He dabbed some ointment on to a cloth. “This is camphor. ‘Twill promote healing the cut on your lip. I fear ‘twill sting badly.”
Looking into Philip’s gray eyes, Elizabeth knew she could trust him. She nodded. Gently he applied the strong-smelling medicine to her injured mouth. He understated the pain. It felt as if he had touched her lips with a live coal.
Philip stroked her forehead. Though the medical student considered himself the most peace-loving person in the world, he would have cheerfully cut out Sir Robert’s heart for the injuries done to the lady. Her white skin would be bruised and swollen for days.
Smith returned with the wine and rose water. Philip mixed some powder into the wine, then supported Elizabeth’s head as he urged her to drink.
“‘Twill ease your pain, and bring you blessed sleep,” he cajoled.
“I want to see Dickon,” Elizabeth whispered as she sipped the comforting brew. Its warmth immediately flowed through her.
“He will come soon, my lady, and when he does, he will want to see you fast asleep.” Philip handed the cup back to the awed bed maker.
After soaking a cloth in the basin of rose water, the student doctor wiped Elizabeth’s burning forehead with it. The sweet smell reminded her of the gardens at Esmond Manor. She felt herself slipping into a mindless drowsy state.
“Wake me… when Dickon comes…” she murmured.
“Aye, my lady,” Philip whispered.
Sunlight streamed through the streaked windows when Elizabeth woke again. Disoriented, she could not remember where she was. The reality of her injury returned with a sudden, blinding pain as she struggled to sit up.
Hearing her cry out, Tarleton rushed into the room. Brokenly murmuring incoherent endearments, he knelt beside the bed. He had not slept since returning from the Bulldog to find Elizabeth wounded and running a fever. Throughout the long hours of the night, Tarleton paced the adjacent sitting room, frantic with worry for Elizabeth and furious at both Sir Robert and himself for her condition. Would she ever forgive him for all the trouble he had brought upon her?
“Feeling better, sweetling?” he managed to croak as he stoftly stroked her brow. It was still very warm.
“Much.” She licked her cracked lips and tried to smile at him. “You are here.”
Tarleton winced when he heard how frail she sounded.
Blinking, Elizabeth tried to clear her head. The pain in her shoulder settled into a dull ache and her fingers felt stiff.
“Philip has gone to get you something from the kitchens.” Tarleton tried to sound cheerful. He slopped some water into a cup. “I’m afraid I make a terrible nursemaid. Philip said you would probably be thirsty. Here, let me help you,” he urged. He brought the cup to her lips. His hand trembled as he held her. Elizabeth seemed to weigh almost nothing.
Weakened from her exertion, Elizabeth sank against the pillow. Gingerly she touched her lips and bruised cheek.
Tarleton took her hand in his, caressing her fingers as he spoke. “Forgive me for saying so, chuck, but it looks as if you’ve been in a schoolyard brawl,” he bantered, praying for Philip’s swift return. “If you were a boy, you would be very proud of those marks on your face.”
“Do I look very ugly?” Elizabeth whispered.
Tarleton kissed her fingers. “Ugly? Nay, my sweet, you have the face of an angel—though I must admit, I’ve never seen an angel with such a black eye before. You are the envy of every young colleger here.” Tarleton smiled impishly, though his heart was full sore. Elizabeth looked as if she might fly up to heaven at any moment—black eye and all. How long can I keep up this jesting? This is the hardest performance of my career. Blast you, Robinson! Where are you?
Fortunately, Philip arrived at that moment, bearing a covered bowl.
“You took your sweet time, prentice physician!” Tarleton growled.
Instead of being offended, Philip smiled as he crossed to Elizabeth’s bedside. “You look less feverish this morning,” he told her, feeling her forehead. “How are you?”
“Weak,” she answered.
Drawing up a stool beside her, Philip held out the bowl of soup. Its aroma stirred even Elizabeth’s peckish appetite. Joining them in the cramped sickroom, Jonathan stood nearby, holding a cup of watered wine. Tarleton supported Elizabeth’s head as Philip endeavored to get some nourishment into her.
“‘Tis your doctor’s prescription that you eat all of this, my lady,” intoned Philip as he spooned the hot, savory soup into her. “I had to promise a great number of things to the undercook to give me this beef broth.”
“Surely not your virtue,” joked Jonathan halfheartedly.
“Nay, I gave that away long ago,” Philip remarked. “And watch your language, Jonathan. We are entertaining a lady here.”
“And what of yesterday?” Jonathan defended himself.
Philip flushed. “I plead ignorance,” he said, holding out another spoonful to Elizabeth.
During this exchange, Tarleton, the master of puns and quips, remained strangely silent. He could not trust himself to say anything; too many emotions rubbed his heart raw. Instead, he cradled Elizabeth’s golden head gently while he gazed at her as if she might disappear from his grasp at any moment. After taking each spoonful of broth, Elizabeth smiled weakly at Tarleton. Her luminous green eyes spoke volumes of her love.
Watching Tarleton and Elizabeth exchange their silent dialogue, Jonathan sighed. Exactly what was the jester to the lady, the student lawyer wondered enviously. In the Bulldog the night before, Tarleton fought like a madman— or perhaps a knight of old defending his lady. In fact, Jonathan concluded, Tarleton had acted exactly like Elizabeth’s lover.
After several more mouthfuls, Elizabeth waved away the broth. “Last night… what happened?”
“I fear I lost my temper with that swine,” Tarleton murmured gently. “Unfortunately, I could only give him a little nick, instead of a sound thrust to the heart—if the whoreson possesses a heart.”
Elizabeth clutched his hand. “Sir Robert is hurt? Oh, my love! ‘Tis a hanging offence to strike a nobleman!”
Looking at the marks on the face of his beloved put there by La Faye, Tarleton gritted his teeth. “Have no fear, sweet Elizabeth. I’ll not hang yet. If I ever do, ‘twill be for killing Sir Robert La Faye, not for scratching him.”
Elizabeth went very white.
“You jackass!” Philip swore under his breath at Tarleton. The young doctor’s fingers closed over Elizabeth’s pulse; her heartbeat was racing. “There is no need to go into all the details at the moment.”
“We must flee this place!” Elizabeth tried to rise. “You will be arrested!”
Tarleton eased her back against the pillow. “Fret not, my dove.”
“Nay, lady! ‘Tis dangerous for you to move now,” protested Philip, placing his hand on her forehead. He shot a worried look to Tarleton. Elizabeth felt much warmer.
“And no one must know you exist,” added Jonathan softly from his place near the doorway.
Taking the wine cup from his friend, Philip mixed in white powder.
“Why?” Elizabeth held Tarleton’s hand tighter, as if she could keep him from being dragged away to the gallows.
Ignoring Philip’s angry looks, Jonathan continued in a quiet tone. “Sir Robert’s men are combing Oxford for you even now. There is a huge reward for your whereabouts. Lord La Faye swore before the justice this morning that Tarleton had stolen his wife, and that he, Sir Robert, was in the act of reclaiming her when Tarleton attacked him.”
Elizabeth gasped at the accusation. She looked from one to the other of them in turn. By their grim expressions, she knew Jonathan spoke the truth. Tarleton tried to grin at her, but his usual imp’s smile came out lopsided. Philip silently offered her the drugged wine. She sipped it, not realizing it would make her sleep again.
“But if no wife can be found, then Sir Robert’s story holds no water,” Jonathan continued. “And there isn’t a man in Oxf
ord who will swear that any person, other than the jester’s apprentice, was at the Bulldog last night.”
Jonathan was pleased with himself. He had spent most of the night going from college to college making sure that his fellow students understood his legal logic. To a man, everyone vowed they would remain true to the lady’s secret, despite the lure of Sir Robert’s gold.
“And what about Dickon?” Elizabeth whispered, large tears forming in her deep green eyes as she glanced up at him.
Tarleton pressed her fingers to his lips once again, wishing he could suck her fever from them. “We are safe enough now, and when you are stronger, we shall be on our merry way, singing for pennies, my sweetest Robin, until we reach the Queen.”
“How… long…will…that…be?” Elizabeth’s eyelids grew heavy as Philip’s sleeping potion began to take effect.
“By and by, my love. By and by,” Tarleton whispered, watching her drift back into oblivion.
“Methinks I should give you a cup of my brew, as well, good player,” Philip remarked after the three of them withdrew to Jonathan’s sitting room, leaving the faithful Toby asleep at Elizabeth’s feet. “You look in sore need of rest yourself.”
“In good time, Philip.” Tarleton stared out the dirty window.
“The Lady Elizabeth was right to fear for you, Tarleton,” Jonathan observed after a prolonged silence. “You should have left at the crack of dawn as the proctor warned you. I heard the complaint Lord La Faye lodged against you. I think ‘twill be only a matter of time before ‘tis discovered you are still in Oxford. The proctor cannot be so lenient again, even if you are under the patronage of the lord chamberlain. Sir Robert has set out a hue and cry against you.” Jonathan burst into a surprising laughter. “Especially after he was ordered to pay for all the damages due the landlord of the Bulldog. ‘Twas a most expensive evening for him.”
“You could leave the lady with us,” Philip suggested carefully, not at all sure how Tarleton would react to this suggestion. “You could make all speed for London. Jonathan and I will care for her and will see that she arrives safely to the Queen when she is well.”
Turning from the window, Tarleton fixed both students with a hollow-eyed glare. “Would you abandon your heart to another to save your own neck?” he asked heatedly. “If you were me, would you leave such a lady? Would you?” he snapped at Jonathan. “Could you?” he questioned Philip. Philip gazed at the feeble fire burning in the grate. Tarleton sounded like a man who was on the brink of losing all reason. “Nay,” the student doctor at last admitted. “For such a lady, I would stay by her side come rack, or fire, or doomsday.”
Chapter Sixteen
The sun sank low in the western sky as the bells of Oxford’s many towers tolled six o’clock. Waking, Elizabeth found herself looking into the enchanted eyes of the young bed maker, Roger Smith. The boy had spent the past two and a half hours staring at the sleeping girl—and falling in love with her. When Elizabeth weakly returned his smile, his heart turned a cartwheel inside his rib cage.
“Don’t move, Lady! Master Philip will box my ears sore a-plenty, if you but move a muscle. And Master Tarleton would flay me alive!” Smith chattered, falling over the stool in his haste to search out the young doctor.
“Water, please,” Elizabeth whispered. “My mouth feels as if I have been eating wool.”
Grabbing the jug, Smith overfilled the cup. Stiffly he held it out to her. When he realized that he had to put his arm around her to help her drink, his mind reeled. Quaking a little, he slipped his hand under her head, and brought the cup carefully to her lips. She steadied his hand with hers. He nearly died with pleasure at her gentle touch on his skin. Trying not to stare at her bare shoulders, he accidently sloshed some water onto her neck. It ran down the hollow between her breasts, hidden under the sheeting. The journey of that rivulet mesmerized Smith.
“Thank you,” said Elizabeth, her voice a little stronger. Her brilliant smile flustered the poor boy even more.
“I’ll get Master Philip and try to wake Master Tarleton,” the lovesick Smith burbled, backing toward the door. “Master Philip gave your… ah… friend a powerful sleeping draft, so I may not be able to stir him yet. I will be back anon!” Then the boy bolted into the outer room.
Lying back against the pillow, Elizabeth gazed meditatively at a crack in the ceiling. Her head was clearer now. She remembered Jonathan had said something about the need for Tarleton to leave Oxford immediately. If Dickon was asleep nearby, it was obvious he had no intention of going without her. Fool! she thought fondly, you will bring yourself into ruin because of me—if I let you.
Very well! Elizabeth would insist they must quit Oxford without delay. Tarleton was more in danger than she was. His freedom and possibly his life hung in the balance. Closing her eyes, Elizabeth considered her tactics. Walsingham! The Queen’s chief minister would protect Dickon.
Entering the room quietly, Philip knelt by the bed. “It seems you’ve frightened the wits out of Smith,” he remarked. “I’ve never heard him deliver so disjointed a message. He said something about drowning you.”
Elizabeth grinned crookedly through her swollen lip. “He helped me to take some water.”
Philip nodded, wiser than Elizabeth. The student doctor diagnosed Smith to be suffering from an acute case of first love. Philip didn’t blame the lad one bit.
“I have sent the boy to beg some tender meat for you,” Philip told her. He felt her pulse for a moment, then put his hand to her cool brow. “Your heartbeat is stronger,” he observed with satisfaction.
“Tarleton? Is he… is he well?” Elizabeth searched Philip’s face. “Smith said you had to give him a potion.”
The budding doctor arched his eyebrow wryly. “Tarleton was worn-out with worry over you, my lady.” As he spoke, Philip carefully examined her wound under the bandage. “I grew tired of watching him pace a furrow in the floorboards, so I drugged his wine. He’s a stubborn man, so it took a lot to knock him out.” Pausing in his ministrations, Philip grinned. “He’s curled up by the fire in the other room with his arm thrown lovingly over Toby.”
Elizabeth giggled, though the effort hurt her bruised lip. “That must be a rare sight, Philip.”
“Aye,” he agreed. “But you will have to take my word on it. You are not to stir from this bed. By the way, do you need to use the chamber pot?” he asked in a more professional tone.
Elizabeth nodded. After Philip had handed it to her, he discreetly withdrew for a moment. Though Elizabeth had grown used to telling Tarleton when she needed to pause behind a bush, it was an entirely different matter in her present condition. Once her need had been taken care of, Philip continued his work, applying a salve to her lip and a poultice to her blackened eye.
Elizabeth took a deep breath. “Tarleton must leave Oxford.”
“I know that, my lady, and so does he.” Philip avoided her eyes. “Tarleton likes to play a dangerous game, my lady. Perhaps you can persuade him. Jonathan and I have tried, but he won’t listen to us.”
Elizabeth studied the young doctor. “Then we will both go in the morning,” she announced firmly.
Philip stopped mixing the poultice and stared at her, the muscles in his jaw working furiously. “Sweet lady! You don’t know what—”
“Philip,” Elizabeth interrupted him determinedly. “I do know. I have money… or did have, in the pocket of my breeches.”
Philip mutely picked up the small money bag from the meager pile of her belongings on the table.
Elizabeth nodded. “Aye. You will find enough to hire the fastest post-horses in Oxford. Do this for me, Philip. Please?”
Philip pressed his lips tightly together. The only man who could talk some sense into her was sound asleep with a dog. “If you ride a horse tomorrow, you will die, my lady,” he told her brusquely.
“If I don’t, Tarleton will be discovered, arrested, and perhaps executed under false testimony. That would kill me all the same,” she answered in
an unwavering tone.
“I’ll engage a coach,” Philip suggested desperately. “You could travel in some comfort, at least.”
“Post-horses, Philip.” Her voice brooked no argument. “Saddled and ready by morning’s first light.” Her eyes gleamed with an unearthly glow.
“Lady Elizabeth, I beg you…” he began.
Gripping the sheet tightly around her, Elizabeth got slowly out of the bed. Holding on to the side table, she steadied herself. “If you don’t hire them, Philip, I will this minute!”
She is moonstruck, Philip thought, as he watched her struggle to stay upright.
He ran his hands through his light brown hair. “If you insist on this, I will hire three horses, not two, my lady. I will not let you travel that road without me.”
They stared at each other for a moment, then her face relaxed. Elizabeth sank gratefully down on the bed again, smiling a little to herself. At least, her ruse had worked. She wasn’t sure how long she could have remained standing.
“Thank you, Philip,” she murmured quietly.
“I hope I am not signing your death warrant, my lady,” he replied grimly. “I will get you to Hampton Court, but you must promise me you will do exactly as I say.” He was surprised when she nodded meekly. “Rest. When Smith comes with your dinner, you are to eat every bite of it. I’ll go to the stables and see what I can find for us.”
Philip felt himself slipping under the spell of her huge green eyes. This is madness! he thought, gripping her money bag.
“Feed her!” he snapped at Smith, who entered the room bearing a full tray. Philip threw on his cape and stomped out the door, leaving the stunned boy with the smiling girl.
“What?” Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Tarleton wondered if he had heard Philip correctly. He looked first at the student, who grimly tied up a small bag of medicines and bandages, then at Elizabeth, who calmly sipped a cup of warmed wine. “Have you both taken leave of your wits? I forbid it!” He glared at Elizabeth again. He didn’t like the steely expression in her eyes.
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