Fool's Paradise

by Tori Phillips

  On the second floor, they were met by Dr. John Dee, the Queen’s personal physician, and Lady Mary Sidney, one of the Queen’s closest friends.

  “Show me where to take my lady,” Tarleton said tightly, afraid to display any emotion. “I have brought her this far. Permit me the honor of carrying her to the end.”

  Tarleton’s eyes looked so determined, Lady Mary nodded understandingly. She led him into a small, comfortably appointed room where a cheerful fire blazed in the hearth. The covers of a canopied bed were pulled back, waiting to receive their sweet occupant. Tenderly Tarleton laid Elizabeth amid the lace, satin, linen and goose down where he knew she belonged. Caring not who saw him, he leaned over her, kissed her lightly on her fevered brow, then pressed a lingering kiss on her dry lips.

  “I love thee, sweetest Robin. Pray remember me with kindness,” he whispered into her ear, hoping deep within her sleep, she heard him.

  Stirring slightly, Elizabeth’s fingers opened as if they sought his hand. “Dickon…” she said, and sighed, though only Tarleton heard her.

  A lump welled up in his throat. He would have kissed her again, but he was pulled away from the bedside.

  “The Lady Elizabeth is in good hands, my friend,” Raleigh told the stoic jester gently. “You have done right well.” With a firm push the courtier guided Tarleton out into the hall where a weary Philip waited anxiously.

  “Wait!” Tarleton called back into Elizabeth’s room. “This young man has tended my lady’s wounds. She would be comforted if he were here with her now. ‘Tis Master Philip Robinson of Oxford,” he said, introducing the boy.

  Dr. Dee made a face but politely motioned the tall student inside.

  “Watch over her for me, good Philip,” Tarleton whispered as Philip passed him. “Don’t let her die!”

  Philip tried to speak some word of encouragement but he didn’t know what to say. Instead, he merely nodded.

  The click of the door lock behind hum was the deadliest sound Tarleton had ever heard.

  “The Queen commanded that you wait upon her immediately,” remarked Raleigh, as they crossed the Long Gallery. “But, methinks ‘twould be best for all concerned if you got some sleep, and some cleaner clothes, before your audience.”

  “Amen to that!” Yawning, Tarleton stretched his stiff muscles.

  “And take a bath, man!” continued the tall knight, wrinkling his nose. “You stink to high heaven, and the Queen dislikes foul air!”

  Tarleton smiled without humor. “I will shame every flower in the garden when I see her.”

  Raleigh clapped the jester on the back. “I suggest you sleep in the stables until you can get a wash.”

  With those parting words of cold comfort, the tall courtier strode off.

  Tarleton looked after him ruefully, then he made his way down to the mews. Outside, he passed the wing wherein he knew Elizabeth lay. Slowly he scanned along the many windows of Wolsey’s rambling pleasure dome. So, we are back to where we were at the beginning: the lady in her perfumed chamber, and the jester in the stable.

  Giving himself a shake, he stumbled toward a muchneeded rest in the hayloft.

  Tarleton slept round the clock. As evening of the second day came on, he awoke with a start, wondered briefly where he was, then remembered the royal command. With his stomach growling for food, he presented himself at the kitchen door, where the cooks welcomed him with a hot tub, clean clothing and a hearty dinner. The scullery maids and undercooks were particularly interested in hearing of his adventures, but Tarleton begged off, saying he must speak with the Queen first.

  “Well, you rascal! You’ve taken your sweet time in answering my summons!” Queen Elizabeth attempted to sound stern when her tardy jester finally made his appearance. Tarleton could always bring a smile to her lips, and a lift to her weary heart, made heavier these days by the constant threat of a Catholic rebellion.

  “Had I come earlier, Your Grace, you would have sent me back to the pigsty,” he defended himself, going down on one knee. “But here I am, as sweet smelling as any rose, and so I hope I am forgiven for taking my sweet time to sweeten the air around me.” He bowed his freshly washed curly head.

  The Queen burst into laughter; her ladies joined in her merriment.

  “‘Tis good to have you back at court, you foolish wit!” she said, beckoning him to rise.

  “Ah, better a witty fool, than ever a foolish wit, Your Grace. For methinks you are surrounded with more of the latter, than the former.” This remark brought another round of laughter.

  Tarleton was relieved that he made a good impression. He knew he had much to answer for, and the Queen’s moods were like a weathercock—constantly changing.

  Her Grace settled herself on a deep cushioned chair, fanning out her ivory satin skirts about her. With every move, Elizabeth of England sparkled like a thousand stars. The candlelight reflected in the brilliant jewels she wore on her dress, in her hair and on her fingers.

  The Queen arched one carefully drawn eyebrow. “Now, then, my scamp! What have you been up to this past fortnight?”

  Drawing a deep breath, Tarleton recounted most of his travels with the Lady Elizabeth Hayward, embellishing his story with wit and mimicry. Only the memory of that golden afternoon under the greenwood trees did he lock in his heart.

  When he finished, the Queen said nothing, despite the fact that she had been laughing only moments before. Opening the reticule at her waist, she extracted a piece of marchpane, which she popped into her mouth. Nervously, her ladies waited for her response.

  The Queen’s amber eyes bored into Tarleton. “You have told us a pleasant tale. I suppose you think I should now applaud this fool, who cut my goddaughter’s hair so short, and who dressed her like a beggar boy?” The Queen feigned mild surprise. Abruptly her tone changed, becoming cold as the wind that howled around the palace’s hundred chimneys.

  “God’s teeth, you knave! If you had cut my hair in such a manner, and dressed me in such mean fashion, I think I would have encouraged the villain in the ruined church to finish you off! Aye! And paid him well in the bargain, too!” The ladies behind the Queen tittered.

  Tarleton flushed. “Fortunately, my Lady Elizabeth did not pause to think of it at the time, Your Grace. Indeed, the event upset her mightily. She has suffered nightmares because of it. Pray tell me, Your Grace, does she still have these nightmares?” Tarleton’s eyes pleaded to his Queen. He knew nothing of Elizabeth’s present condition.

  The Queen eyed him shrewdly. “Sir Robert La Faye arrived at court yesterday, bringing a serious charge against you, Tarleton. He says you stole his bride, then attacked him when he pressed his rightful claim. How do you answer to that?” The Queen appeared to study a particular ring on her finger, but Tarleton knew from long association that she was giving him her fullest attention.

  He chose to defend himself by attack. “Lady Elizabeth is not yet La Faye’s wife, as I understand it. Nor did I steal her.” His voice changed, becoming more seductive. “She literally fell my way, begging me to escort her to you, her most royal godmother, who loves her and will protect her from a marriage contract which the lady despises.”

  “Are you presuming to tell me my duty toward my goddaughter, jester?” asked the Queen in a dangerous undertone.

  Tarleton gulped inwardly, though he presented a smiling exterior. “Never, Your Grace. I am but a prattling fool. But in faith, Sir Robert is angry because I have helped to make him a bigger fool than even I am. Indeed, his vanity is as puffed up as his doublet!”

  “Then we pray God he does not explode—at least, not at court.” The Queen smiled at her jester. She leaned closer to him. “Speak to me, sweet Tarleton. I see there is another thing to be said. You have no fear of losing your tongue. It will last as long as you have your wit!”

  Taking heart from her words, Tarleton continued. “The Lady Elizabeth is most distressed over her match with Sir Robert, Your Grace. She fears him, and with good reason.”

&nb
sp; “Oh?” The Queen peered closely at him. “How so?”

  Tarleton licked his lips. A commoner rarely accused a nobleman of a capital crime. Tarleton knew he was treading on thin ice.

  “The night I performed at Esmond Manor was in celebration of the lady’s betrothal to Lord La Faye. Though I had never met Lady Elizabeth before that evening, I could see she was most unhappy. She told me later she knew she could not go though with the marriage Sir Thomas agreed with her decision. That next morning, Lord La Fayegave a basket of fresh-picked mushrooms to Sir Thomas. Shortly after eating them, the old lord was taken suddenly ill, and died before nightfall.”

  The room was very quiet. The ladies looked to see what the Queen would say.

  “There are some poisonous mushrooms in the woods,” she remarked carefully. “Sir Robert is not a qualified botanist. A mistake, perhaps?”

  “A convenient mistake, Your Grace,” Tarleton replied vehemently. “The lady’s father died before any change could be made to the contract. Lord La Faye showed no grief at his host’s sudden departure from this life. Instead, he wanted the lady wedded and bedded before her father was even cold in the ground! When Eliz…the lady delayed, Sir Robert shut her up in her room and swore he would force himself upon her. How is my lady, Your Grace?”

  “She is still unconscious, Tarleton. Indeed, the doctors fear for her life.” The Queen saw the color drain from Tarleton’s face at this news, though he struggled against his emotions.

  “May I see her?” he finally whispered.

  The Queen sniffed loudly with haughty disapproval. “She is in my private apartments and is being well taken care of by my maids. No one may disturb her, by her doctor’s orders—and by mine!”

  Bowing his head, Tarleton hid the pain he knew was in his eyes. “You are my Queen and I obey your commands, Your Grace,” he murmured.

  “We were speaking of Sir Robert La Faye, Tarleton. Do you accuse him of murder?” Her words stood out sharply in the perfumed air of the overheated room.

  Tarleton’s eyes glittered with hatred. “I do, so please Your Grace. Furthermore, I accuse him of attempted murder. Had I not stopped him, Lord La Faye would have run Elizabeth through!”

  The Queen nodded thoughtfully. “So I was told by the young physician who attended her. Apparently he was a witness to this tavern brawl.”

  “Philip Robinson? Aye, he is as good a man as ever I have met.”

  The Queen nodded her head in agreement; the rubies entwined in her hair twinkled in the firelight. “The same. He is a very skilled one, as well.”

  “Is he still here?” Tarleton’s hopes lifted. Perhaps Philip could smuggle him in to see Elizabeth.

  The Queen dabbed the corner of her lips with her lace handkerchief. “He returned to Oxford this afternoon. ‘Tis a pity. I found the medical discussions he waged with our Dr. Dee to be most interesting. Philip will make a fine physician in due time.”

  Tarleton hid his disappointment. “In any event, he is a reliable witness to what I have just said, Your Grace. Lord La Faye is—”

  The Queen tapped her foot. “Sir Robert attends me here at court. He is no concern of yours. Do you understand me, Tarleton?” The Queen’s pale eyes narrowed. “You are discharged of your responsibilities toward my goddaughter. I suppose you expect to be paid for your services.”

  “Nay, Your Grace, I did not—” Tarleton realized the conversation had taken a more dangerous turn.

  “You did very little as far as I can see, except to dress Elizabeth shamefully, teach her to swear and sing bawdy songs, make a fool of her on the back of a goat—a goat, mind you!—put her through the discomforts of sleeping outside in wet weather, throw her amongst the foulest of company, thrust her into bodily danger, then send her to me half-dead. What payment do you think you deserve for all this goodly care, Master Fool?”

  Dropping to his knees again, Tarleton bowed his head. It racked him with guilt to hear his offenses so brutally outlined. “No payment, Your Grace. As you so often point out, I am the biggest fool in the kingdom.”

  When he looked up at her, the Queen saw his eyes shining with unshed tears. The sight unnerved her.

  “You have been punished enough, you jackanapes,” she muttered gruffly. “But I command one thing more—you are never to see, nor speak to, Lady Elizabeth again. Do you understand this plainly, Tarleton? The lady has suffered enough at your hands.”

  If the Queen had taken up a dagger and stabbed him in the heart, she could not have hurt him more. Tarleton knew by the set of her jaw that she meant every word she spoke. The implication was clear: he was lucky to be let off so lightly. After all, what was he but a gypsy player, and a bastard? For ten glorious days he had forgotten himself. Now, he must force himself to forget the lady.

  The Queen tapped him on the chin with her fan. “Put away that long face, jester, and sing something merry for us!”

  Swallowing down his heavy heart, Tarleton rose and sang “Pastimes in Good Company,” a composition written by the Queen’s great father, King Henry VIII. Hearing it always pleased Her Grace.

  Tarleton’s interview with Sir Francis Walsingham was more candid.

  “Sir Robert La Faye’s name has appeared in many dispatches recently,” the Queen’s chief minister observed. “There is talk he is in sympathy with the Scots Queen. And your charges against him are most interesting.” Sitting back in his chair, Sir Francis eyed his informant with hooded speculation. “The evidence concerning Sir Thomas Hayward’s death is circumstantial, though suspicious.”

  “Speak with some of the servants at Esmond Manor, Sir Francis. They will bear out the tale. Jane, one of the cooks, is especially forthright.”

  Sir Francis pursed his lips. “And I presume you have tested her…honesty?”

  Tarleton flushed, though he did not look away. “Aye, after my own fashion, my lord. But more to the point, there is the matter of La Faye’s attempted murder of my Lady Elizabeth. That was done within sight of half the students at Oxford.”

  “Who had drunk a great deal of beer, I presume?” Sir Francis twirled his quill pen between his fingers.

  “Two were reasonably sober at the time, whose testimony will ring true—Philip Robinson and Jonathan Biggs, both of Christ Church.”

  “Ah, yes, Philip Robinson,” Sir Francis mused. “I understand he has the makings of a fine doctor, despite our good John Dee’s envious opinion. I agree. I shall speak with your young friend anon.”

  Tarleton licked his lips as he brought up the subject closest to his heart. “How does the Lady Elizabeth?”

  “I hear she is mending,” the minister replied mildly.

  “The Queen has forbidden me to see or speak with her.” Tarleton tried to keep his voice level.

  Sir Francis nodded. “But not to speak about her, I see. Her Grace feels you have become too close to her goddaughter. Is that true?”

  Staring at the minister, Tarleton wondered if Walsingham could read men’s minds. “Aye! We grew…very close,” he conceded.

  “The lady comes with a vast estate,” Walsingham mused.

  “The lady comes with a loving heart that surpasses all earthly wealth,” Tarleton responded quietly.

  The small office grew quiet as each man contemplated his own thoughts. The only sounds were the popping and hissing of the fire that danced brightly, lighting up the rich linenfold carving on the paneled walls. At last, Sir Francis spoke softly.

  “I have in mind to go a-hunting, Tarleton. There is a particularly loathsome rat at court which needs to be destroyed.”

  Tarleton’s face creased into a slow grin. “Would that rat be quite large and wear costly garments worth far more than he can afford, my lord?”

  “Just so.” Sir Francis inclined his head. “But to catch so great a rat, we must bait the trap with an especially delicate morsel.”

  Tarleton felt a cold shiver run down his spine. “The Lady Elizabeth.”

  “That is the nut and core of it. And you, my wise fo
ol, must play the most dangerous game of your career.”

  “And the stakes, my lord? I like to know the wager before I play my hand.”

  Sir Francis smiled warmly for the first time. “Why, the Lady Elizabeth, of course. Isn’t that what we have been discussing?”

  Tarleton drew himself up. “I am your man, my lord.”

  “And the lady’s too, I warrant.” Sir Francis knitted his brows together “Take heed, Tarleton. What I have in mind could fail utterly and lead to your death.”

  “For such fair stakes, I would wrestle with Lucifer himself.” Tarleton’s eyes glowed with anticipation.

  “You may have to, player. Now bend your ear to me, then give me your good counsel, for your mind has more twists and turns to it than a garden maze.”

  Tarleton grinned at Sir Francis’s compliment, for no man in the kingdom had so devious a mind as the Queen’s spy master.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Elizabeth hovered in a feverish limbo. Sometimes floating near the surface of consciousness, she heard voices around her. An older man argued with a younger one. A girlish voice murmured snatches of the psalms. Cool hands bathed Elizabeth’s hot skin. Once, someone smelling strongly of musk and roses kissed her brow. Most of the time Elizabeth drifted amid fanciful hallucinations.

  She dreamed of green glades and gurgling rivers, of meadow grass and the call of black rooks in the forest. Most of all, she dreamed of a laughing, dark-haired man clasping her in his arms, his lips kissing hers, inflaming her with a glorious passion. Other visions crowded around her: smoky inns and wanton wenches, floors sticky with spilled ale and trodden food, a flashing sword pointed toward her heart. Screaming in fright, she awoke, chilled with sweat.

  “There, there, my sweet.” A richly gowned young woman dabbed Elizabeth’s face with a damp cloth that smelled faintly of roses.

  “Tarleton?” Elizabeth whispered hoarsely, trying to focus her eyes.