Fool's Paradise

by Tori Phillips

  “In bright satins and gaudy velvets?” Elizabeth asked innocently, thinking of the new motley she planned as a surprise for him.

  Tarleton snorted. “Nay, sweetling! I am no courtier! Can you see me in such a fine array?”

  Yes, Elizabeth thought as she watched him practice a few notes on his penny whistle. I can see you in a doublet of silver satin and black velvet. You would make a finer gentleman than many who strut about in such clothing—like Sir Robert La Faye.

  Poking his head through the double doors, the steward announced that the company awaited the players. Tarleton tossed the whistle to Elizabeth, winked broadly at her, then he bounded into the Dining Hall. Elizabeth followed close behind him.

  Unlike the sedate audience of the priory of the night before, the Dining Hall of Christ Church was a roaring mass of high spirits, fueled by beer and youth. The budding physicians, mathematicians, lawyers, clergymen, philosophers and courtly gentlemen were in constant movement about the long trestle tables and benches. Leaping fires roared in the two large fireplaces opposite each other in the center of the chamber. At one end, on a raised platform, the dean and his dons quietly dined at the high table, as if the chaos below them was a mere figment of their imagination.

  The entire company greeted Tarleton’s jingling appearance with loud cheers and stamping feet, since their hands were full of bread and mugs.

  Throwing back his shoulders, Tarleton flexed his knees and tumbled the length of the hall between the two rows of tables. This feat was greeted with more cheers and stamping.

  In midflight, Elizabeth saw another one of his bells fly off. Quietly moving down the side of the room, she retrieved it among the forest of feet. I vow I will find a needle and thread this night, she promised herself as she pocketed the brass trinket.

  Tarleton’s performance continued its rollicking pace. He juggled the colored balls higher than he had at rehearsal. Elizabeth managed to catch everything thrown at her, including someone’s cap. Grinning, she tossed it back into the cheerfully rowdy mob. She good-naturedly ducked airborne rolls and greasy rib bones. Everyone, including a noisy pack of college dogs under the tables, had a rousing good time.

  Grabbing her around her waist, Tarleton heaved her on top of a table.

  “My prentice may look the angel, but he has a song which will please the devil in you,” announced Tarleton with a sly smile. “Sing the one about the wench with the rolling eye!” he whispered to her.

  Elizabeth gaped at him. “But that’s not what we practiced this afternoon!” she protested under her breath.

  “But that is what they want to hear, Robin Redbreast!” Though his lips were curved in a wide smile, Tarleton’s eyes pleaded. “Play the part.” His dark brows wiggled at her.

  Elizabeth cleared her throat and began the first verse. As Tarleton predicted, it was exactly what the students wanted. After the third rendition, Elizabeth gratefully got off the table while Tarleton launched into a few of his bawdy stories and jokes, all with brilliant puns and wordplay, which delighted the student audience.

  At the end of their performance, Tarleton held his hands out for silence. “Sweet Robin has a love song to sing you to your rest, good gentlemen, and I pray you give a careful ear to it.” Bowing, Tarleton turned to Elizabeth, who walked quietly to the center of the vast room.

  “‘Under the greenwood tree…’” she began, lifting her voice as if it were on a dove’s wings, flying over the heads of the scholars.

  Her eyes closed; she again envisioned the magic glade by the swift-flowing stream, as she sang of love on a summer’s afternoon. There was utter silence as her last note died away, then the Hall erupted into a frenzy of banging, stamping, cheers and cries for more.

  Tarleton’s brown eyes glistened as he took her hand, and together they bowed before the high table. Even the venerable dean seemed pleased.

  “Now, that is a love song, Biggs!” Philip called out, as Elizabeth and Tarleton made their exit toward the pantry.

  Elizabeth grinned. She knew poor Jonathan would spend the next hour disputing the point.

  In the darkened passageway between the hall and the kitchens, Tarleton’s hand sought hers. Lifting it to his lips, he kissed her fingers, grazing her skin with his teeth and tongue. Her heart dancing, she shamelessly wished there was some discreet alcove nearby.

  “I have never heard you sing that song as well as you did this night,” Tarleton whispered.

  “I sang it for you only,” she responded softly.

  His lips caressed the tender pulse point on her wrist. “I know.”

  The depth of his love, and his desire for her hung upon those simple two words. A delicious tremor inside her heated her thighs and the secret garden above them. After giving her hand a final squeeze, Tarleton dropped it as they entered the kitchens.

  “Old Wolsey knew what he was doing when he planned these glorious rooms!” Tarleton enthused warmly over a mug of the promised “best beer in Oxford.”

  The Queen’s favorite jester and his apprentice had sung a few songs, juggled a number of kitchen implements and told several ribald jokes for the appreciative kitchen staff. Comfortably seated on low stools in front of one of the massive fireplaces, the players tucked into a well-deserved supper.

  “This is the king of all kitchens!” Tarleton continued, waving a bone in the air. “I am a collector of kitchens, my friends. In my humble opinion, ‘tis the best in all England. Why, I do believe you can roast a whole ox in that fireplace!”

  The cook beamed with greasy appreciation. “Two, if they are not above average in size,” he boasted proudly.

  While Tarleton and the cook waxed warmer over the comparative merits and sizes of the kitchens at Westminster Palace and Christ Church, Elizabeth sipped her beer and gazed dreamily into the fire. Filled with a good dinner, and secure in her love, Elizabeth allowed her fancy to wander. She imagined herself and Tarleton playing before the Queen at Hampton Court, not revealing Elizabeth’s true identity until after the Queen had applauded their performance. Surely, Her Majesty will see how much in love we are, and she will grant me my dearest wish—to marry where my heart is!

  She felt a sharp kick against her stool’s leg. Yawning, Elizabeth rubbed her eyes.

  Tarleton pulled her to her feet. “‘Tis time I put this scamp to bed. We have many miles to go on the morrow. Our thanks for the fine beer and supper!” Bowing, he pushed his apprentice out the door and down the stone staircase to the cloister below.

  Kneeling on the cold flagged floor of the tiny Cathedral of Christ Church, Elizabeth whispered her night prayers. They had chanced upon this hidden church at the bottom of the hall’s staircase, and Elizabeth begged to slip inside for her evening’s devotions. Originally part of the Priory of St. Frideswide upon whose foundations Cardinal Wolsey had laid out his new institution of learning, the smallest cathedral in England was now completely surrounded by the college.

  Finishing her prayers with a plea for the husband of her choice, Elizabeth rose and looked for Tarleton. She heard the soft tinkling of the belled coat that he still wore. Stepping out of the shadows, Tarleton went down on his knees before her.

  “Since I know you were praying for forgiveness, I pray for yours, sweet lady,” he whispered thickly. Taking both her hands in his, he gazed up into her surprised eyes.

  Elizabeth’s lips trembled. “You have no need to ask me for forgiveness, Dickon,” she assured him, hoping he didn’t regret his lovemaking.

  “There is need, lady,” he responded softly. “I beg your forgiveness for all the hardships I have brought upon you. For cutting your fair hair, for dressing you in shameful rags, and for thrusting you amid rough company.” He grinned sheepishly. “I am particularly sorry about the goat. That was for my own amusement.”

  “And it spared meeting Sir Robert face-to-face,” Elizabeth reminded him. She ran her fingers through the unruly tangles of his dark hair.

  Tarleton continued doggedly. “Most of all, I beg you
r forgiveness for my failure to do what you asked of me. We should have been at Hampton Court by now. Instead I have pulled you hither and yon about the countryside.”

  “That has not been your fault, Dickon.” Her throat felt dry. Was he planning on leaving her now? “There has been the weather, and avoiding Sir Robert’s men—”

  Tarleton shook his head. “Nay, dear heart! ‘Tis because I was loath to part from you. Mother Catherine saw it clearly. And she reminded me of my place,” he added bitterly.

  Elizabeth’s hands continued to softly stroke his hair. Her tender touch sent hot rivulets of liquid fire through him. Still kneeling, he wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his head in the folds of her shirt.

  “I wish that your place was with me always, Dickon,” Elizabeth murmured. “Are you asking my forgiveness for loving me?”

  Tarleton smiled, his teeth shone in the dim light. “Nay, never that, sweetling. But I ask your forgiveness for desiring you… as I am far below your station.” He placed a finger against her lips to stop her protest. “Nay, hear me out. That I will love you all my life, you know. That I wish to hide you away with me, I think you know. That the Queen would seek us out, and end this folly for both of us— that is a certainty. Forgive me, dearest Elizabeth, for putting us both in such an impossible position!” Bending his head, he kissed her hands, caressing the soft pads of her palms.

  As his lips sweetly drained all her doubts and fears, a flood of overwhelming joy washed over Elizabeth. “I will never regret—nor forget—this time I have had with you, no matter what the future holds for either of us,” she told him, barely able to speak. “There is nothing to forgive.” She kissed his hair, inhaling the scent of fire smoke and a hint of lavender.

  When he looked up at her, the light of desire illuminated his liquid brown eyes. “I have kept you in harm’s way because of my own selfishness. Sir Robert is close, by all accounts.” He started to tell her of the huge reward for her, then checked himself. Elizabeth had enough to worry her. “We should not have tarried here in Oxford today.”

  Elizabeth lightly pressed her lips against his. “I would not have had it any other way.”

  Rising and pulling her into the deepest shadow behind a thick pillar, Tarleton clasped her body to him. Hungrily his mouth covered hers with a long, lingering kiss as if he had been thirsty for many days and now drank from a cool mountain stream. His tongue delved into the sweetness of her mouth. A low growl rose deep from within his throat.

  Clinging to him, Elizabeth was conscious of where his warm skin touched hers. She could feel his uneven breathing against her cheek as he held her in the darkness. His hard-muscled thigh brushed against her hip. The heat and fullness of his desire pressed against her as he took her mouth again. His nearness sent her senses spinning; she held wildfire in her arms. His little brass bells betrayed their presence, but no one heard them in that still, holy place.

  Tarleton drew in a ragged breath. “If this were not a church, my love, I would lay you down right here on this cold stone, and show you again the depth of my love.” Again he sought her honeyed lips.

  “Perhaps Jonathan and Philip have gone out,” suggested Elizabeth. A hot ache grew in her throat. “We could make use of their room for a bit.”

  Tarleton’s eyes drank in her upturned face. “Perhaps,” he answered briefly. Reluctantly they parted, though he was loath to let her go. Elizabeth intoxicated him like a strong, heady brew. There was not a spot in all of Christ Church where they wouldn’t run some risk of discovery by one of the lusty students or their puritan masters. ‘Twas as bad as the priory, Tarleton cursed to himself. Now that he had tasted of Elizabeth’s sweet body, he craved her all the more. “Let us leave this place, sweetling,” he growled. “And, by all that’s holy, let’s both try to remember that you are a boy!”

  Turning abruptly on his heel, he strode out the church door, snapping his fingers for her to follow.

  Elizabeth waited until her quickened pulse subsided, then she padded after him. What I wouldn’t give for a nice, cozy haystack just now!

  “What, ho, Tarleton!” Jonathan’s voice echoed across the dark quad as the jester and Elizabeth emerged from the gloom of the cloister. “We thought you had gone up in smoke but then we heard your bells!”

  Damn! Elizabeth fumed silently.

  “My prentice was saying his bedtime prayers in your chapel,” replied Tarleton easily, joining Jonathan and Philip near the college’s gate.

  “Bedtime? Nay, the evening has just begun.” Jonathan wrapped his arms around each of their shoulders. “Your fame has traveled rapidly since dinner. There have been requests for your immediate appearance at the Bulldog yonder, where the sluggards of our sister colleges eagerly await your coming. Lighten their hearts—as well as their purses, Tarleton.”

  “Surely your apprentice can stay up an hour longer,” Philip added good-naturedly. “No one in Oxford should miss hearing his sweet voice.”

  Tarleton nodded, secretly glad of the diversion the students offered. Had he and Elizabeth returned to Jonathan’s room and found no one there, he knew he would have given in to his heart’s desire, without a second thought to the danger of discovery. Tarleton hated to think what would happen to Elizabeth should the young men of Christ Church suspect there was a “doxy” in Jonathan’s room.

  “I would not deny the students of this great university the chance to throw away their money,” Tarleton acquiesced.

  Looking up at the few stars that peeped between the clouds, Elizabeth heartily wished Jonathan and Philip at the bottom of a well.

  “Aye, that’s the spirit!” Jonathan proclaimed loudly, as he and Philip propelled their guests across the rutted street and into a small, noisy alehouse that was crammed to overflowing with boisterous students.

  Following closely behind Tarleton, Elizabeth silently cursed Jonathan’s ill timing. Tomorrow, the very first spot that looks inviting, I will seduce Tarleton no matter how many miles he insists we must travel!

  Leaping up on a long table in the middle of the warm, smoky room, Jonathan banged two pewter mugs together for silence. When his command for attention went unnoticed, Tarleton joined him. The sight of the broadshouldered man standing tall in a coat of motley and bells, grinning like Robin Goodfellow, reduced the clamor to a manageable level.

  “Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!” Jonathan began in his most pompous manner. “At great personal expense, we have with us this evening the finest songster and punster of the land. The Queen’s own favored player—”

  “Here’s to good Queen Bess!” cried a voice in the back. There was a general cheer, while Jonathan struggled to regain the fragile order.

  “As I was saying, for your pleasure and his profit, sponsored by the gentlemen scholars of Christ Church—”

  “Merton College forever!” sang out a slightly tipsy voice. His cry was immediately drowned by representatives of the other colleges.

  “Here’s to the lions of Oriel!”

  “Balliolmen, tome!”

  “Magdalen!”

  “Brasenose!”

  Before a friendly riot could develop, Tarleton smilingly pushed Jonathan down to the floor. Picking up three wooden trenchers, the jester began to juggle them. Abandoning their partisan bickering, the students gave their noisy approval to the entertainment.

  From juggling, Tarleton moved to a bawdy song concerning a fat friar and a thin widow, which was particularly well received.

  “I hear tell you are partial to love songs,” Tarleton began.

  “We may as well sing about it, as there is nothing else we can do about it!” answered one wag near the door.

  Tarleton laughed with sympathetic understanding. “Then allow my apprentice to join me,’ and we will sing of Robin Hood and Maid Marian.”

  Holding out his hand to Elizabeth, Tarleton pulled her up onto the tabletop beside him. Her white-gold hair caught the light from the lanterns.

  “Ignore the noise and sing for me,” he whispered
into her ear, then he began the first verse.

  When Elizabeth’s soaring soprano joined the chorus, the room fell appreciatively silent. The students did not stir through the next five verses as Robin Hood sang of his prowess with a bow, and Marian asked if he had shot an arrow into her heart. The applause was thunderous at the conclusion.

  “If they are as liberal with their pennies as they are with their enthusiasm, we shall make a fortune here tonight!” Tarleton whispered to Elizabeth as they bowed.

  “Do you know the ballad of the runaway wife?” bellowed an older voice from a dim corner of the taproom.

  Elizabeth’s heart froze midbeat. The voice was her nightmare come true. She felt Tarleton tense beside her, though his smile remained in place.

  “Nay, sir! I have not heard it,” he answered smoothly. Inwardly Tarleton’s mind moved quickly, assessing the possibilities of this unwelcome encounter. He cursed that he had left his dagger in Jonathan’s room.

  Sir Robert La Faye pushed his way through the press of students. His face flushed with drink and anger.

  “Hast not heard it, Master Tarleton?” Sir Robert sneered, standing at the foot of the table. “Why, every whey-faced, punpled ass in this room knows the song of the man who could not keep his bride!”

  A shrill voice began to sing “Oh, hast thou heard of the lady fair…” but the words died in his throat when one of Sir Robert’s men drew his sword, pointing it toward the offending youth.

  A tense silence enveloped the taproom. Behind the counter, the landlord paled when he saw the black look in Sir Robert’s eye. In an undertone, the proprietor told one of the tap boys to ease out the back door, and run for the town watch. Nodding, the youth wriggled through the crowd like an eel and was gone.

  Stepping behind Tarleton’s protective form, Elizabeth tried to control the spasmodic trembling within her. Sheer black fright swept through her. Jesu, don’t let me faint now!

  “Perchance you would like another ditty? ‘The Fox and the Hens’?” Tarleton began to sing, but he was stopped by the rasp of metal against metal as Sir Robert drew his sword.