Fool's Paradise

by Tori Phillips

  She suppressed another giggle when she saw a slow, proud smile curl his lips. Her fingers continued their lazy play, lightly scraping his skin with her nails.

  He shivered. “My sweet Lady Elizabeth. Do you know what you are doing to me?”

  “My sweet Richard Tarleton. Do you think we could do it again?” She smiled up at him with a look that was both innocent and feline.

  “So soon?” He quivered as she continued her stroking. When her finger grazed one of his nipples, he groaned.

  “I haven’t much time to call my own,” she replied quietly. “I want to be in your arms as much as possible until… until then.”

  His lips pressed against hers, then gently covered her mouth. As he stoked her passion, his own grew stronger. When they drew slowly apart, Tarleton cradled her face between his warm hands.

  “When you first fell into my life, I wasn’t sure if you were an angel or a devil. I’m still not sure.”

  “Neither.” She smiled, brushing an errant lock of brown hair off his forehead. “I’m a woman, sweet Dickon.”

  Chapter Twelve

  In a private upper room in the Mitre Inn at Oxford, Sir Robert La Faye poured himself another cupful of canary wine. Though it was only two in the afternoon, Sir Robert was well into his fourth bottle of the expensive import. His small eyes were sunk into slits above the florid folds of his fleshy cheeks, accentuating his porcine look. To his companion, a garishly dressed woman of doubtful breeding and reputation, Sir Robert resembled a great hairy hog in a peascod jacket and plumed hat. Regarding him cautiously over the rim of her cup, Nan Quincy pretended to sip her wine. As each day dragged by with no trace of the elusive Lady Elizabeth, Sir Robert’s vindictiveness lashed out in all directions. Nan knew from painful experience that he hated being thwarted, or having his dignity insulted.

  “A pox on the bitch!” Sir Robert slurred, downing the sweet wine in one ferocious gulp. “She’s made me the laughingstock in two—nay, three—counties. But she’ll pay for it, Nan. By all that’s in hell, she’ll pay for it tenfold!” He slammed the pewter vessel down on the table. It skipped along the boards, then fell to the floor.

  Quietly Nan leaned over and picked it up.

  “No one is laughing at—” she began.

  The man across from her interrupted loudly. “Silence, woman! Did I seek your opinion? I tell you, I have been made a fool by that bitch! Now they are writing ballads about Sir Robert La Faye’s runaway wife who bolted from the church door on his big black horse! That foul piece of doggerel leaves me—me, the wronged husband—without a shred of respect! All the countryside is singing of the sweet Lady Elizabeth, and her handsome Scottish lover. The chorus calls me a merry cuckold!”

  “Nay, Sir Robert, I think—”

  “Don’t think!” He pounded his fist on the table.

  Nan remained outwardly unperturbed, willing herself to stay calm. Once, in the days when Sir Robert was younger and slimmer, Nan loved him, content to be his bedmate. But over the past few years, as his girth became larger and his fortunes smaller from gambling and bad investments, Sir Robert’s caresses grew more harsh, his lovemaking more cruel. Now Nan dared not leave him. She knew he would pursue her as savagely as he chased after Lady Elizabeth. His revenge against Nan’s perceived injury to his bloated vanity would be brutal and she did not enjoy the protection of a noble birth.

  “More!” Sir Robert waved a shaky finger at the bottle. Nan poured another cupful. “And tell that poxy landlord we want two more bottles of this bog water!”

  “Perhaps he has run out,” Nan murmured as she placed the cup in front of the drunken lord. She wished fervently that Sir Robert would succumb to the fumes of the wine and give her a few hours of peace.

  “Don’t cross me, Nan! I’ve been crossed enough by women!” Sir Robert slurped greedily.

  Going to the door, Nan motioned to the tap boy, who waited in attendance just outside.

  “Two more bottles of wine,” she quietly told the wide-eyed lad.

  A few hot tears of self-pity ran down Sir Robert’s puffy cheeks. “Only this morning I heard some onion-eyed student singing the praises of Lady Elizabeth Hayward under my window! I dumped the entire chamber pot over his head. Aye! And threw the pot after him for good measure. Knocked him into the gutter. ‘Tis a lesson he’ll not soon forget!”

  “Aye, my lord.” Nan remembered the incident only too clearly. The student’s cap and gown were ruined beyond repair. It took a gold noble to cool the singer’s wrath.

  Sir Robert wiped his runny nose on the burgundy velvet of his slashed sleeve. “Handsome Scottish lover! Ha! If there is a lover—which I doubt—he isn’t taking her to Scotland. The chit is headed straight for her godmother. The wench is somewhere on this road. When I find her, I will whip her within an inch of her miserable life! Aye, and take my pleasure in it, too!”

  “You’ll have to marry her first,” Nan said smoothly, feeling more than a little sorry for the Lady Elizabeth.

  “Aye, by the first bumbling cleric I can find. Then I’ll make her dance to my tune!”

  “Why waste your time on her?” Nan suggested smoothly. “Surely there are other fish in the sea who would leap at your… hook.” She arched her brow meaningfully.

  Sir Robert glared at his paramour. “Because the baggage has a fortune I could well use, you dolt! And she has connections to both political camps. If Mary of Scotland is freed and comes to her rightful power, the Hayward estates are safe from confiscation. The little bitch is a Catholic. If Elizabeth remains where she is, I will stand in good stead as the husband of her goddaughter. I care not if the Scots whore or the English bastard sits on the throne. So long as the Hayward wench is in my pocket, my fortune is secure.” He drained the bottle, wiping the back of his hand across his thick lips.

  Shuddering at his treasonous words, Nan prayed the walls of the Mitre did not have ears.

  There was a gentle rap on the door. Sir Robert answered by hurling his empty cup at it. “Come in, damn you!”

  Trembling, the pale tap boy crept inside, clutching two fresh bottles of canary.

  “Don’t stare at me, you sniveling cony! Put the wine on the sideboard, then get your miserable hide out of here!”

  “Yes, s-sir!” Scampering the length of the room, the boy set down the bottles. Quickly picking up the three empties, he raced for the door. Sir Robert drew a small dagger from his belt and threw it after him. Striking the doorjamb, the blade quivered just inches from the terrified boy’s face.

  “Have you heard of a ballad called ‘The Runaway Wife’?” Sir Robert bellowed at him.

  The boy looked first at the man, then at the woman, who slowly shook her head at him. “No, sir, not I! I have no time for songs, s-sir!”

  “Get you gone!”

  The tap boy flew out the door and down the stairs. He didn’t stop trembling until he reached the cool cellar, where he placed the empties in a barrel. Running outside across the inn yard, he barely made it to the privy before his bowels turned to water. The shivering lad heartily wished the fat lord to hell, taking his custom with him.

  Upstairs, Nan pried the dagger out of the wood then pocketed the weapon. If Sir Robert had injured or, worse, killed the lad—Behind her, she heard a low snore. Her prayers were temporarily answered. Sir Robert slumped across the table, the cup still gripped in his hand. He would stay that way until his hirelings returned from their latest search. Crossing her arms over her breasts, Nan hugged herself. God help that poor Lady. And God help me!

  “Sweet ladybird!” Tarleton nuzzled the sleeping girl curled in the crook of his arm.

  “Hmm?”

  “Wake up, slugabed!” He tickled her nose with a blade of grass.

  “Do we have to?” Elizabeth snuggled closer to him.

  Tarleton kissed her lightly on top of her head. “I fear so, my darling. Clouds have come up, and we must find some sort of shelter before the storm.”

  Elizabeth reluctantly opened her eyes,
her body warm and moist from the afternoon’s lovemaking. Sniffing the air like a terrier, she sensed a definite change in the weather. A small breeze ruffled through the leaves, carrying the heavy scent of rain. Stretching, she watched Tarleton pull on his breeches.

  “I wish—” she began.

  Glancing over his shoulder, Tarleton attempted to assume a stern look. “Not again, my lady! You’ll wear me out!”

  Elizabeth laughed. “I wish today would never end.” Running her fingers through her hair, she pulled out a few stray leaves and twigs. “I wish you and I could forget about Hampton Court.” She grew serious. “Could we do that, Dickon? Just keep going on our way? I wouldn’t mind it— not with you by my side.”

  Tarleton felt his heart crack at the thought of her tempting suggestion. If he thought they could get away with it, he would go to the ends of the earth with her—and the devil take Sir Robert! Instead, he shook his head slowly.

  “Nay, Elizabeth, I must get thee to the Queen.”

  Elizabeth glared at him with burning, reproachful eyes. “I see your game, Sir Jester!” Rising, she shook the last remnants of sleep from her joints. She looked a young goddess, clothed only in her indignation. “You have played your sport well with me. Next week, when I’m safely tucked up with the Queen, you are free to go on your merry way and break some other girl’s heart!”

  Stalking down to the river’s edge, Elizabeth waded up to her knees, splashing its chill water over her flushed face and trembling body.

  “‘Tis is not what I meant, ladybird!” Tarleton protested as he watched her closely, in case she decided to take another unplanned swim.

  Elizabeth flounced back to the bank, then disappeared through the bushes where she had left her clothes.

  “Truly?” Her voice sliced through the verdant curtain. “I suppose you think you are not good enough for me. Or, perchance, I am not good enough for you!”

  Tarleton groped for the right words to soothe her.

  After a short silence, she reappeared, dressed in her travelstained breeches and the once-white shirt. The rosy tips of her nipples peeked saucily through the neck opening, which was not yet tied shut. Looking away, Tarleton tried to collect his thoughts. He had not bargained for such a sudden shift in her mood after so sweet a bout of love play.

  His throat ached with the torment of regret. “What you or I want is not the point, Lady Elizabeth,” he said stiffly, pretending to take great care in the lacing of his jerkin. “The fact of the matter is this, you are expected at Hampton Court within this fortnight, and I am expected to deliver you there in one piece.”

  Grumbling over her filthy stockings, Elizabeth paused and looked at him, amazed at his words. “Expected? How can the Queen expect me? She doesn’t even know I’ve run away. And how does she know you are delivering me like a New Year’s gift?” Her eyes flashed a dangerous green.

  Tarleton gingerly sat down beside her, his own shoes and stockings in his hands. “Because I sent a message, telling Her Majesty we were coming,” he replied evenly.

  “A message?” She snorted. “Oh, that’s a good jest, Tarleton! Did you find a friendly jackrabbit to carry it for you?”

  “No,” he replied quietly. “A friendly peddler.”

  Elizabeth stopped fuming, and thought back across the days. “Patch? You sent a message by Patch?”

  Tarleton nodded.

  Elizabeth knotted her brow. “But he was going north. And how can you trust him, anyway?” she persisted, not wanting to believe him.

  “Because, like myself, Master Patch is also a spy in the service of Sir Francis Walsingham.”

  “Oh,” said Elizabeth in a very small voice. She saw by the expression in Tarleton’s eyes that his words were true and he wished they weren’t.

  “I told Patch the whole story while you slept that afternoon. I felt it best that Sir Francis be aware of what was afoot. Patch planned to meet with one of the Queen’s couriers in Stratford. With fast post-horses, that courier should be at Hampton by now. If we don’t appear within a reasonable amount of time, the Queen will send her soldiers looking for us.”

  “Oh.” Elizabeth’s voice held a tear.

  Tarleton wanted to reach out to her, but he was unsure of her reaction. Instead, he waited, watching her out of the corner of his eye. “I thought it was for the best, Elizabeth,” he added softly.

  “And now?” Her eyes were those of an injured fawn.

  Tarleton laid his hand over hers. “I wish with all my heart that we could travel together, singing silly songs to simpering housewives, eating stale bread and cheese and whatever else we could steal. I would have us wandering the roads in summer, and curled together before a fire in winter. That is what I wish, but wishes…” His voice trailed off.

  Brusquely wiping a stray tear with her sleeve, Elizabeth glowered at the stocking in her hand. “And I wish… I wish I could have at least one pair of clean stockings with no holes!”

  Tarleton could stand it no longer. Pulling her into his arms, he held her tightly. Elizabeth quietly lay in his embrace, her head against his chest.

  “I can hear your heart,” she murmured.

  “Good.” He kissed her hair, which smelled of lavender and sunshine. “I’m glad to know I am still alive. I wondered about that awhile ago.”

  Elizabeth looked up at him. “Oh?”

  He grinned impishly. “For a while there, methought I had died and gone to heaven, for I was in the company of an angel.”

  “Not so.” She laid her head back on his chest. “But it is nice of you to think that.”

  “Nay, sweet angel, I see now I was mistaken.”

  “How so?”

  “I’ve never seen an angel wear such a beggarly, reeky pair of stockings and those shoes! Why, their soles are the ones who need saving—not mine!”

  A small smile lit up Elizabeth’s face.

  Wiggling his brows at her, Tarleton flashed his best, most devilish, grin. “Tis time I wave my magic wand and turn you once again into a prentice boy. We need food, my lad, and shelter, too. I doubt you’ll want to spend another night in a hayrick.”

  Elizabeth cocked her head at him. “Not so,” she bantered. “I’ve heard lovemaking is very pleasurable in hayricks!”

  “Lady Elizabeth! I am surprised!” Tarleton assumed the expression of a prim cleric. “What would all your good nuns say if they heard you?”

  “No doubt, it would shock them into silence!” Elizabeth grinned wickedly.

  Gathering their few belongings together, they worked their way back through the underbrush to the road. Following behind Tarleton, Elizabeth paused for a moment, looking over her shoulder at the glistening river, the waving willows and the flattened patch of grass. Her gaze took in all the colors of the place, trying to imprint the scene in her mind forever. She knew she would never hear a rook’s cry or smell a blade of meadow grass without remembering this one magical afternoon.

  “We burn daylight, Robin Redbreast!” Tarleton called to her.

  “Aye!” Elizabeth answered. Whispering a heartfelt adieu, she scrambled after him.

  A short time later, they rejoined the main highway. Staring in disbelief at the milepost, Tarleton threw back his head, roaring with laughter. “We are closer than I thought! Had we not dallied, we could have been in Oxford by now!”

  “I did not mind the dallying.” Her eyes twinkling, Elizabeth’s lips curled in a secret smile. “So, where are we?”

  “Two miles from Godstow and none too soon, by the looks of that sky!” Tarleton turned down the hard-packed road, whistling happily.

  “Do you know of an inn at Godstow?” Elizabeth panted, trying to keep up with him.

  Tarleton chuckled. “Nay, sweetling, no inn, but a safe place to be sure. In fact, ‘tis the safest place in England, except inside a church.”

  “What then?”

  “The Priory of St. Aloysius. The good ladies there know me well. We shall find a dry bed and a plain but filling meal.” Glancing
down at Elizabeth, Tarleton smiled crookedly. “Though I think the mother abbess will disapprove if I asked her for only one bed!”

  Elizabeth wrinkled her nose. “Why? She’ll think I’m a boy.” Elizabeth looked forward to spending the night wrapped in Tarleton’s love.

  The jester cocked one eyebrow. “Don’t be too sure about that. Mother Catherine may be as old as the hills, but her eye is sharper than a hound’s tooth. If anyone can see through your disguise, she will.”

  Suddenly the thought of spending the night in the Priory of St. Aloysius did not sound at all appealing to Elizabeth. Only the threat of the gathering black clouds hurried her steps after Tarleton’s, quashing any objections on her lips.

  The first raindrops fell as Tarleton pulled the bell rope hanging by the stout wooden door of the old priory. A small hatchway opened, and a soft voice chirped, “Peace be with you!”

  “And with you, Sister Agnes!” Tarleton laughed. “Please! Open this door before we drown.”

  “Richard! Praise be!” the cheerful voice replied.

  Elizabeth heard the bolt slide back. The door swung open on its well-oiled hinges.

  As round as she was tall, Sister Agnes greeted Tarleton like a long-lost son, then warmly smiled at Elizabeth.

  “‘Tis my new apprentice, Robin.” Tarleton indicated his wet companion.

  Playing her role to the hilt, Elizabeth swept a deep bow to Sister Agnes. The cheerful nun chuckled at the apprentice’s good manners.

  “By my troth, you are a gift from heaven this stormy evening, Richard” she twittered merrily to Tarleton as she led them down a cool, dim corridor.

  A wave of nostalgia swept over Elizabeth as she followed behind the jester and his plain-garbed admirer. The priory was like the convent in France where she had spent six happy years. An aura of peace and orderliness, mixed with the scent of beeswax, dried herbs and lye soap, seeped out from the old stone walls. Light footfalls, a tinkle of distant laughter and the chime of a bell made Elizabeth feel at home, despite her borrowed identity.