Fool's Paradise

by Tori Phillips

  “No, you fool!” the man snarled. “I wish to hear your apprentice sing. Let’s hear your sweet voice again, appren tice!” Sir Robert’s little pig’s eyes glinted dangerously.

  Keeping in Tarleton’s shadow, Elizabeth cleared her throat. “‘She had a dark and rolling eye/And her hair hung down in ring-a-lets—”

  Sir Robert’s fist smashed down on the the tabletop. “For shame, Master Tarleton, to teach your young apprentice such a lewd song as that! What would the Queen say?”

  “We will not sing it for the Queen,” replied Tarleton evenly. “Since we have displeased your worship with our sport, we will be gone.” He leaped lightly off the table, pulling Elizabeth with him.

  With speed that was surprising for a man of his bulk, Sir Robert overturned the table, blocking their exit. The assembly quickly backed out of the way of the razor-sharp rapier.

  Sir Robert leveled his sword’s point within an inch of Tarleton’s throat. “Do not move, apprentice, if you value this churl’s life,” he cautioned Elizabeth silkily.

  “Leave the boy alone, Sir Robert!” Tarleton growled. Knotting his fists, the player watched for an opening to fling himself upon the drunken lord. All he needed was one moment’s distraction.

  “Aye, knave! But I threaten no boy.” Moving the point of his rapier closer to Tarleton, he nicked the sensitive skin on the jester’s neck, causing a thin trickle of blood to run down into his collar.

  “Run along, Robin,” Tarleton crisply ordered the tiny figure behind him. “The gentlemen is clearly in his cups. Go back to our lodgings.” Keep your head, sweet Elizabeth! he prayed.

  “Don’t move!” Sir Robert cautioned her. Again he pricked Tarleton’s neck.

  “Do as I bid thee, Robin!” Tarleton licked his dry lips as he stared down the wicked blade into the red eyes of the man who held it.

  “Show yourself, apprentice, or my next cut to his throat will be deeper. Aye! “Twill leave this fool speechless!” Sir Robert giggled at his pun, though his eyes never wavered from the jester.

  Quaking, Elizabeth stepped between the two men. She gasped in horror when she saw Tarleton’s bloodied neck. With his free hand, Sir Robert grasped her firmly around her wrist. His rings bit painfully into her flesh.

  “Call her Robin? For shame! She is the Lady Elizabeth Hayward!” Sir Robert smirked his triumph.

  At her name, a buzz ran round the room like a fire in a stable. Pressing closer, the excited students narrowed the circle around the threesome. Jonathan exchanged a startled look with Philip who nodded. The two friends quietly edged closer to Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth flinched as La Faye tightened his grip on her. “I don’t know what you mean, my lord…” she began, hoping to bluff her way out of his grasp. Play the part, Tarleton’s eyes begged.

  Wrenching her arm, Sir Robert brought Elizabeth to her knees. Tarleton leapt to her defense but the sword’s point scratched deeply across his chest.

  “You don’t know what I mean?” mimicked Sir Robert nastily. “Then let me instruct you, you lying wench! I wondered when I saw you covered in mud. There was something that seemed familiar to me, but I put it out of my mind. I could not imagine my pretty little bride riding a goat! But when you opened those sweet lips and sang tonight, I knew who you were. In good time you will sing another tune, Lady Elizabeth.”

  “Sir, you have had too much to drink,” Elizabeth blustered. Letting go of her arm, Sir Robert backhanded her viciously across her face.

  Blood gushing from her nose and torn lip, Elizabeth lost all sense of place. Only the sticky floor of the alehouse seemed stable. Her head droned with a loud buzzing and she tasted the salt of her own blood. Dimly she heard Sir Robert’s voice screaming at her.

  “Get up, you bitch, or I will run your lover through!”

  Seeing Elizabeth fall at his feet, Tarleton’s heart hammered. Though his blood seethed and his raw nerves screamed in protest, he willed himself to remain still. The rapier in Sir Robert’s hand held steady at his throat.

  “Run, Robin!” Tarleton sharply ordered her as he glared with cold fury at La Faye. Turn your eye away one moment, you bastard, and I’ll have my hands around your fat neck!

  “Robin?” Sir Robert screeched into Tarleton’s face. “She is my own precious wife!”

  “I am no man’s wife!” Elizabeth rose shakily to her feet. The room spun crazily around her, yet she was determined to play the part to the last.

  Sir Robert’s face turned reddish purple; his eyes were almost lost in the folds of fat. “You are mine in all but wedding and bedding!” he shrieked at her. “The ceremony itself is a mere formality. As to the bedding, we shall do that here and now!”

  Grabbing a handful of her shirt, Sir Robert ripped it open from neck to waist, bearing her lush breasts in the firelight. There was a general intake of breath at the surprising sight. Finally turning away from Tarelton, Sir Robert ogled Elizabeth hungrily.

  “Dickon!” Elizabeth’s anguished cry pierced the rafters of the alehouse.

  At her stricken cry, pandemonium erupted on all sides. The students, with cries of “for the lady’s honor!” fell upon Sir Robert’s hirelings in a seething mass.

  Tarleton catapulted onto Sir Robert; his momentum sent them both crashing to the floor. Elizabeth backed away as the two men scrambled quickly to their feet. Sir Robert, his sword still in his hand, glanced first at Tarleton, then at Elizabeth.

  “If I can’t have you, my pet, no one else will, I swear!” he screeched.

  Elizabeth turned toward the safety of the crowd. At the same instant, Sir Robert lunged at her heart, while Tarleton grabbed him from behind, one arm locked around Sir Robert’s neck, the other hand closed over the wrist holding the sword, deflecting its thrust. The two men spun away, fighting for possession of the weapon.

  Elizabeth felt a sudden flash of fire sear through left shoulder. Before she knew what happened, someone lifted her from behind and dragged her toward the rear of the Bulldog. Elizabeth fought her unknown abductor.

  “Lady Elizabeth! ‘Tis Philip!” he said in her ear.

  The lanky medical student carried her out the back door into the comparative safety of the cold alleyway behind the alehouse. When he set Elizabeth on her feet, she swayed.

  Philip caught her before she hit the cobblestones. “Sweet Jesu!” he breathed. “You’ve been cut!” Her warm blood gushed over his hand. Supporting her, he wrapped her in his student gown.

  “Dickon,” she murmured. Growing more dizzy, she heard a rushing sound in her ears.

  “He is in good company, my lady. I’ll get you back to Jonathan’s, and tend your wounds.”

  “Tell… Dickon…” Elizabeth fainted.

  Philip swept her into his arms.

  The porter at the gate of Christ Church only shook his head in disgust as he nodded to Philip. The noise at the Bulldog was more boisterous than usual. It wasn’t fitting for the young gentlemen to be out at all hours, carousing and drinking. At least, Philip Robinson was sober enough to carry home one of the younger boys, the porter thought, as he watched Philip weave unsteadily across the quad. The unconscious fresher was tossed over Philip’s shoulder like a sack of meal.

  The tap boy of the Bulldog had a devil of a time finding the night watch. The proctors of Oxford were unusually busy that evening, and the tap boy was always one step behind them. He caught up with the officers as they took a quick pot of beer at the Golden Cross.

  “My master at the Bulldog begs you come at once!” The boy was panting as he spoke to the dark-gowned official. “There’s a riot breaking out there, and methinks the jester will be lulled!”

  The chief proctor blinked wearily. Rat-baiting, wenching and now—a jester? “A plague on higher education!” he swore as he downed the rest of his beer.

  Chapter Fifteen

  A blinding, murderous rage gripped Tarleton. Curses spewed from his lips as the two men struggled over possession of La Faye’s rapier. Though Sir Robert was both taller and
heavier than his adversary, he did not possess the expert skills that Tarleton had acquired over the years in the service of Sir Francis Walsingham. Using La Faye’s weight against him, Tarleton tripped his bulky opponent, wresting the sword from his attacker’s grip. Sir Robert rolled into a group of brawling students who were beating one of his henchmen into a pulp.

  His face contorted with scalding fury, Tarleton bore down on the scrambling butterball before him. The thought of Elizabeth being touched by this piece of offal inflamed his brain.

  Snatching a dagger from the belt of a startled onlooker, Sir Robert faced his vengeful opponent.

  “Cut me, varlet, and you’ll hang for it, I promise you!” Sir Robert threatened, circling the overturned table.

  Tarleton bared his teeth. “I have no intention of cutting you, Sir Robert. I mean to kill you!” Tarleton executed a series of lightning parries that were barely deflected by La Faye’s frantic use of the dagger.

  Widening his eyes with surprise at Tarleton’s ability with the sword, Sir Robert backed away from the flashing blade. Tarleton’s lips curled with contempt as he pressed his advantage. His savage attack ripped open one of Sir Robert’s expensive sleeves. Only the padded wings on La Faye’s shoulders protected him from a bloody injury.

  Finding himself outfought and outmaneuvered, Sir Robert looked frantically for a means of escape. Tarleton knew if that happened, there might never be another chance to face down the pompous lord. Lunging, the jester felt his point sink into Sir Robert’s thigh. The nobleman fell to the floor, screaming like a skewered pig, as he called for his minions to save him.

  “The watch! The watch!” One of the younger students, stationed near the door, gave warning above the din. The discordant rasping of the proctor’s whirling alarm rattles could be heard coming from the street.

  Suddenly mindful of their studies and other pressing engagements, many of the collegers bolted through the back door. Running upstairs, a few others climbed out the windows, seeking the safety of Oxford’s roofs.

  Seeing that his quarry still lived, Tarleton damned his lost opportunity. Bowing to prudence, the wily player sent Sir Robert’s sword skittering under stools and benches, far away from the scene of the fray.

  When the proctors found them a few moments later, Sir Robert was being supported by one of his men, who was trying to staunch the flow of blood from the graze in the fat lord’s leg. Tarleton coolly leaned against the counter, drinking deeply from an abandoned jug of beer. Though most of the students had vanished, Jonathan remained, lounging near the jester.

  His brow furrowed, Tarleton scanned the emptying room for Elizabeth.

  “Philip took the lady,” Jonathan murmured quietly. “She is safe.”

  Tarleton allowed himself a tight smile. Relieved she was out of danger, the player turned his full attention to the matter at hand.

  “I have been most foully attacked!” shrieked Sir Robert, pointing his dagger at Tarleton. “That pernicious knave has killed me!”

  The proctor glanced from the armed lord at his feet to the unarmed Tarleton at the counter.

  “I see no weapon about the player,” remarked the proctor slowly. “What was the cause of this brawl?”

  “I am Sir Robert La Faye!” the injured man screamed. “I was escorting my wife home, when this villain attacked me!”

  “What wife?” The proctor looked around the alehouse, littered with broken furniture and crockery. “Forsooth, sir, I see no lady here.”

  The reek of beer hung heavy about the room. The proctor glanced at Sir Robert, convinced that the fat lord had fallen victim to its spirits.

  “She was here! I swear to it!” Sir Robert’s little pig eyes glinted at Tarleton. “And that smiling rogue kidnapped her!”

  “Know you his meaning?” The proctor stared sharply at Tarleton.

  “The gentleman took a liking to my young apprentice, sir,” replied Tarleton with a shrug of his shoulders. “I admit Robin is fair of face, but I am not a panderer to any man’s perverted pleasures. I sent my prentice back to our lodgings.”

  “Liar!” Sir Robert’s face purpled with rage. “That smooth-talking whoreson has wounded me most grievously. Look you! I bleed!”

  “You will note I am unarmed, sir.” Tarleton smiled, though his eyes glittered like ice chips. “The floor is slippery with beer, and, as you can see, things did get out of hand. Perhaps the gentleman tripped upon his own dagger,” he suggested innocently.

  “Your name, jester?” The proctor did not like players in general, but the officer of the law decided that he liked Sir Robert even less.

  “I am Tarleton, a member of The Queen’s Men.” Fumbling in his pouch under his motley, he pulled out his letter of patent. “I also have the pleasure of Her Majesty’s particular favor. As a matter of fact, I am on my way to Hampton Court at her command.”

  Reading the paper by the lantern light, the proctor scrutinized the lord chamberlain’s seal. Tarleton’s credentials were impressive, while Sir Robert’s claim was only the angered ravings of a drunkard. The proctor decided against waking the justice of the peace at this ungodly hour.

  “I need not detain you, Sir Robert, as I perceive you are in sore need of a physician. Please present yourself at the town hall tomorrow morning at nine. The justice will give you his full attention then,” promised the proctor.

  “But that varlet tried to kill me!” sputtered Sir Robert.

  “I see no life-threatening wound, and I see no weapon in the player’s hand. I see no witnesses against him…” The proctor paused, while his gaze swept around the room.

  Sir Robert’s henchmen, seeing that the lady had slipped away, held their tongues.

  “Who drew his weapon first?” the proctor asked the assembly.

  “The gentleman.” Jonathan spoke up clearly. “And so say all of us!” The few remaining students nodded their assent.

  “And the lady?” asked the proctor.

  “We saw the player’s apprentice only,” said Jonathan, relishing the opportunity to split legalistic hairs.

  The proctor nodded again.

  Sir Robert struggled to his feet, his eyes blazing. “What about my wife?”

  The proctor groaned inwardly. Fie upon all drunken lords! And people wonder why the youth of Oxford run so wild.

  “As there is no lady present, I cannot attest to your wife, my lord. I suggest you tend to your wound, lest it fester. I promise you, my lord, you will be served full justice in the morning.”

  With a final glare at Tarleton, Sir Robert gave himself up to wailing over his injury. His henchmen quickly escorted him from the scene.

  Sighing, the proctor turned back to the player. “And you, jester, must be gone from Oxford by first hght. If Sir Robert decides to press charges once he is before the justice, I will be forced to seek you out. Do you understand my meaning, player?”

  Tarleton nodded. “By first light, I shall be but a memory, good sir.”

  The chief proctor merely grunted and left. Drawing a ragged breath of relief, Tarleton tossed a few pennies on the counter to pay for the beer he had quaffed. Then he strode out into the night, followed by a grinning Jonathan.

  Elizabeth floated up from a sickening haze of pain. When she opened her eyes, she discovered she was lying in a bed, the rough sheeting tucked tightly across her breasts and under her arms. Her body felt heavy as lead, and she burned with an incredible thirst.

  “Water…” she whispered weakly.

  Holding a cup in his hand, Philip leaned over her. “Try not to move, Lady Elizabeth,” he said gently. “Or you will start bleeding again. Just a sip, now.” Slipping his hand under her head, he held her carefully.

  “Dickon…” she murmured. Where was he? And where was she?

  Philip smiled. “I believe he had some unfinished business with Lord La Faye. He’ll be here directly, lady. ‘Tis you who is in danger. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

  “You… ?” Elizabeth felt strangely giddy. She had tr
ouble forming complete thoughts.

  “Did you forget I am in Oxford to study medicine?” Philip touched the strip of cloth bandaging that wound around around her shoulder and under her arm. “I am right glad you were unconscious,” he continued. “I had to cauterize the wound to stop the bleeding. Then I sewed you up with some fine silk thread—black, I’m afraid.” Philip grew more serious. “You will carry that scar for the rest of your life, Lady Elizabeth. For that I am sorry.”

  “Water, please…” Elizabeth’s tongue flicked across her lips.

  “Only sip a little. I shall give you a draft to help you sleep.” Pressing his hand against her forehead, Philip found it warm. A frown knotted his brow. As he had feared, she was already running a temperature.

  “I want to see Dickon,” his patient protested in a shallow voice.

  “In good time,” Philip soothed. Then he turned to the pale Smith, who lingered at the door. “Warm some wine and bring it directly. Also, get me some rose water in a basin and a piece of toweling. Hop to it, Smith!” The boy scampered out of sight. Philip grinned at Elizabeth. “Smith is a good servant, but a poor physician’s assistant. I fear he lost his dinner while I was tending you.”

  Realizing she was naked under the covers, Elizabeth tried to draw the sheet higher. She winced with the effort.

  “My clothes…” she mumbled.

  Philip nodded understandingly. “I had to cut you out of them, I fear.”

  A look of horror crossed her face.

  Philip pretended to ignore it as he busied himself with his bottles and powders. “I am a doctor, Lady. Well…almost. I have been at study here for the past six years, and before that, I learned much from the local midwife. I have seen men, women and children in every state of undress. I’ve delivered babies, on occasion. I’ve even doctored horses, cows, and dogs in my time. Once, I mended a rabbit’s torn ear. You are a just a patient to me.”