Читать книгу Fool's Paradise - Tori Phillips - Страница 10

Elizabeth dreamed she was being shaken, as if a large dog held her in its mouth, whipping her back and forth like a rag doll. Dully opening her eyes, she was greeted by Tarleton’s elfish grin. The corners of his brown eyes turned upward in the ghostly light of the new risen moon. In his hand, he held a pair of shoes. They were cracked, well-worn at the heels, and smelled strongly of their former owner.

Instantly Elizabeth was wide-awake. “Where did you get them?” she breathed excitedly.

“The tap boy. He’s a lad about your size, and he was willing to part with them for a small financial consideration.” Sitting back on his heels, Tarleton looked extremely pleased with himself. “I am sorry there was no time to get them embroidered with gold thread, but will they do? Are you well pleased?”

“Oh, aye! Very!” She dimpled with satisfaction.

“And to add to the merriment of the occasion…” Tarleton delved into his pack. “I have a fine pair of knitted stockings.”

“Stockings! Why didn’t you tell me before? Why do you make me walk barefoot all day?” Elizabeth’s injured voice rose with each word.

“Hush!” he reminded her. “Without shoes you would have walked the stockings into shreds. Now you have both.”

“Aye, they are wonderful!” She ran her fingers across them lovingly as if they were a pair of soft satin slippers.

“Your pardon, but didn’t I hear you say thank you just now? I must have wax in mine own ears. I swore you mumbled something like that.” Tarleton made a great show of banging the side of his head as if to clear it.

Elizabeth giggled, even though she realized she was being chided by one who was her social inferior. What did that matter now that she had shoes and stockings?

“Thank you, Tarleton. You do remind me of my manners. I must have left them back by the river.” She laughed again happily. Unrolling the stockings, she began to pull them on.

“Hold! Those are my clean stockings. Wash your feet first.”

“Wash? Where?”

“Here.” Tarleton pointed to a nearby wooden bucket brimming with fresh water. “Give me your foot,” he commanded in an odd but gentle voice. Obediently Elizabeth placed one in his hand. Tenderly dipping it into the water, he gently kneaded her bruises and blisters.

Sighing with pleasure, Elizabeth lay back in the straw. A small smile stole across her lips. The water dripped deliciously between her toes. The jester’s knowing fingers massaged the soft pads on the balls of her feet, then stroked her ankle. Were it possible for Elizabeth to purr like a sleek cat, she would have.

Patting the one foot dry with a piece of huck toweling from his shaving kit, Tarleton took the other one, again working his gentle magic. He marveled how tiny her foot was, so like the rest of her. A small, nagging voice in his mind reminded him that what he was doing was wrong. He knew how easy it would be to seduce such a trusting young lady. He should have let Elizabeth wash her own feet, but he excused himself as being a weak-willed mortal in the presence of an angel. A most provocative angel who lay so seductively in the hay, her eyes closed and her full lips parted so enticingly. The barest hint of her white teeth shone; the tip of her moist pink tongue caught between them. Holding her foot, Tarleton’s hands trembled as a hot surge of desire rippled through him. Roughly he dried her toes.

“Methinks you are ready for civilized company now,” he muttered raggedly. “Put your shoes and socks on, prentice, and don’t dawdle. There’s work to be done.”

Turning away from her, he pulled his bright-colored jacket from the pack. The bells on its points tinkled softly when he shook out the folds.

Elizabeth’s eyes snapped open at the sudden change of his tone. She was totally bewildered by his behavior—and her own. She found his touch both disturbing and exciting. Tarleton must think I am a wanton to allow him to be so familiar with my person, she chided herself as she pulled on the thick stockings.

As she wiggled her toes, her mood changed to joy. Never again would she complain of the style or color of her slippers.

Dressed in his red and green motley, Tarleton beckoned to her. “Follow me, and watch that ladder on the way down. As much as it gave me pleasure to tend to your last splinter, I doubt you wish for an encore.”

Elizabeth sighed at the remembrance of his warm lips. An encore might not be so bad.

At the top of the ladder, Tarleton whispered into her ear, his warm breath tickling her cheek.

“Be warned. Play your part well. You are a dull-witted prentice boy. Take no offence at what I say to you when we are in the company of others. And if I should clap my hands together while rebuking you, cry out as if you have been slapped. ‘Tis expected for masters to treat their lads in such fashion.” He swung himself down the ladder first. Elizabeth followed him gingerly.

“God’s teeth, boy!” he bellowed at her from below. “The next time, I will throw you down the ladder headfirst. You would get to the bottom a good deal faster!”

Elizabeth thought she heard a snicker from somewhere in the darkness of the stable, and surmised it to be the eavesdropping ostler. “Aye, good master,” she answered, lowering her voice. “Pray be patient with me.”

“Angels have patience, but you, I fear, are a long way from heaven!”

Grabbing her arm roughly, Tarleton pulled her after him across the yard. Though his voice was harsh, Elizabeth saw his grin flash in the moonlight.

He pushed her against the pump. “Water, churl! Ply the pump, and with a will!” Slapping one hand against the other, he whispered, “Cry out!”

Elizabeth responded with a weak, but passable cry of pain.

He grinned. “Good! Not a star performance, but ‘twill suffice. Now, pump. Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a pump before.”

“Of course I have,” she whispered back, grasping the worn handle firmly. “I’ve just never done it myself.” As she pulled it up and down, Elizabeth dreamed of pitchers of warm, sweet rose water that Charlotte used to bring to her room. How she would love a bath right now! A hot, lavender-scented bath before a cheerful fire! And with someone to scrub her back—someone with warm, gentle hands

like…. Glancing guiltily at Tarleton, she banished her

wanton thoughts.

Bending down under the gush of glittering water, Tarleton doused his head, shaking the drops out of his hair with a contented sigh.

“Your hair looks like a bird’s nest, boy!” he observed, his deep voice echoing off the grimy plaster walls of the inn yard. After grabbing Elizabeth by the neck, he shoved her head under the tap just as he had done himself. Icy water streamed into her eyes and trickled down her shirt collar.

“Now, shake your head,” he whispered, while she was still sputtering her surprise. “Let’s smooth you up a bit.” Elizabeth’s tormentor smiled into her clean face. He lightly ran his fingers through the shorn golden stubble. There was a faint glint of humor in his eyes as he regarded his handiwork. “‘Tis plain as the nose on your sweet face that I’m no lady’s maid.”

Swallowing hard, Elizabeth prayed her features did not betray her racing heart. “I wish I had my comb and brushes,” she mumbled.

“Fine ladies have combs, but not guttersnipes and prentice boys,” Tarleton replied in a strange husky voice.

Tarleton donned his coxcomb hat and tied the strings firmly under his chin. It was the cap that changed his appearance, Elizabeth realized. With his curly brown hair concealed, Tarleton the jester looked every inch a rogue and goblin, especially when he grinned so wickedly and wiggled his dark eyebrows. No wonder she failed to recognize him on their unusual meeting!

“Ready, boy?”

Looking with apprehension at the back door of the inn, Elizabeth shivered then nodded. Loud, boisterous male voices came from inside. Tarleton took both her hands in his strong, reassuring ones.

“Frightened?” he asked her gently.

She nodded again.

“Good,” he continued lightly. “‘Tis healthy to be frightened just before a performance. Don’t worry, chuck. ‘Tis a little like losing your virginity—the first time you’re scared to death and don’t enjoy it, but it gets better each time after that.”

Elizabeth gasped at his frankness, but he allowed her nc time to respond. Before she knew what was happening, Tarleton pulled her through the door into the humid, smoky taproom.

“Room! Pray, masters all! Give me room to rhyme! We’ve come to show activity upon this pleasant time. Activity of youth…” Tarleton whirled and pranced, pointing to the quaking Elizabeth. “And activity of age…” He bowed deeply to the stinking assembly. “And such activity as ne’er been seen on this stage! I am Tarleton, jester to Her Most Gracious Majesty, and to her loving subjects!”

“Aye, Tarleton! Give us a jest!” cried a gravelly voice from the back of the dim room. “Tell the one about the pig, the sheep and the farmer’s daughter!”

Without pausing a moment, Tarleton grinned devilishly, then launched into the most ribald story Elizabeth had ever heard. She kept well back in the shadows and reminded herself that she was a boy, who should not be blushing. Tarleton’s crude story was greeted by a loud round of approving cheers and whistles. Immediately he told another tale, which was even more bawdy than the first.

What manner of man was this jester? Elizabeth wondered as she listened with bewilderment. When they were alone, Tarleton was polite and well-spoken with Elizabeth. Now he was someone else entirely—someone she didn’t know at all.

Next in the repertoire was a tavern song concerning the life of a lustful boy, and how he hung on the gallows for it. Afterward Tarleton executed a short jig, pulling a giggling serving wench into his arms, much to the additional loud cheers of the patrons. Spinning around suddenly, Tarleton grabbed Elizabeth by the wrist, pulling her into the center of the room. She could feel her heart hammering against her breast.

“Good masters, your patience is my prayer. Gently to hear and kindly to judge this player! ‘Tis my new prentice, Robin. Give us a song, lad, about the wench with the rolling eye!” With that introduction, he gripped her around the waist, and plopped her on top of the nearest table.

Girding herself with resolve, Elizabeth wet her lips and began. “She had a dark and rolling eye/And her hair hung down in ring-a-lets.”

Fixing her gaze on a spot just above the smoking fireplace, Elizabeth forced herself to forget the velvet-gowned heiress of that morning. Now Lady Elizabeth Hayward of Esmond Manor was a ragged jester’s apprentice. What would she be by the journey’s end?

At the conclusion of the last verse, the patrons of the Blue Boar clapped and banged their leather jack mugs heartily.

“Sing it again, sweet Robin!”

Elizabeth could scarcely believe her ears. Some loutish churl on the side by the counter was ordering her to entertain him again—and he was calling her “sweet” in the bargain! She glanced over at Tarleton, but he acted as bad as the rest, grinning and clapping at her.

“Sing again, Robin Redbreast!” her erstwhile protector commanded. He grinned impishly, challenging her to go through with it.

Elizabeth ground her teeth. All right, you shag-eared jester! I’ll show you just how good I can be for this ragtag mob! Taking a deep breath, Elizabeth threw the bawdy lyrics back into their pockmarked faces.

Her second rendition was received even better than the first. At the end of the rousing last chorus, Tarleton swept her off the table. Then he pushed her head down, forcing her to bow to the unwashed rabble while he bantered to them, something about “Robin is a little slow and hasn’t learned his manners yet!”

Despite the sordid surroundings, the rough company and the type of song she had just performed, Elizabeth surprised herself by grinning as she accepted the lusty applause for her debut. The rowdy noise was an intoxicating wine to Elizabeth.

“What’s the news, Tarleton?” an old woman’s shrill voice asked.

While Tarleton recounted the comings and goings of the gentry in a witty and scandalous manner, Elizabeth retreated again to her shadowed spot in the corner, where she observed the scene more closely. She saw Tarleton’s audience hang on his every word, especially his colorful description of a particularly gruesome execution, which had taken place in Coventry a month before. Elizabeth’s stomach lurched at the gory details, and she was glad she had nothing in it to lose.

“And now, say I, let us drink a toast to my mistress!” Tarleton snatched a mug of ale out of the paw of the nearest man and held it aloft. “Here’s a health unto Her Majesty, and confusion to her enemies!”

“And so say all of us!” the innkeeper quickly rejoined, looking anxiously around the room, in case there might be a Queen’s man among the company.

“She’s Great Harry’s true daughter, fiery hair and all!” croaked an old man from the inglenook. “And so I say, here’s to good Queen Bess!” There was a general cheer, and a great deal of slurping as the loyal citizens drank deeply to show their affection for their ruler.

Looking pleased with himself, Tarleton pulled Elizabeth out of her corner. “The evening grows apace, good friends, so my prentice has a sweet song to sing ye to your rest.” He lifted her back onto the tabletop, and whispered, “The Greenwood Tree,” to her.

Closing her eyes to blot out the uncouth surroundings, Elizabeth concentrated on her song of love and of warm summer days. The crowd in the taproom grew surprisingly hushed as her clear voice rose above them.

Tarleton felt his throat tighten as he listened. In his mind’s eye, he saw Elizabeth sitting sweetly under a thick, greenleafed tree, her billowing satin skirts spread out on a carpet of tiny white-faced daisies, and her golden hair, long once again, spilling down over her tight bodice. He saw himself with his head pillowed in her soft lap; his eyes closed as he listened to her sing this very song, just for him. He clenched his jaw. You are even a greater fool than you profess to be!

Loud cheering and applause greeted Elizabeth’s last note. This time, she hopped lightly off the table and executed her own graceful bow. Then she turned to Tarleton with a smile that was half defiant and half pleased. Tarleton rewarded her with a wide grin.

“Our play is done and that’s all one!” Tarleton bowed elaborately to the audience as if they were the finest lords and ladies in the land. A smattering of silver coins rained down on him.

“Look lively, Robin!” Tarleton stooped to retrieve them. “‘Tis your fortune at your feet!”

Obediently Elizabeth dropped to her knees and began gathering up the money. The floorboards were sticky to the touch; dirt and dried food filled the cracks between the planks. Elizabeth wrinkled her nose. Feeling light-headed, she passed her hand across her brow. Tarleton, noting her pallor, was at her side, pulling her to her feet.

“Landlord! Food! Food for the inner man…and my pale-faced boy!” he called, hauling Elizabeth through the crowd to a small wooden booth in the back corner.

Elizabeth sank down with relief against the rough planking of the seat.

“There now, lad! What say you?” Doffing his cap and rumpling his damp hair, Tarleton slid onto the bench opposite her. In the guttering candlelight, he looked like the devil’s own helper with a dark curl falling casually across his forehead and his white teeth gleaming at her.

Now that their performance was over, Elizabeth suddenly felt limp. She was hungry and bone tired.

“How, now, chuck?” Tarleton reached across the pitted table and lifted her chin so she was forced to look into his dancing dark eyes. His thumb brushed against her lower lip, sending a spark shooting through her veins. “You were a success! Look you!” He spilled out the money on the table. “‘Tis a fair take, I warrant you. Much better than I expected. “Twas your sweet voice that pleased them!”

A few halfpennies glinted among the farthings. Tarleton whistled softly when he came upon a groat. Elizabeth could only blink at him, then at the small pile of tarnished silver. She touched her shirt where the small money bag lay nestled between her breasts. As if he could read her mind, Tarleton leaned across the table.

“Look happy at your good fortune, Robin,” he whispered. “‘Tis a fine night’s work for such players as you and I. This money will buy several meals for both of us.”

Before Elizabeth could remind him that money was not a problem, the serving wench arrived with a tray of steaming bowls.

“Are you truly the famous Tarleton we have heard so many travelers praise?” she asked coyly, gazing at him with an open hunger.

Tarleton returned her smile. “Aye, on my honor, sweetheart. Am I not the Queen’s own Tarleton, my lad?”

Elizabeth stared first at him, then at the girl. “Aye, so my master has often told me,” she muttered gruffly, playing her new role. She did not like the way the serving girl was eyeing Tarleton.

“And are you not the luckiest boy in the realm to be apprenticed to the great Tarleton?” He smiled a challenge at Elizabeth, and wiggled his brows.

“Aye,” Elizabeth responded in a stronger voice. Two could play this scene. “My master has told me that often enough, as well. Indeed, he drums it into my head hourly.”

The wench and the jester laughed at her retort. Ignoring them both, Elizabeth regarded the watery soup placed before her. The black bread that accompanied it was hard as wood. Her empty stomach grumbled in protest.

“Be off with ye now,” Tarleton told the wench, who had made no move to depart. “Let us dine in peace.”

“Later, perhaps?” The maid leaned toward him so that her heavy breasts peeped boldly from the top of her smock.

“Perchance.” He smiled, and followed up his half promise with a sound smack on her backside. She merely laughed and ambled away, casting several long looks at him over her shoulder.

Elizabeth pretended not to notice. To her annoyance, she found herself starting to blush.

“Eat up, my boy!” Tarleton turned his full attention to his trencher.

“How? This is impossible!” whispered Elizabeth fiercely.

“Not used to humble fare, I see,” he whispered back, but his eyes were gentle. “Sop the bread into the broth. Twill soften it up even for your dainty teeth. Zounds,” he swore, after tasting the dish. “She said it was chicken soup, but methinks the chicken did not pause too long in the pot.”

Elizabeth’s nose wrinkled with distaste.

“Eat it all, prentice,” he cautioned her quietly. “And give thanks to God for it. There’s many in the land tonight who would sell their mother’s virtue for such a meal as this.”

Elizabeth looked at him to see if this was yet another jest, but she could tell by the sudden soberness in his eyes that he had spoken the truth. She chewed the stale bread thoughtfully, and promised herself never to take finely milled manchet for granted again.

The wench returned with mugs of ale and a wedge of hard cheese.

“Surely there is something else I can do for so famous a player as yourself, sweet Tarleton?” she purred, arranging herself on his lap.

Elizabeth’s eyes widened at her boldness, though Tarleton did not look the least annoyed. In fact, he seemed to enjoy the maid’s attention.

“Well, now that you mention it, fair mistress, I have in mind a thing or two,” Tarleton bantered, playing with the loose strings of the girl’s smock.

“Aye, I have a thing or two that perhaps will stir your mind—and other, more manly parts, as well.” She giggled, tugging her smock down even lower. “Do ye think of these things?” she cooed, pulling his head toward her ample charms.

Watching her, Elizabeth was fascinated and horrified at the same time. The more she saw of the brazen wench, the less Elizabeth liked her. The opposite seemed to be true of Tarleton.

“They are a right fine pair, I warrant you, sweetheart,” Tarleton beamed, kissing first one fleshy mound, then the other. The girl giggled and arched her back. Now both her breasts were fully exposed, their dark nipples engorged and erect.

Tarleton slipped his arm around the girl’s back, stroking and teasing her breasts with the other hand. The wench’s low animal moans of pleasure sent icy shivers through Elizabeth. An angry feeling of possessiveness welled up inside her. Elizabeth longed to claw the girl out of Tarleton’s arms.

“Surely there is some service I can do for you, sweet jester? Some small thing I can do to while away the night?” the girl murmured, kissing his ear. Over the wench’s shoulder, Tarleton winked at Elizabeth.

The knave! Was Elizabeth supposed to enjoy watching this? She started to rise, but, in a flash, Tarleton’s hard-muscled calves wrapped around her ankle, pinning her down. He arched his brow at his captive.

“I fear we are embarrassing my poor young prentice.” He fondled the wench’s breasts; all the time he held Elizabeth in his smoldering gaze. “The lad is young, and more than a little dull in his wits. This morning I had to free his head from a thornbush. As you can see, I had to cut away a good deal of his hair, and, alas, I am no barber.”

Tarleton smiled winsomely at the panting girl. The wench glanced over at Elizabeth and giggled.

“So I see, sweet Tarleton. But I am sure you have other skills far better than the cutting of hair. In fact, I do believe I can feel one of those skills right now between your legs.”

“Aye, mistress mine, but I perceive by the length of your sweet fingers—” here, he began to kiss and nibble at each finger in turn “—that you have a skill or two yourself. If you could render my prentice more presentable, you may find me—most rewarding. A snip or two here and there is all that’s needed.”

Elizabeth’s own fingers curled tightly around her mug of ale and she considered throwing it at the churl. Gritting her teeth, she tried to remind herself that Tarleton’s social life was none of her business.

Leaving off nibbling Tarleton’s ear, the maid regarded Elizabeth professionally. Elizabeth felt herself grow warmer under the coarse wench’s scrutiny.

“Aye, I can trim the boy’s hair. And then…?” The maid traced the outline of Tarleton’s smiling lips with a ragged, dirty fingernail.

Watching her caress Tarleton so familiarly made Elizabeth’s skin crawl.

“Then you will find me… most grateful.” Tarleton covered her mouth with his, kissing her loudly and deeply.

Baffled and angry, Elizabeth stared down at the crumbs on her platter and heartily wished both the wench and the smiling jester to hell.

Sighing contentedly, the girl adjusted her smock, then ambled away.

Elizabeth glowered at Tarleton, her green eyes blazing in fury. “If you think, for one minute, that I am going to let that…that horrid person touch me, you are moonstruck!” she hissed.

Tarleton chuckled, then lowered his voice. “You need a haircut, and she can do a proper piece of work on it. ‘Tis part of her job to barber the inn’s patrons. How I pay her is my business, just as it is now my business to see you safely to court!”

“And do you enjoy making a spectacle of yourself with that…?”

He regarded her evenly. “The word you are looking for is stew, or doxy. Slattern, if you prefer that.”

Elizabeth’s eyes shot green fire at him. “Why are you doing this to me?” she whispered fiercely.

“Because I must, for your sake, as well as mine. Look like a young lusty lad—and start thinking like one, too!” Tarleton relaxed casually against the back of the booth as the girl returned, holding in her hand a pair of extremely sharp shears.

“Mind Robin’s ears,” Tarleton remarked lazily. “He’s hard enough of hearing as it is.”

The wench pushed Elizabeth’s head down so that the candlelight could catch her gleaming crown and jagged neckline.

“By my troth, thou art a pretty chick!” the girl crooned as she swiftly began to snip a little here and there. “Such fine, soft hair! I’ve never seen the like. Ye will make a sweet youth when you have a beard coming. I should like to see more of ye then!” She giggled wickedly.

Elizabeth held very still, wincing at each snip, feeling the cold of the steel against her neck. She dared not say a word, playing the part of the “dull-witted prentice” as Tarleton had called her. Inwardly she seethed with mounting rage.

“There! Look up, my pet! Say now, Tarleton. Art thou pleased with this small service?” the maid asked archly.

Elizabeth blew the loose hair off her nose and glared at Tarleton.

Ignoring his furious apprentice, Tarleton beamed at the wench. “The court barber could not do as well. You have a skillful hand!”

“I have more than that.” The wench smiled invitingly, preparing to fling herself once more into Tarleton’s lap.

“Sweet mistress, I would feel easier in my mind if you would put away that sharp implement afore you straddle me!”

Squealing with delight, the wench laid the shears down behind the booth. Only then did Tarleton release Elizabeth’s foot, which was numb from his viselike pressure. Standing up, Tarleton stretched to his full height, then pulled the girl hard against him.

“‘Tis true I am most marvelous sleepy, but I fear, I cannot spend it in your company, toothsome though you are. My spirit is willing, but my other parts…” Sighing deeply, he looked regretfully into her eyes. “They have given up on me this evening.”

“You trickster!” The girl’s face grew red, and her eyes narrowed like a prowling cat’s.

Sliding quickly out of the booth, Elizabeth edged back toward the rear door. She wasn’t sure what was going to happen next, but she knew she wanted to be as far away as possible from the fray that was brewing.

Tarleton smiled calmly. “Nay, nay, sweet minx! I promised you a fair payment for your fine services, and I am a man of my word.” Still holding her close with one hand, Tarleton fumbled at his coin purse with the other. “See, sweetheart? As true a coin that was ever minted by Her Majesty’s treasury, and ‘tis all yours!” He glided a gleaming silver penny across the tops of her breasts, then dropped it down her bodice. “Now give me a kiss to remember ye by!”

The wench laughed delightedly, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him passionately. Tarleton returned her kiss with equal abandon. Sweeping her off her feet, he laid her down on the table. Drawing away from her slowly, he traced his fingers down her neck as the lust-soaked girl lay still amid the half-filled beer pots and dirty wooden soup bowls. The nearby patrons thumped their leather jacks of ale in appreciation and envy.

“I shall see thee again, sweetheart,” Tarleton promised glibly as he reached around her, retrieving his cap. “Come, boy!” He snapped his fingers as he strode out the back door.

Elizabeth bolted after him, thankful to escape the smoky den and the serving girl’s ire.