“Don’t rail so, Dickon,” she purred sweetly, looking as demure as possible, considering she was lying naked in a bed with only a sheet tucked under her arms. “You have no right to forbid me. I am not your wife. Indeed, you are my hireling—or has that fact slipped through the cracks of your brain? I will ride to the Queen tomorrow morning. You may do what you please!” Leaning back against the pillow, she grinned triumphantly at him.
Tarleton turned on Philip. “God’s teeth! ‘Twill kill her! Tell her that, prentice healer!” he raged. “Elizabeth, you are too weak to travel. And certainly not at dawn tomorrow!”
Elizabeth clucked her tongue at him. “My, my, you do make a great deal of noise when you don’t get your own way, Dickon. I don’t believe I have seen this side of you before,” she added archly. “I intend to go to my loving godmother, and Philip will see that I get there in one piece.”
“Pray God that you do, doctor of physic,” hissed Tarleton, clenching his teeth in frustration. “Pray God, we both do. And someone find Mistress Hardhead a nightshirt! ‘Tis indecent!”
Thanks to Philip’s sleeping potion, Elizabeth enjoyed a dreamless night. In the cold morning’s dawn, she felt the best she had been since her injury. Young Smith willingly gave up the only spare set of clothing he owned for his newfound goddess. Elizabeth promised him she would send a new set when she got to court. Smith’s joy knew no bounds when she kissed him lightly on the cheek.
“That’s done it!” Jonathan tried to hide his apprehension under a layer of banter. “The little beggar will be completely worthless for a month.”
Standing on tiptoe, Elizabeth kissed the law student on the cheek, as well. Her eyes sparkled. “As I recall, Jonathan, you once said you would gladly suffer for a kind look from me. There is my kiss instead. Are you paid in full?”
For once, the lawyer-to-be found himself speechless.
In the college’s stable yard, Tarleton lifted Elizabeth gently onto the saddle of her white palfrey; their eyes locked—his pleading, hers encouraging. “Minx!” he growled under his breath as he adjusted her stirrups, though his eyes spoke in a different tone.
“Don’t sulk!” she softly admonished him before bending over and kissing him on the ear.
Behind them, Philip cleared his voice. “Remember, my lady, I am holding out for a glove, as well as a kiss.” He tried to sound lighthearted.
“Get us to Hampton Court, Philip, and I shall reward you as best I can!” Elizabeth chirped bravely. The fresh morning air was bracing. She prayed she could last out the day.
“If you don’t get her to the Queen, you can count your life span in minutes,” Tarleton rumbled at the lanky young doctor.
Elizabeth gathered her mount’s reins in her good hand. Philip had bound her other arm in a sling tight against her chest to take some strain off her injured shoulder. She settled herself into a comfortable position. Deep in her pocket, she felt her wooden comb, her scissors case and Tarleton’s brass bell. These were her only worldly possessions now, save for the few shillings left over from the rental of their three fine-looking mounts.
Tarleton glowered at his horse. He hated riding and this particular trip promised to be grim for a number of different reasons. Growling dire threats to the chestnut gelding, Tarleton mounted and tried to get comfortable in his saddle.
As Elizabeth walked her horse past his, she playfully wiggled her brows. Play the part she signaled to Tarleton.
In turn, he doffed his cap to her. “Lady Elizabeth, shall we ride into the jaws of hell?” he asked with studied politeness.
She dimpled. “I go only as far as Hampton Court myself,” Elizabeth answered innocently.
Tarleton snapped his fingers impatiently. “Come, Robin Redbreast! We burn daylight!” Angrily he kneed his horse into a walk.
Shaking his head at the two of them, Philip swung easily into his own saddle. With a curt nod of farewell to Jonathan, he followed the others into the quiet highroad. When the three of them crested the hill at Shotover, they paused, looking back upon the still-dreaming university town.
Elizabeth smiled at her worried companions. “Now let us ride with a purpose, good masters!”
Spurring their horses into an easy canter, they ate up the miles before them.
By midmorning, Elizabeth’s arm throbbed like a firebrand. Seeing her sway in the saddle, Tarleton called a halt. Helping her off the horse, he gently laid her under a beech tree while Philip tethered their mounts.
“Sweet Elizabeth! This madcap plan is foolhardy.” Tarleton smoothed stray golden strands of her short hair away from her face. Her fair skin seemed almost translucent. Sweet Jesu! Why was she doing this to herself? Why was she doing it to him? Her courage was tearing his heart in twain.
Taking out his bag, Philip mixed a concoction of herbs and wine, which he offered Elizabeth.
She shook her head. “No, Philip, I can’t sleep now.”
“‘Twill ease some of the pain,” he told her tightly.
Peering down the open neck of her shirt, he checked the bandage. There was some seepage of blood, though most of his sutures looked as if they were holding. Taking a sweet-smelling herb from his bag, he bound the crushed leaves over the wound with a fresh piece of linen.
“A wisewoman once told me this helps to stop the bleeding. It usually works.” He offered, her the water bag. “ ‘Tis safe to drink, I promise you.”
Smiling her thanks, Elizabeth lay back and closed her eyes for a moment, hoping Philip’s herbs would soon take effect. She couldn’t let either man know how weak she felt. They would whisk her straight back to Oxford, and she would have accomplished nothing for her suffering.
Tarleton wandered over to the horses. “Philip, my harness strap needs attending, and I am not skilled in such matters.”
“I’m a mender of bodies, not leather, Master Tarleton,” Philip grumbled as he joined him. “What is the matter?”
“Nothing with the harness, Philip,” whispered Tarleton, “but there is a world of wrong with my lady.”
“What would you have me do?” Philip looked over his shoulder at the dozing Elizabeth. “Knock her over the head?”
“That thought had crossed my mind,” Tarleton responded grimly. “But I dare not. How long can she last at this rate?”
Philip shook his head. “In sooth, I cannot say. To see her you would think a middling wind would blow her away, yet she has the heart of a lioness—and a love surpassing all my experience,” he added, looking enviously at the older man.
“Has the fever returned?” Tarleton watched a stray breeze ruffling Elizabeth’s downy fine hair as she dozed.
“Not yet, but “tis not far away,” Philip answered quietly.
“The moment she falls into a faint, this fool’s quest is done.” Tarleton clenched and unclenched his fists in frustration. “We will take her to the nearest inn, manor house, village or whatever we can find. Are we agreed?”
“Aye!” Philip was relieved that Tarleton made the decision.
“Couldn’t you give her something that will hasten this plan?”
“Nay, Tarleton. She made me swear a solemn oath not to drug her. Besides, I think by now she recognizes my poppy elixir when she tastes it, even in wine.”
Tarleton swore softly. “So be it then. Let us continue while the sky holds back the rain, and pray, prentice doctor. Pray!”
“I have, Tarleton. I have said more prayers this morning than in the past twelvemonth together!”
They stopped at noon, and again an hour later. Philip grew more and more agitated as he noted heavier bleeding through the bandages and the return of her fever. To make matters even worse, the sky turned darker and a chill wind blew out of the northwest.
“How far are we now?” Elizabeth asked Tarleton, her voice broken by pain and fatigue.
“We shall be turning toward Slough soon,” he answered stiffly, trying to keep his anguish out of his voice. “There I will find us a decent inn for the night.”
“No!” Elizabeth clutched at him, her leaf green eyes bright with fever. “We’ll go on! Every hour brings us closer to safety.” She knew they could not stop, or she would never be able to go on again.
Tarleton ground his teeth. “Philip! Reason with the wench!” he snarled.
The jester had never felt more out of control of his life as he did now. He was the one who outwitted enemies to the crown. He was the one who had a thousand tricks up his sleeve for every occasion. His was the voice that could beguile a maiden out of her petticoats or quell a brawl in an alehouse. Yet in the face of one fevered slip of a girl, he was helpless.
“Lady Elizabeth…” Philip protested, casting a worried glance at the player. Tarleton looked as haggard as she. At this alarming rate, Philip could find himself on a highway with two patients on his young hands.
Without waiting to hear the rest of Philip’s admonitions, Elizabeth rose unsteadily to her feet, and walked over to her palfrey. Pulling herself painfully into the saddle, she glared defiantly at her two shocked companions.
“Then I shall go on alone, masters. You needn’t assume any more responsibility for me. Philip, you are free to return to Oxford. Dickon—you can go to the devil!” Putting a strip of cloth between her teeth, she bit down hard upon it, then she wheeled her horse southward.
Dumbfounded, the two men stared with disbelief at each other, then they hastily gathered up their things, mounting their surprised horses with all speed. When Tarleton drew abreast of Elizabeth, he saw her tears rolling down her cheeks, though she stared straight ahead. The cloth was still clamped tightly in her teeth. The image of another time flashed unbidden into Tarleton’s memory. She had been tired and crying in the loft of the Blue Boar when Tarleton first handed her the pack strap while he removed her splinter. How much had changed since then—for both of them!
“You are mad!” Tarleton shouted at her. Elizabeth acted as if she were not even aware of his presence. “Damn you, Elizabeth! And damn me too for following you! All right! You win this hand! But I warn you, the game isn’t over yet! We’ll go down the primrose path to perdition together!” She smiled at him through her tears.
The rains began in midafternoon, as the storm overtook them. Elizabeth refused to seek shelter despite the shouting from both her escorts. The rain felt cool to her fevered brow, and she willingly let herself get drenched.
Swearing to himself, Philip muttered “chill and lung fever.” Tarleton fingered the hilt of his dagger, seriously rethinking his threat to knock her out, as he gamely kept pace with her. All the while, he prayed for a miracle.
Are you there, Lord? How long must this act play before you ring the curtain down? “Tis the worst scene of my life. Must my lady suffer longer in this farce? Let me take the catcalls and gibes of the groundlings. Jesu, what prompt book are you using?
As if in answer to his unorthodox prayer, Elizabeth suddenly slumped in the saddle. Riding by her side, Tarleton caught her, pulling his horse to a stop. Elizabeth’s palfrey, feeling no weight on its back, halted several yards ahead. Elizabeth had thankfully fainted. Gently lifting her down, Tarleton laid her on a wet grassy bank under the dubious shelter of a thick hedgerow, while Philip retrieved her horse. The rain settled into a fine mist.
Looking up and down the deserted highway, Tarleton swore colorfully. All day long, they had passed many travelers. Now, when they could have used some help, there was no one to be seen in either direction. The lowering weather and the coming of nightfall had hurried most people off the roads.
Opening his smelling salts, Philip waved them under Elizabeth’s nose. Slowly she revived. Philip poured her some of his drugged wine.
“How far?” she whispered, taking the cup.
“Soon,” Tarleton lied. He exchanged a meaningful look with Philip, who quickly nodded assent. They would stop at the next likely place.
“Where are we?” Elizabeth murmured groggily.
“Under a hedge,” the jester answered glibly.
“Let’s go on. “ Her head lolled against Tarleton’s arm.
“Do you know where we are in truth?” Philip whispered to him. Now that the murky twilight was upon them, Philip was unsure of his bearings, and more than a little afraid. He had no wish to encounter strangers after dark, especially on such a moonless night as this.
“Aye.” Tarleton cradled Elizabeth in his arms. “Near Windsor. The White Hart is there, I know the landlord well. It should only be a few more miles down the road.”
“Thank God!” Philip breathed with relief.
“Hold your thanks, my young friend. We are not there yet.”
Drifting in and out of consciousness, Elizabeth no longer felt any pain. She heard Tarleton and Philip speaking, but their words were garbled in her ear. She made no sound, when Philip gently lifted her up to Tarleton as he held his horse steady. Gratefully she lay back against his chest, cushioned by the warmth of his body and his steadily beating heart.
“Sweet Dickon,” she murmured.
Tarleton winced at her blessing. “Close your eyes, my only love, and I will take you home,” he whispered. He draped Elizabeth’s cloak over his shoulders, drawing its folds around her, so that she was sheltered warmly within. Then, humming “The Greenwood Tree” to lull her, he urged his horse into a gentle walk. Philip followed with Elizabeth’s horse.
Just as darkness closed in about them, they were accosted by a party of armed horsemen. Philip moved closer to Tarleton’s flank side. Quietly drawing his dagger with one hand, Tarleton held the half-awake Elizabeth tighter against him.
“Stop in the name of the Queen!” one of the horsemen cried as they thundering down upon them.
Philip looked to Tarleton, who nodded assent. Both men reined in their horses and waited, though neither relaxed despite hearing the Queen’s name invoked.
The horsemen, two of them bearing sputtering torches, surrounded the jester’s party. The tallest, wearing a bright breastplate with a soggy white plume in his polished helmet, leaned forward.
“Who goes there?” the man demanded. “State your name and business!”
“Philip Robinson, a student of Christ Church, so please you, sir,” Philip croaked.
“You are far from Oxford this night,” the man mused, his carefully groomed mustaches visible in the light. “Who is with you?”
Recognizing the leader, Tarleton relaxed. “I was taking him for a bit of skylarking, but alas, the sky turned black!”
“By the mass! Tarleton, you blackguard!” The tall stranger laughed loudly, the sound echoing in the darkness. “The Queen sends her regards and desires your feet upon her hearth immediately. I trust you have not managed to lose your apprentice, Master Jester, or you will have the devil to pay!”
Tarleton grew serious. “Nay, Raleigh. She is here, close to my heart.” Tarleton parted the folds of the sodden cape. Elizabeth’s wan face shone palely in the sputtering light of the outriders’ torches. “I have been praying for help. It seems the Lord sent you.”
Sir Walter Raleigh snorted. “The Queen sent me. The abbess of St. Aloysius sent me. The Lord had nothing to do with it. We are not on speaking terms these days,” he answered lightly. Leaning over his saddle, he peered closely at Elizabeth. “God’s nightgown, man! What ails her?”
“A sword wound, which my young friend here is tending with great skill. Though I did not do it, I am to blame,” Tarleton admitted, gripping Elizabeth fiercely under the cloak.
Raleigh whistled through his teeth. “You’d best make a good speech with the Almighty, you fool. The Queen was livid when she received a report that you dressed the lady as a boy and were taking her unchaperoned through the countryside. I tremble to think what she will say to you now.”
“Best leave that to later, Raleigh. Lady Elizabeth burns with a fever,” replied Tarleton quietly.
“Hell’s bells, man! Ride on! We will speak more of this in good time—that is, if you still have a tongue in your head and your head on your shoulders!”
Wheeling his stallion about, Sir Walter set a quick pace back down the road.
“Tis too fast for the lady, Tarleton,” Philip protested as they cantered behind the lead outriders. “How is she faring?”
“She’s fainted dead away, and that’s the best news of this shag-eared journey,” Tarleton answered grimly. The worst news, he knew, was waiting for him with right royal ire at Hampton Court.
Chapter Seventeen
The reddish silhouette of the palace at Hampton Court loomed in the predawn. For every mile Tarleton rode that wet, grim night, cradling the unconscious Elizabeth close to him, he cursed himself a thousand times for his selfishness, his cockiness and, most of all, for his stubbornness. Why didn’t he let Mother Catherine take Elizabeth when he had the chance? Instead of arriving half-dead on a cold, gray morn, Elizabeth would be cozily asleep now in a soft bed. And Tarleton would be back in the kitchen where he belonged. At least, the kitchens of Hampton Court were far preferable to the place he expected would be his new, temporary home—the Tower of London.
I regret nothing, and I shall take the memory of our love with me to the grave—and beyond, he promised himself, as they rode through the Clock Tower gate and into the cobbled courtyard of Hampton Court.
Many torches burned away the gloom, except in Tarleton’s heart. Having heard of the lady’s arrival from one of the soldiers sent ahead, people thronged the doorways. Eager hands reached up to Tarleton, ready to bear Elizabeth away from him.
“Nay,” he growled hoarsely. “I promised my lady to deliver her to Hampton Court, and, by God, I will see her to her door!”
Carefully cradling Elizabeth, Tarleton swung one leg over his winded horse and slid nimbly to the ground. Following Raleigh’s lead, Tarleton, with an aching heart, carried his beloved inside the great palace. The hovering servants, guards and courtiers parted to let the silent procession pass through. Each step Tarleton took down the polished corridors felt like a lead weight clamped around his ankle.
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