“What is this place?” she asked warily. Something in the tone of his voice warned her that she wasn’t going to like his choice of accommodations.
“An inn of the lowest sort, I fear, but this route is not traveled by the upper crust of society. And I thank you for reminding me of something.” He stopped so suddenly in the middle of the road that Elizabeth almost ran headlong into him.
“What now?” she asked irritably, angry that Tarleton had deceived her with his earlier promise of a goodly inn.
“We shall be expected to sing for our supper.”
Elizabeth’s jaw dropped. “Sing in front of strangers? You are jesting!”
“No jests, I fear. ‘Tis the hazard of my calling—and now yours, prentice. So, as we walk along, I shall teach you some fine tavern ballads. ‘Twill lighten your heart—and help take your mind off your blisters.” Guiltily Tarleton watched her tighten her jaw, as Elizabeth shifted her weight on her swollen feet. He vowed to do something about her lack of shoes at the first opportunity. He admired her courage. Not once had she mentioned her obvious pain. “Listen to the words carefully.”
Clearing his throat, Tarleton broke into a rippling ditty. “She had a dark and rolling eye/And her hair hung down in ring-a-lets/She was a nice girl/A proper girl/But, one of the roving kind!”
The tune was merry enough, but the lyrics grew more and more bawdy with each successive verse, as the song extolled, with explicit detail, each and every one of the roving girl’s myriad charms. Elizabeth’s ears, as well as her cheeks, were burning by the end of the last chorus.
“You cannot possibly expect me to sing that!” she sputtered. “It’s awful! It’s… it’s shameful! And not for a lady at all!”
“You are right, chuck,” he agreed, daring to call her by a lighthearted term of affection. “‘Tis not fit for a proper lady’s ears, but we left the very proper Lady Elizabeth at the bottom of the river, remember? You, prentice, will stand high on a tabletop with your legs thrust boldly apart. You will throw back your head proudly, and you will sing that song at the top of your sweet lungs.”
“Never!” declared Elizabeth, glowering at him. “I shall die first.”
“No, you won’t. Who knows?” he teased her. “You might even get to like it. And just think what a surprise ‘twill be when you sing it for the ladies of the court!”
“I couldn’t!” she gasped. Had the jester completely lost his wits?
“Oh, but you could!” He grinned, amused by her reaction to his suggestion. “In private, of course. Truly, those fine ladies at court will enjoy it just as much as the ruffians on the road do. The only difference is the setting. Now, my lad, sing!” He 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