Fool's Paradise

Elizabeth stared enviously at the soap. She certainly could have used some of that, even in a horse trough.

“Shake a leg, Robin! Fetch my mirror from the pack.” Tarleton spoke through the soapsuds. “Now, boy, hold it steady for me while I shave.” Tarleton drew out his dagger with a flourish, and proceeded to scrape at his short, bristly whiskers.

Watching him carefully, Elizabeth winced when the dagger passed closely across his throat. The rasp of the blade against his tanned skin set her teeth on edge. The knife was so sharp that one little slip could spell disaster.

Noting her concern, Tarleton winked reassuringly at her. A bevy of maids cooed at his fresh, handsome appearance.

The merriment was cut short by the arrival of Master Brownlow, the steward, who solemnly greeted Tarleton as an equal, then announced that dinner was to be served up immediately in the hall.

“Come!” He beckoned to Tarleton. “His lordship wants you presently.”

Tarleton nodded to Elizabeth. “Get my cap and motley, boy!” Snapping his fingers, he pointed to the pack.

Elizabeth blinked for a moment at his sudden command, then remembering her role, she returned his nod. She shook out Tarleton’s multicolored jacket—its many brass bells jingled merrily as if they were glad to be released from their dark prison. Standing on a low stool, she held the coat open as Tarleton drew it over his wide shoulders. He winked mischievously at her as she tied the strings of his threepointed coxcomb cap under his chin. His face was so close to hers she could have kissed his lips without moving. She was seized by a sudden desire to do so. Peg’s round laughter brought Elizabeth to her senses.

“That’s my Tarleton!” Peg beamed like a proud mother. “Her Majesty is fortunate that I let her borrow you now and then, my pretty duck!”

“Aye!” Tarleton bowed to the cook with a flourish. “Shall I tell the Queen you said so when I am next at court?”

“Get on with ye! And make the master laugh. He is much in need of good cheer these days!” She waved them out with a soup ladle.

Following the steward, the jester and his apprentice passed through a number of narrow, dark corridors and up a flight of stone stairs. After traversing several more passageways, they came to a thick, paneled door.

“Wait here until I call for you, Dickon,” The steward vanished through the portal.

“How does Addison Hall look to you, prentice? Is it as grand as Esmond Manor?” Tarleton whispered to Elizabeth.

Elizabeth touched the nearby wall with her finger thoughtfully. “I am not sure. All these hallways look very mean, indeed. There are no tapestries, nor carved panels, nor pictures, nor any decoration on the walls. Perhaps Sir William has come upon hard times.”

Tarleton chuckled quietly. “Nay, you have seen but the backstairs. Have you never been backstairs at Esmond?”

Embarrassed by the truth, Elizabeth bit her lower lip. “In sooth, I don’t think I could locate the kitchens in my own house.” She reddened a bit at the admission.

Tarleton looked down at her and stroked her smooth cheek with his knuckle. “Then, perhaps, you may want to find them when you return there,” he said softly.

Elizabeth shivered. Tarleton’s touch was so gentle, the merest whisper, yet the place on her cheek felt as if he had branded her.

Before she could sort out her distracted feelings, the door suddenly opened, and Brownlow poked his head through. “Ready?”

Casting a quick smile at Elizabeth, Tarleton nodded to the steward. “Bluff and bluster!” he whispered to her.

Brownlow threw open the door wider, and announced them in a majestic voice, “My lord and ladies, Tarleton, the Queen’s own jester!”

Tarleton skipped into the great hall with a merry jingling of his bells. Elizabeth scampered behind him. In the center of the hall, Tarleton executed a deep court bow to the head table.

“Good my lord and you, most gracious lady, give me your leave to rhyme, for I’ve come to show activity upon this merry time—”

As Tarleton launched into his opening speech, Elizabeth quietly slipped into a shadowed recess, where she could observe the great hall of Addison. It was a fine room, richly paneled in polished wood with a high, vaulted ceiling of huge blackened beams. Large friendly fires roared in the monstrous stone fireplaces at each end, taking away the chill of the late summer evening. The upper servants, as well as members of Sir William’s extended family, which seemed to include a number of elderly ladies, sat at two tables below the head table. Above them was Sir William Fairfax, an old, white-haired gentleman. His wife, Lady Margaret, looked twenty years his junior. Beside them were another elderly lady and a thin, reedy-looking cleric, who watched Tarleton’s antics with his lips pursed in disapproval.

Elizabeth could see that Sir William did not look well, but he managed to smile weakly and thump his knife upon the table in appreciation of Tarleton’s merry capers. Lady Margaret, though she smiled with her lips, was clearly bored even though Tarleton was being witty and highly amusing—a far cry from last night’s performance at the disreputable Blue Boar.

“May I have your leave to present to your lordship my new apprentice?” Thrning, Tarleton beckoned to Elizabeth.

Taking a deep breath to steady a sudden flash of nerves, she skipped lightly to the center of the room. Feeling the slight pressure of Tarleton’s hand on her back, Elizabeth bowed in her best imitation of his court bow.

“This is young Robin Redbreast, for he sings like a bird. As I perceive you have been dining upon roast swan, perhaps you would care to hear the bird’s side of the story?” Tarleton stepped back, leaving Elizabeth to sing the “Lament of the Roast Swan.”

Elizabeth accompanied her verses with a great deal of comic mime, which Tarleton had taught her in the barn that afternoon. At the end, she again bowed to the warm applause of the company. Sir William seemed especially pleased. Even Lady Margaret looked interested. Tarleton bounded to her side.