“Methinks you are ready for civilized company now,” he muttered raggedly. “Put your shoes and socks on, prentice, and don’t dawdle. There’s work to be done.”
Turning away from her, he pulled his bright-colored jacket from the pack. The bells on its points tinkled softly when he shook out the folds.
Elizabeth’s eyes snapped open at the sudden change of his tone. She was totally bewildered by his behavior—and her own. She found his touch both disturbing and exciting. Tarleton must think I am a wanton to allow him to be so familiar with my person, she chided herself as she pulled on the thick stockings.
As she wiggled her toes, her mood changed to joy. Never again would she complain of the style or color of her slippers.
Dressed in his red and green motley, Tarleton beckoned to her. “Follow me, and watch that ladder on the way down. As much as it gave me pleasure to tend to your last splinter, I doubt you wish for an encore.”
Elizabeth sighed at the remembrance of his warm lips. An encore might not be so bad.
At the top of the ladder, Tarleton whispered into her ear, his warm breath tickling her cheek.
“Be warned. Play your part well. You are a dull-witted prentice boy. Take no offence at what I say to you when we are in the company of others. And if I should clap my hands together while rebuking you, cry out as if you have been slapped. ‘Tis expected for masters to treat their lads in such fashion.” He swung himself down the ladder first. Elizabeth followed him gingerly.
“God’s teeth, boy!” he bellowed at her from below. “The next time, I will throw you down the ladder headfirst. You would get to the bottom a good deal faster!”
Elizabeth thought she heard a snicker from somewhere in the darkness of the stable, and surmised it to be the eavesdropping ostler. “Aye, good master,” she answered, lowering her voice. “Pray be patient with me.”
“Angels have patience, but you, I fear, are a long way from heaven!”
Grabbing her arm roughly, Tarleton pulled her after him across the yard. Though his voice was harsh, Elizabeth saw his grin flash in the moonlight.
He pushed her against the pump. “Water, churl! Ply the pump, and with a will!” Slapping one hand against the other, he whispered, “Cry out!”
Elizabeth responded with a weak, but passable cry of pain.
He grinned. “Good! Not a star performance, but ‘twill suffice. Now, pump. Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a pump before.”
“Of course I have,” she whispered back, grasping the worn handle firmly. “I’ve just never done it myself.” As she pulled it up and down, Elizabeth dreamed of pitchers of warm, sweet rose water that Charlotte used to bring to her room. How she would love a bath right now! A hot, lavender-scented bath before a cheerful fire! And with someone to scrub her back—someone with warm, gentle hands
like…. Glancing guiltily at Tarleton, she banished her
wanton thoughts.
Bending down under the gush of glittering water, Tarleton doused his head, shaking the drops out of his hair with a contented sigh.
“Your hair looks like a bird’s nest, boy!” he observed, his deep voice echoing off the grimy plaster walls of the inn yard. After grabbing Elizabeth by the neck, he shoved her head under the tap just as he had done himself. Icy water streamed into her eyes and trickled down her shirt collar.
“Now, shake your head,” he whispered, while she was still sputtering her surprise. “Let’s smooth you up a bit.” Elizabeth’s tormentor smiled into her clean face. He lightly ran his fingers through the shorn golden stubble. There was a faint glint of humor in his eyes as he regarded his handiwork. “‘Tis plain as the nose on your sweet face that I’m no lady’s maid.”
Swallowing hard, Elizabeth prayed her features did not betray her racing heart. “I wish I had my comb and brushes,” she mumbled.
“Fine ladies have combs, but not guttersnipes and prentice boys,” Tarleton replied in a strange husky voice.
Tarleton donned his coxcomb hat and tied the strings firmly under his chin. It was the cap that changed his appearance, Elizabeth realized. With his curly brown hair concealed, Tarleton the jester looked every inch a rogue and goblin, especially when he grinned so wickedly and wiggled his dark eyebrows. No wonder she failed to recognize him on their unusual meeting!
“Ready, boy?”
Looking with apprehension at the back door of the inn, Elizabeth shivered then nodded. Loud, boisterous male voices came from inside. Tarleton took both her hands in his strong, reassuring ones.
“Frightened?” he asked her gently.
She nodded again.
“Good,” he continued lightly. “‘Tis healthy to be frightened just before a performance. Don’t worry, chuck. ‘Tis a little like losing your virginity—the first time you’re scared to death and don’t enjoy it, but it gets better each time after that.”
Elizabeth gasped at his frankness, but he allowed her nc time to respond. Before she knew what was happening, Tarleton pulled her through the door into the humid, smoky taproom.
“Room! Pray, masters all! Give me room to rhyme! We’ve come to show activity upon this pleasant time. Activity of youth…” Tarleton whirled and pranced, pointing to the quaking Elizabeth. “And activity of age…” He bowed deeply to the stinking assembly. “And such activity as ne’er been seen on this stage! I am Tarleton, jester to Her Most Gracious Majesty, and to her loving subjects!”
“Aye, Tarleton! Give us a jest!” cried a gravelly voice from the back of the dim room. “Tell the one about the pig, the sheep and the farmer’s daughter!”
Without pausing a moment, Tarleton grinned devilishly, then launched into the most ribald story Elizabeth had ever heard. She kept well back in the shadows and reminded herself that she was a boy, who should not be blushing. Tarleton’s crude story was greeted by a loud round of approving cheers and whistles. Immediately he told another tale, which was even more bawdy than the first.
What manner of man was this jester? Elizabeth wondered as she listened with bewilderment. When they were alone, Tarleton was polite and well-spoken with Elizabeth. Now he was someone else entirely—someone she didn’t know at all.
Next in the repertoire was a tavern song concerning the life of a lustful boy, and how he hung on the gallows for it. Afterward Tarleton executed a short jig, pulling a giggling serving wench into his arms, much to the additional loud cheers of the patrons. Spinning around suddenly, Tarleton grabbed Elizabeth by the wrist, pulling her into the center of the room. She could feel her heart hammering against her breast.
“Good masters, your patience is my prayer. Gently to hear and kindly to judge this player! ‘Tis my new prentice, Robin. Give us a song, lad, about the wench with the rolling eye!” With that introduction, he gripped her around the waist, and plopped her on top of the nearest table.
Girding herself with resolve, Elizabeth wet her lips and began. “She had a dark and rolling eye/And her hair hung down in ring-a-lets.”
Fixing her gaze on a spot just above the smoking fireplace, Elizabeth forced herself to forget the velvet-gowned heiress of that morning. Now Lady Elizabeth Hayward of Esmond