Fool's Paradise

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.