I would marry him, Elizabeth realized with a sudden fearful clarity, as she watched him flash his elfin smile at a shy little maid of ten. If Tarleton ever said, “Come away with me and we will wander the world together,” Elizabeth knew deep in her heart, that all her sensible thoughts would disappear like an April shower.
“Ho, prentice!” Tarleton called to her. “Instead of gathering wool, gather pennies!”
Dragging herself roughly out of her daydream, Elizabeth moved among the crowd, holding out her hat as the silver pieces rained into it. The good nuns, who had taught her so carefully in France, would be shocked to the core if they could see her now. Surprisingly, Elizabeth found she didn’t care a groat’s worth. Here, in the warm afternoon sun of a late summer day, she could almost forget why she had started out on this improbable adventure. Sir Robert La Faye was as far from her care as Scotland, where, she fervently hoped, that vile lord might be even now riding his own goat, preferably backward.
“How now, Robin Redbreast?” Tarleton asked, pulling off his motley jacket and raking his fingers through his damp hair.
“Didn’t we do well!” Elizabeth giggled as she began adding up the pile of groats, farthings, pennies and halfpennies.
Tarleton watched her, a smile playing over his lips. “Give you another week on the road, prentice, and you’ll be able to estimate the take by the size of the crowd!” Then his face darkened as if a cloud blocked out the sun. “But I forget. In another week, the chill winds of autumn will be here, and you will be sitting in front of a roaring fire at Hampton Court.”
“I pray we get there safely,” she whispered, though her heart was not as eager as her voice.
“Amen to that,” Tarleton answered gruffly. Then he cleared his throat. “By the looks of our goodly fortune, we shall be able to buy a fine dinner and a bed for the night, even after paying that shag-eared bailiff!”
“A bed?” Jesu! When had she last slept in a proper bed?
Tarleton grinned down at her surprised expression. “Yes, a bed, Robin Redbreast. I am sure you have heard of a bed before? Fine lords and ladies often sleep in them, I’m told. Of course, if you prefer a ticklish haystack, we could—”
“No, no!” Elizabeth stopped his banter with a giggle. “I would not deny you the pleasure of a bed!”
But I must deny myself the pleasures of sharing it with you the way I would wish, he thought bitterly. Tarleton roundly cursed the noble lord who would someday lay claim to Lady Elizabeth.
“Do you need some of my money?” Elizabeth started to reach for her bag, hidden under her shirt and vest.
Tarleton stayed her hand, holding her fingers for an extra moment. “Nay! That’s not to be touched! We’ve earned enough here. Let us enjoy the rest of the fair before the sun sinks too low!”
While Tarleton went off to pay his debt to the bailiff, Elizabeth watched the great old bear dance one more time. A young couple strolled past her, the boy’s arm about the girl’s waist. He dangled a bunch of brightly colored ribbons before the girl’s delighted eyes.
“For your wedding dress,” the boy murmured, nuzzling her ear. “To tie into many love knots, for I love you many times over.”
The girl blushed and laughed softly.
Elizabeth swallowed a hard lump in her throat. Why can’t I look forward to my wedding day as happily as she? I’m only chattel ready to be sold to the highest bidder! Will I never taste love like those two simple souls?
“What a sad look of longing!” Tarleton’s deep voice broke into her thoughts. “Here’s something for you then.” Reaching into his pouch, Tarleton pulled out a round object.
“A ball?” Elizabeth asked incredulously. Tarleton was carrying her disguise a little too far. “I think I am too old to play with a ball!”
Tarleton feigned a hurt look. Tossing the ball up in the air, he caught it with a quick flick of his wrist.
“Ah, well,” he said with an exaggerated sigh. “Perhaps not. I wonder if that bear over there would be interested in my soap. No doubt, he’d try to eat it and—”
“Soap?” Elizabeth could scarcely believe her ears. “Oh, please, Tarleton! Is it truly soap?”
“I thought you said you were too old for a ball.” He grinned, wiggling his brows playfully at her.
“It depends what the ball is made of,” she answered pertly.
“Then you have learned another valuable lesson, prentice. Never be too quick to judge a thing by its outward appearance. Here.” Tossing it lightly to her, he seemed pleasantly surprised when she caught it.
Soap! Her fingers caressed its waxy contours. She inhaled its sweet lavender fragrance—a lady’s soap. She smiled shyly at Tarleton.
“Thank you, Dickon,” she whispered, hoping he wouldn’t mind her using his real name.
Tarleton cupped her chin between his thumb and fingers. For a moment, he looked as if he were going to bend down and kiss her on the lips. Her heart beat hopefully at the thought. She rose on tiptoe, not realizing that she had moistened her lips in expectation. He paused, as if he remembered something. Giving her a tight smile, he tapped her gently on the cheek.
“Take the pack, boy,” he said hoarsely. “‘Tis time we find an inn before all the rooms have been taken.”
As he turned away from her, Elizabeth felt as if she had been dropped from a high wall. Something had happened between them just now, but she wasn’t sure what it was.
Within the half hour, Tarleton engaged a dormer room at The White Swan, a large, friendly inn off the highroad. Though the room was small, it had the advantage of privacy. There was only space for a single bed and a small table. For an extra halfpenny, one of the serving girls brought a bowl and a large pitcher of hot water. Giggling in sheer delight, Elizabeth rolled up her sleeves and gave herself over to the pure pleasure of washing her hair.
Tarleton sat on the bed, watching her. “I could have made a full bath and shaved with that water,” he mused. “You have managed to use it all up in ten minutes.” He tossed her the thin hucktoweling that the wench had also provided.
“Ah, but it was worth it.” Elizabeth sighed, rubbing her head vigorously. “My hair was full of hay and dust.”
She propped Tarleton’s piece of mirror up against the pitcher, and regarded herself as she combed out the shining bob. Bending closer to the mirror, she rubbed her nose.
“By the book, I’m turning to freckles! And look how brown I’ve become! I shall stand out at court among all the ladies.”
“You look healthy!” Tarleton snorted. “All those fine ladies at court cover themselves with a white paste. It makes them look like painted dolls.”
“Even the Queen?” Elizabeth grinned wickedly over her shoulder.
“Especially the Queen, but don’t you dare tell her I said so. In the mood she has been in these past few months, she’d have my head grinning from Tower Bridge!”
She would have my brains stewed and served up as a dog’s breakfast if Her Majesty knew what thoughts I am having about her bewitching goddaughter, Tarleton added to himself.
Elizabeth, her toilette completed to the best of her abil ity, stood up and shook out her waistcoat before slipping i back on. She glanced at Tarleton through her lashes. Good Lord! He looked far too at home, stretched out on her bed.
“Tarleton, I have a question,” she began, pretending to look again in the mirror so that he would not see the blush she knew stained her cheeks.
“What is your question this time, chuck?”
“There is only one bed. Where do you intend to sleep to night?”
Tarleton pressed his lips tightly together to keep from blurting out the truth: I wish to sleep in your arms tonight. Instead, he stood up and smoothed the coverlet. Her sim ple question hurt him. She had slept in his arms before, wha was the difference now? But he knew there was a difference. This afternoon, he had come far too close to kissing her.
“I will lie on the floor at your feet, my lady, like a good guard dog should,” he answ
ered coolly.
Elizabeth bit her lip when she realized she had offended him. “There is no need, Tarleton,” she answered stiffly. “You bought and paid for it, the bed is yours. I shall make do with a pillow and my cloak on the floor.”
He stared at her for a moment, his eyes glowing darkly in the gloaming of the twilight.
“So be it,” he snapped. Then he opened the door and hurled himself down the narrow stairs.
“Tarleton, where are you going?”
“To supper! If you wish, you may follow along, prentice boy!” he growled as he turned on the landing.
Elizabeth shut the door behind her with a bang and stomped after him. Just who does he think I am? A doxy whose favors he can buy with soap, hot water and the promise of a night in a real bed?
Yet, oddly enough, Elizabeth found herself wishing Tarleton would forget her noble birth, just once.
Chapter Nine
Good-natured clientele, warmed by a day of sunshine, profitable business and pleasure, filled the noisy taproom of The White Swan. Huge bowls of savory stew, trenchers of bread and assorted mugs of ale and beer covered the long, rough-hewn tables. The three serving girls and the tap boy ran back and forth under the scolding tongue of the hostess and the vigilant eye of the host. Many of the company were travelers from other parts of England, who had come to trade at the fair. A smattering of foreigners clustered in pockets among the gathering.
In a small corner booth away from the fire, Tarleton and Elizabeth ate their meal in silence. If it hadn’t been for their sharp words earlier, Elizabeth would have enjoyed the meal spread before them: juicy hunks of beef, a cobbler of stewed apples, crusty wheat bread with a crock of melted cheddar and cool ale. As it was, she ate but tasted nothing: Tarleton’s churlish behavior had taken away her appetite.
Whenever one of the serving girls passed by their table, Tarleton chatted warmly with her, pointedly ignoring Elizabeth opposite him. As the evening wore on and he consumed more beer, Tarleton put his arm around one of the wenches, pulling the tittering girl onto his lap, where he openly fondled her to her evident delight.
Keeping her head down, Elizabeth sipped her ale in embarrassed silence. Dimly through the babble round her, she overheard two men in the next booth quietly speaking French. Drawn to her mother’s language, Elizabeth listened to their conversation.
“Do you understand their speech?” Tarleton quietly asked.
Elizabeth glanced up at him in surprise. It was the first civil thing he had said to her in nearly two hours. “Of course,” she answered archly, trying to look superior. “Though their accent is horrid.”
“They’re not Frenchmen?” Tarleton’s eyes narrowed. It would be of great interest to the Queen’s spy master if there were those who pretended to be French when they were not. The Queen’s imprisoned cousin, Mary of Scotland, was mustering many secret supporters in the realm who longed to depose Her Grace and put Catholic Mary on England’s throne.
“Do they have the accent of a Scot?” Tarleton asked.
“Nay, they are French. What I meant was they are not from Paris,” she explained with a show of studied patience.
“Most of the world is not from Paris,” Tarleton testily reminded her. “What do they say?”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “One of them just remarked that no business can be done by the English without pots of beer to wash it down.”
“Typical remark!” Tarleton snorted. “What else?”
Elizabeth suddenly blushed deeply. “They are talking about one of the wenches, the redheaded one.”
Tarleton glanced across the room at the girl in question. A lively, pert creature, she looked seventeen in age and twenty-seven in experience.
“They have good taste in women,” he observed knowingly. “Tell me what they say of her.”
Elizabeth took a deep drink of her ale. “They…they are talking about her breasts, and her… oh, by the stars!”
“Her what?” Tarleton’s eyes sparkled wickedly. “Tell me exactly what they say about her breasts and her… other parts.”
“Please, Tarleton,” Elizabeth begged him quietly. “It’s very vulgar.”
“Good!” Tarleton taunted. “I’m common enough for some good French vulgarity. Tell what they say of yon wench.”
Banging her mug down on the table, Elizabeth glared at him. Her eyes flashed with a dangerous green fire. “I am sure you can understand their meaning, if you listen hard enough. They are not leaving much to the imagination.” She slid out of the booth. “As for me, I will not stay here a minute longer, and entertain your shameful whims.”
Elizabeth turned on her heel with her head held proudly high, pushed her way through the mob around the bar, then ran outside to the inn’s privy. Fortunately, it was deserted. Afterward, she scampered up the stairs to their room. Wrapping herself in her cloak, she knelt by the small window, and gazed up at the stars that sparkled like ice chips in the sky.
“Dear Lord,” she whispered. “Why is Tarleton so cruel to me? Please, Lord, deliver me soon to the Queen, and I pray you send me a good, true man to be my loving husband!”
With a heavy sigh, she pillowed her head on the pack and fell quickly into a deep sleep, worn out by the long day’s activities.
Tarleton silently watched her through the crack of the door. His heart tightened with self-loathing when he saw her bed down on the rough floor. The rising moon caught her hair in its beams, turning it into a silver halo glowing around her head. Tarleton drew in his breath. Though he had seen this unearthly shine before, it never ceased to amaze him. Recalling her whispered prayer, he cursed himself for each bruising word he had uttered.
Pushing open the door softly, he tiptoed in and knelt by her side. A small crystal tear glistened on her cheek, its mute witness a searing firebrand to his soul. Gently he brushed it away with his fingertip. Scooping up her sleeping form in his arms, Tarleton held her for a moment close to his chest. Stirring slightly in her sleep, Elizabeth snuggled against him, instinctively seeking his warmth.
Though her weight was nothing in his arms, Tarleton trembled as he gazed on the sleeping innocent he held. Fierce waves of love and protection welled up inside him. He wanted to press her tightly against himself, to meld with her for eternity. His heart beat faster as if he had been running for his life. Fighting the natural urges within himself, Tarleton carried her to the bed, where he laid her head gently on the pillow, smoothing the wisps of her hair from her eyes. He covered her with the thick woolen blanket.
“I don’t know if you are my salvation or my damnation, sweetling,” he whispered into her ear. “If there is a voice that can fly to your heart, hear mine. I have not the strength to fight against the truth any longer. I love thee, Elizabeth Hayward, with every part of my being. I know I can never have thee, and that will be my penance for the life I have led. Be thou an angel to bless me or a devil to tempt me, I will love thee forever.”
He kissed her lingeringly on her warm, parted lips. In her sleep, Elizabeth softly responded, then she turned on her side. Shaking as if he burned with a fever, Tarleton rolled himself tightly in her cloak. It was still warm from Elizabeth’s body, and smelled faintly of lavender soap.
Sleep finally came to Tarleton, relieving his tormenting thoughts.
When Elizabeth awoke the next morning, she was surprised to find herself tucked comfortably in the bed. Sitting up quickly, she looked around for Tarleton. She was alone, though the jumbled cloak on the floor gave evidence of where he had slept. She stretched luxuriously, like a cat in the sun. She felt new made after the first real night’s sleep she had since her father’s death. An early morning mist hovered over the cobbled streets below her dormer window, but she knew it would burn off soon. Through the ghostly air, a lone church bell rang, calling worshipers to service.
Slipping on her shoes, Elizabeth ran her comb through her hair. Then, wrapping the cloak around her to ward off the morning’s chill, she made her way down to the pump in the courtya
rd. Only a few of the inn’s patrons were stirring. Tarleton was nowhere to be seen.
“By my faith, Maude, ‘tis the jester’s pretty boy!”
Shaking the cold water out of her eyes, Elizabeth saw two of the inn’s serving girls appraising her.
“Good morrow, pretty youth!” called Maude, the younger of the two.
The other, the redheaded wench, displayed a knowing grin as she sauntered closer to Elizabeth, who stood rooted to the spot.
“See, Maude? The boy blushes to hear you call him,” the redhead teased. “Pray tell us, boy, have you never spoken to a girl before?”
Wiping her face on her sleeve, Elizabeth’s mind desperately sought a way out of this latest encounter. God’s teeth! Where the devil was Tarleton when she needed him?
“Aye, mistress, I speak often to girls.” Elizabeth assumed her best boyish voice. “But never so early in the morning.” Elizabeth began walking briskly toward the inn’s back door.
The redheaded girl and Maude dashed ahead of her, blocking the way.
“Where are you going so quickly, pretty lad?” the redhead crooned.
Elizabeth licked her lips as she regarded the forward maid.
“I must find my master to wait upon him,” Elizabeth replied, looking quickly around for another escape route.
“He is in the taproom at breakfast,” Maude informed her shyly.
“We shall let you by if you pay us a forfeit,” the redhead teased.
“I fear I have no money about me.” Elizabeth backed up a step. Though she was tempted to push both girls into the mud, Elizabeth knew that was not how a boy was supposed to act.
“Then a kiss, sweet lad. One each! By my troth, you look to have sweet lips and I’ve not tasted fresh kisses since midsummer’s eve!”
Giggling, the redhead advanced toward Elizabeth, while Maude circled around, cutting off her retreat.
At that moment, Tarleton appeared at the doorway. Taking one look at his apprentice’s latest scrape, he chuckled.
“Nay, sweethearts!” he called to the girls, striding into the yard. “Robin is not for the likes of ye!”
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