Fool's Paradise. Tori Phillips

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СКАЧАТЬ began the first verse again, making Elizabeth repeat each line after him.

      Over and over that beautiful, high summer afternoon, the jester and his stumbling apprentice practiced “that awful song” until Elizabeth had it note perfect. Tarleton was pleasantly surprised to discover that his reluctant pupil was gifted with a clear, pure voice.

      “Where did you learn to sing?” he asked as they rested later that afternoon, eating more of his windfall apples.

      “In France. I was taught in a convent there.”

      “A convent?” Tarleton’s eyes widened. “Sweet angels! Were you a nun?”

      “No, only a student taught by them. My mother’s family insisted upon it, and my father agreed. My mother was French, but she died when I was quite young.”

      “Are you a papist?” Tarleton eyed her sharply. Politics and religion were often the same thing in these turbulent times. Tarleton made it a practice to avoid both whenever possible.

      “Only when I’m in France.” She smiled. “Here I profess the new learning, but I pray privately in my own manner.”

      “Amen to that.” Tarleton breathed a sigh of relief. At least, his employer would not be making any irrational or unhealthy moves, such as insisting upon attending a popish mass.

      She arched her eyebrow at him. “I am sure that the good nuns who taught me to sing would not approve of your choice of hymn, Sir Jester. I’d be in penance for a month!”

      “You have a beautiful voice, and you learn quickly.” Tarleton complimented his apprentice. “As a reward, I will teach you another—”

      “Oh, no! One is more than enough!”

      Tarleton’s lips twitched with amusement. “This one, I promise, will please you. ‘Tis a love ballad, one that you could sing before your reverend mother without a blush. Listen!” He sang in a deep, rich tone. “‘Under the greenwood tree/Who loves to lie with me/And turn his merry note/Unto the sweet bird’s throat?’ There, what thinkest thou?” he asked when he had finished.

      “It’s better than the last one,” Elizabeth conceded.

      “Then let us be merry, too long we have tarried!” Pulling Elizabeth to her feet again, Tarleton swung down the road, smiling to himself. Her hand felt even warmer and softer than before. “Sing, sweet Robin!” Tarleton cheerfully called to her over his shoulder.

      The sun was low behind the haystacks in the fields, when the travelers came to the promised inn. Elizabeth’s weary heart sank at the sight of it. The Blue Boar sat at the side of the highway like a squat, old, painted woman. Its cracked plaster walls had not felt the touch of a paintbrush for a decade, at least. Several shutters hung at rakish angles from the narrow, grimy windows. Its wooden sign creaked on rusty hinges above the battered door; the namesake boar more gray than blue in color. Determined to make the best of it, Elizabeth started toward the entrance. Tarleton yanked her aside.

      “Around to the back, my boy. We are not paying customers. We’ve come to do business with the innkeeper.” He pushed her into the cobbled stable yard, past stinking piles of kitchen refuse and manure.

      Closing her eyes for a moment, Elizabeth reminded herself that she had indeed agreed to this charade. Squaring her shoulders, she tried to look as manly as possible. Roughly she pushed away a thin yellow cur who sniffed at her bare toes with interest.

      Tarleton engaged the florid-faced innkeeper in deep conversation. After a bit of haggling, the man nodded, and pointed toward the stable. Tarleton swept him a courtly bow and strode off in that direction.

      “Robin! Look lively, boy!” he called gruffly, snapping his fingers at Elizabeth. Bewildered, she followed him across the filthy cobblestones into the barn.

      “Up we go!” Tarleton stood at the bottom of the loft ladder.

      “Up there?” Elizabeth’s heart dropped to her toes, and all her manly intentions fled. She drew in her breath to tell Tarleton exactly what she thought of his proffered lodgings, but Tarleton moved faster than her indignation. Grabbing her roughly by the scruff of her neck, he practically threw her up the first two rungs.

      “I said move, churl! Are your ears full of wax?” he yelled at her. “Damn your hide! I’ve a mind to give you a sound whipping, and no supper!”

      Stunned by this sudden rough treatment, and shocked into silence by Tarleton’s unexpected coarse language, Elizabeth blinked back her angry tears as she scurried up the ladder. On the top rung, a stray splinter drove itself deeply into her foot. Suppressing a cry of pain, she limped into the hay-filled loft.

      Following close behind her, Tarleton surveyed the area with a practiced eye. Pulling her to a far corner where the sweet-smelling hay was piled the highest, he heaved the pack to the dusty floor with a contented sigh.

      “Oh! Have done with me!” Elizabeth moaned as she threw herself into the straw, burying her head in her hands.

      Dropping down beside her, Tarleton gathered the worn-out girl in his arms. Gently he rocked her back and forth.

      “Don’t…” She wanted to protest more, but her words were muffled in his jerkin. Instead, she relaxed into his cushioning embrace.

      “Hush! Hush, sweetling!” he whispered softly in her ear. “Forgive me for all. Don’t cry.” He gently stroked her ragged hair, still silky despite its rough treatment. “There was a stable boy below, watching us. I acted as any master would have done to his apprentice,” he explained. “A man’s world is a rough one. Shush, fair one. We are safe. We have this fine, warm place for the night, and a supper, as well—if we sing prettily enough for it.”

      “We are to sleep here? In a barn?” Elizabeth’s reserves of courage melted away. She was tired, sore, hungry and frightened in these strange, coarse surroundings.

      “‘Tis no Esmond Manor, I warrant you, but then again, there are far worse places we could be in. So be of good cheer!”

      “You hurt me!” she whispered fiercely.

      Tarleton winced at her accusation. “Not by choice. Please, sweetling, understand I do what I must for your own safety.”

      “Does that include laming me?” she snapped. The splinter felt as if it were on fire.

      “Laming you? Nay, ‘tis only a sweet stroll down a dry road on a sunny day. How is it that you are now lame?” he gently teased her.

      “I have a splinter in my foot from the ladder.”

      Tarleton laid her down on the straw. “Which foot?” he asked, concern etched his voice.

      “The right one, just under the largest toe. Ouch! That’s it! Oh, please, don’t touch it again!” She gritted her teeth as Tarleton ignored her protests.

      “‘Tis not a deep one, only large. I can pull it easily.”

      “Oh, no!” she moaned.

      He held out the pack strap to her. “Bite on this, but don’t cry out. We can’t have that stable boy poking his head up here,” he commanded sternly as he produced the wineskin.

      Wincing СКАЧАТЬ