, especially jests ridiculing tax collectors and lawyers. He danced a country reel, partnering many pretty, young farm maids and elderly dames alike.

  Elizabeth felt a sharp prick of envy. How she wished she was the one he twirled in his hands! Watching his easy grace, his flashing smile and the nimble movements of his lithe body, her pulse skittered alarmingly. Every time Tarleton glanced over at her, Elizabeth’s heart fluttered in response. If he were a nobleman, I would—

  The thought froze in her brain. Elizabeth gave herself a shake. Tarleton wasn’t the least bit interested in her. Didn’t he openly flirt with every woman in sight? Besides, the man was a commoner. The whole idea was utterly ridiculous!

  At the finale of his performance, Tarleton sang “The Greenwood Tree,” his rich baritone filling the square. “‘Here shall he see/No enemy But winter and rough weather.’” As he sang the last lingering line, he looked directly at Elizabeth, his gaze as soft as a caress.

  The very air around her seemed to sparkle. There was a thundering crash in her ears, which was a far cry from the applause that followed his last note. She felt she had been kissed by a white-hot bolt of lightning.

  “Your hat, prentice!” Tarleton’s call broke the spell. He worked the crowd on the far side, shaking his tambourine as the coins fell into it. Laughing and flirting, the jester kissed many a blushing maid, and the not-so-innocent housewives, on the cheek.

  Pulling herself together, Elizabeth cried, “Come, what say you for my master, Tarleton?” Holding out her cap, she waded into the nearest clutch of people, catching their silver tribute.

  Tarleton jingled up to her, his face shiny with perspiration, and the tambourine full.

  “We shall dine well this night, Robin Redbreast!” he chortled. “Come, help me out of this jacket, and we shall drink to our newfound fortune.”

  With trembling fingers, Elizabeth drew off his motley. She was afraid to look into his eyes. Did Tarleton feel the same flash of sensation when he looked at her?

  “My throat is as parched as a preacher on Sunday.” Tarleton ruffled his hair. “‘Tis time we sample Mistress Bess’s brew.”

  Elizabeth swallowed her disappointment. Her magic glow evaporated. It was only her imagination playing tricks in the noonday sun.

  The beer-seller’s wife was in a jovial mood, having liberally sampled some of her husband’s wares. She eagerly shared the bits and pieces of the news she had already heard that morning. There was no report of any traveler being set upon by thieves, but only the hanging of some poor fellow in Warwickshire for beating his wife and mother-in-law to death.

  Sipping her beer, Elizabeth shuddered quietly as she listened to the gruesome tale. Why did so many people take such pleasure in recounting others’ pain, she wondered.

  Spying Elizabeth’s reaction, Tarleton flashed a broad smile at the beer seller. “Come now, Mistress Johnson. Surely you have a more amusing tale to tell.” He thumped his mug for another round.

  “Aye, Tarleton, though ye must promise not to steal my story for your own.” Bess liberally poured him more beer from her large brown pitcher. “‘Tis mine to tell, and that’s the long and the short of it.”

  “What fine bit of gossip have you?” Tarleton grinned encouragingly.

  Mistress Bess drew herself up importantly. “Marry, have ye heard of the runaway wife?”

  Elizabeth almost choked on her drink, though she covered her dismay by lapsing into a coughing fit.

  Tarleton’s mischievous brown eyes opened wide. “Prithee, what is so interesting about this runaway wife?”

  “Why, in faith, she is some grand lady from near Kenilworth. ‘Tis said she left Sir Robert La Faye a-standing at the altar, calling him a rogue and a devil. It so scandalized the curate, that the poor man fell stone dead on the spot. But she, headstrong lass! She set not a fig for it, but she leapt over the body, and ran out of the church, whereupon she jumped on Sir Robert’s huge black charger—astride, mind you—and away she rode.”

  “Such a lady of spirit!,” Tarleton murmured. “And have they discovered where she went?” He noted with approval that Elizabeth managed to look interested without blushing.

  “But no! You have not heard the whole telling of my story! The lady was met by her secret lover, a Scottish lord, they say. He whisked her up in his great coach and four and they made for the border, where they might be married at Gretna Green afore Sir Robert could find them. But he—Sir Robert, that is—he has set out after them, and ‘tis said they have gone to ground near Sherwood Forest, just as Robin Hood and Maid Marian did of old. Now, what think you of that?”

  Throwing back his head, Tarleton laughed richly. “‘Tis a worthy tale, and I’ll not steal it. You do a better piece of work on it than I ever could. Here is for your fine beer, and for your fine story!” He handed Mistress Johnso
n four pennies.

  She dimpled at him with gap-tooth pleasure. “You are a real gentleman, Master Tarleton, and there’s no mistake!”

  “Come, Robin, we have more work in hand. Ye cannot be listening to stories all day!” Tarleton snapped his fingers at Elizabeth.

  “How your tale has grown!” Elizabeth marveled, running to keep up with him.

  “Aye, Goodwife Fletcher did her work well, much better than I expected.” Tarleton chuckled. “I hope, by tomorrow, we shall learn that the lady and her lover have crossed the border. It would be true justice if Sir Robert chased after them, and was met by the reavers.”

  “Who are they?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Bandits of ill repute, who steal good English cattle and sell them for even better Scottish prices,” Tarleton informed her.

  Elizabeth smiled slowly at the thought. “And what would they do to Sir Robert, if they captured him?”

  “Strip him of his clothes and money, then tie him backward on a goat, and send him on his way—if he is lucky. In any event, he must be miles from here. Come, Robin! We burn daylight! There is more money to be made!”

  The afternoon’s performance drew an even larger crowd, some of whom returned to see the Queen’s jester a second time. As before, Tarleton capered, danced, juggled, told bawdy jokes and sang suggestive songs, all of which pleased the throng. Again he directed the last line of “The Greenwood Tree” to his apprentice.

  Elizabeth’s cheeks colored under the heat of his gaze. A tumble of confused thoughts and feelings assailed her, though outwardly she pretended not to notice his favor. This strange aching she felt for the Queen’s favorite player bewildered her. Her common sense reminded her that she must not allow herself to fall under his spell. She was a lady, destined for a “good match,” if not to the odious Sir Robert, then to some other lord. Tarleton’s path led down the byways of England with merry disregard for dowries and marriage portions. Indeed, considering his past behavior, Tarleton had a merry disregard for marriage altogether.

  And yet—