“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