“Aye, prentice, and every night if we want to eat and sleep in safety.”
“But, Tarleton, you forget I have money. We could hire a carriage at the next inn we come to. There is no need for us to—”
Tarleton’s eyes glittered darkly. Grabbing her roughly by the shoulders, he shook her hard. “There is need! You still don’t realize all the dangers of traveling Her Majesty’s highways. Who would ride as your protection? Me? I am but one man—and a coward to boot. I own no sword, only a dagger. Would you hire other men—ones who just happened to be loitering about this inn you speak of? What makes you think you could trust strangers you hire? Ha! They would take your fine carriage to a lonely stretch of the road.”
Tarleton’s eyes narrowed as he thrust his face into hers. “Can you guess what your protectors would do then, fair lady?” His voice sank into an icy whisper. “First, they would take all your money, then your jewelry, then they would strip you of your fine satins and velvets. And when they saw your sweet body, do you think it would end there? Nay! They would throw you to the ground. Two of them would hold you down while the third one would—”
All the color drained from Elizabeth’s face. “Stop it!” She beat against his chest with her fists. Tears streamed down her face, making wide tracks through the dust from the road. “Stop tormenting me so! Please!” Her voice choked as great racking sobs engulfed her.
Gathering her into his arms, Tarleton held her snugly. “Hush, sweetling! That will not happen to you—not while I live.” His lips brushed the top of her head. The soft silk of her hair set him afire. Torturing himself, he kissed her golden crown again. “You are safe in your dirty face and ragged shoes. Dry your eyes, chuck.”
“You frightened me,” she mumbled into the folds of his woolen jacket. He smelled of wood smoke, meadow grass and new-turned earth. She relaxed within the protective warmth of his arms.
“Aye! I meant to frighten you, and I won’t apologize for it. ‘Twas to make you understand the dangers, sweet one.”
A hot fountain of desire boiled up from the deep wellspring inside him. Tarleton quickly released Elizabeth before she became aware of his body’s need. “Methinks you should visit a pump. And there will be one anon, I promise.” He coughed to cover the huskiness in his voice.
Once the jester and his slim apprentice turned onto the main highway between Oxford and Coventry, they encountered many fellow travelers from all classes of society.
A young couple, newly married, were journeying to the groom’s father’s house. The bride looked no more than sixteen, and she blushed shyly when Tarleton kissed her on the cheek, wishing them the blessing of many children. Elizabeth watched the newlyweds with an envious pang in her heart. Sir Robert La Faye had never once looked at Elizabeth like the boy did his bride. She sighed wistfully as the couple continued on their way, hand in hand.
“A penny for your thoughts, for they must be rich indeed,” Tarleton asked.
“Did her father arrange her marriage?”
“That lass? Nay, ‘tis a love match. There’s not a dowry to be had of her, save her sweet smile. Why?” Though Tarleton suspected he knew the answer.
“I pray nightly for a husband who would make me as happy as that,” she replied.
“And to that prayer I say amen,” Tarleton replied softly.
A peddler was a welcome chance encounter in the early afternoon. Grizzled, with a steel gray beard and twinkling blue eyes, he hailed them as long-lost friends.
“Tarleton, you old rogue! The devil hasn’t caught ye yet?” These were his first words of greeting, then he spied Elizabeth. “What changeling is this? Does he look any better when he’s been washed?”
“Aye, Patch, he does. “Tis my prentice, Robin. Mind your manners, boy, and give Master Patch here a pretty bow.”
Elizabeth played her part as she was told. Tarleton’s recent warning about the hazards of the road was still fresh in her mind.
“What’s the news, old friend?” Tarleton asked him, when the three of them were comfortably settled behind a low stone wall in a nearby field. “Does the Queen still keep court at Hampton?”
“Aye, she was there a fortnight past, and I hear tell she will tarry there until after the harvest festival,” Patch answered with a broad grin.
The peddler then recounted a long, rambling story concerning the latest gossip about the Queen and her favorite courtier, the Earl of Leicester. While he spoke, Patch shared with them some cold chicken. “Fresh killed yesterday,” he added with a knowing wink.
Elizabeth wondered if that meant he had stolen the hen, but by now she had enough sense to keep quiet. The origin of the chicken was of no importance, as long as she could munch contentedly on a plump, tasty leg portion. Tarleton’s wine was mellow, and she was glad of the opportunity to rest her weary feet, still tender from yesterday’s barefoot walk. The grass beneath her was soft and sweet smelling, the sun warm, and soon Elizabeth drifted into a comfortable nap.
“Come, Robin Redbreast!” Tarleton’s laughing voice intruded into her dreams, which were filled with luscious strawberries, rich cream, gardens full of sweet-smelling roses, and a tall man with merry eyes and brown curly hair who held her tightly in his arms.
Elizabeth stretched and wiggled her toes. “Was I asleep?”
“Aye, and snoring,” said Patch, though his eyes regarded her kindly. “Be of good cheer, boy! Tarleton is a villain of the first and last degree, but there’s no better man to be with on the road.”
“So he keeps telling me, Master Patch,” Elizabeth threw a wink at Tarleton, who rolled his eyes in surprise.
“Well, good day to ye then!” With that, the peddler leapt lightly over the wall, despite the heavy wooden case of wares he carried. “And, Tarleton,” he called cheerily, “keep a good eye on that young scamp of yours. I prophesy that he will be a lion among the ladies yet!”
“That I will, Patch! Truly, that I will!” Tarleton promised with a rolling laugh.
Then the peddler struck off in the opposite direction, whistling a merry tune.
“What is the thing you most dearly wish to have?” queried Tarleton, cocking his head, looking like Puck, the faeries’ jester.
“A good meal, a hot bath and a soft bed!” Elizabeth sighed wistfully.
“And what else?” he prodded, his eyes twinkling.
“Clean clothes, a horse, and… and—”
“Will this do in the meantime?” Tarleton held out his hand. Cradled in his palm was a plain wooden comb, decorated with a small painted rose.
“Oh, Tarleton!” Joy bubbled in her laughter as she took his gift.
“Don’t cry! Tears are… unmanly, prentice!” Trying to sound stern, Tarleton was secretly pleased by her warm reaction. How Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled like emeralds for just a simple comb!
“But where-?”
Tarleton grinned broadly. “Patch! He gave me a good bargain while you were off woolgathering.”
Elizabeth turned pale, her laughter caught in her throat. “You didn’t tell him that I’m a woman, did you?”
“Fret not! Old Patch knows I’ve an eye for a pretty face, and that I am always wasting my money on fripperies for them,” he remarked with suppressed pride of his accomplishment.
Elizabeth eagerly used her new treasure. As she combed the tangles out of her hair, she sighed, realizing that her boyish guise hid whatever beauty she might claim. “I thank you for the gift, good Tarleton, though my face is far from pretty at this moment.”
Roughly