Prince of Shadows: A Novel of Romeo and Juliet
Page 9
She was so very still that she might have been marble herself, carved by the same master who’d made the holy statue. “A nun needs no beauty.” It was calm enough, but it wrenched at my heart. “But I will heal right enough. You must go, before you’re seen.”
She said it out of concern for me, but it was her own life in jeopardy, as well I knew; I’d receive a scorching rebuke from my grandmother, at worst, but Tybalt had already punished her viciously. Any other missteps could result in one of House Capulet’s famous accidents, so common to disobedient daughters. Easy enough to trip and fall on the steep, slick stairs, or suffer a sudden and fatal sickness. The world had no shortage of ways to die, for either of us.
“I killed two of your brother’s men just now,” I said. “They would have killed me.” Why I said it, I do not know; I simply needed to do it, and her head bowed just a little more, as if from the weight of my admission. “It never ends, does it?”
“No,” she said softly. “Pray God it does, someday, but it will not end today, nor likely tomorrow.”
She did not say it, but my actions had certainly rolled the cycle forward, postponing that day of peace. And, looking at it squarely, I saw it had been my own fault. If I had not been so angry at Romeo, if I had not stormed out looking for a brawl, then I would not have found one.
I crossed myself, rose, and retreated to where Balthasar was fidgeting nervously from foot to foot. He breathed a sigh of relief when I took my place beside him. He didn’t say it, but I read the stiff disapproval in his body language.
I nodded to him and headed toward the exit, just as one young lady emerged from the confessional, and another took her place.
“Sir?” he asked, startled, and hurried to catch up. “Were you not here to be shrived?”
“I’ve confessed as much as I need,” I said. “The rest can wait.” In truth, in my most heretical heart, I thought there was no real forgiveness for taking a life, in this world or the next, regardless of what the priests might say.
I wished I’d been able to see her face, but I knew that witnessing the bruises and cuts again would have given me no peace, only ignited another round of fury at Tybalt. Perhaps she had known it, too. Or perhaps I only imagined the friendship between us, fragile and unspoken and as deadly to us both as a cup of poison.
Who’s the foolish one now? I asked myself, and vowed that I would apologize to my cousin.
Soon.
• • •
The rest of the day went as uneventfully as most. . . . Mercutio eventually appeared, looking content and tormented at the same time, and with Romeo (and supported by our own crew of hired blades, among them the fierce Abraham and slender, grim Alessandro) we went to wander the market square. It was the vital, vivid center of the town, a place where all classes mingled, and today, as most days, it was full of color, noise, and music. Our small band of young men—yes, swaggering, no doubt—kept together, a tight-knit group of blue and black, which in Mercutio’s case was slashed with the vivid orange of his own house. I had been asked to find a new silk merchant for my mother, in a note from her to my rooms, and so I led the men on that very domestic chore, from stall to stall, looking over the goods and the honesty of the sellers.
It was at the third stall that I encountered my sister, Veronica, dressed in extravagant finery and closely attended by her pinch-mouthed nurse, who looked hard put upon. Veronica was buying—at too dear a price—a length of rich gold-and-green damask. She ignored me until I was at her elbow.
“You ought to let me haggle for you,” I said. “That’s half again as much as it’s worth.”
“It’s for my wedding gown,” she said loftily. “If I’m to marry the old goat, at least I will do it in the best.” She sent me a sly glance as the merchant folded the fabric and went to wrap it in a linen package. “There’s talk of dead Capulet men this day.”
“Is there?”
“Talk of a Montague who killed them,” she said. “Might that be you, brother?”
“No.” I was in no mood to confess to my sister. She’d never met a secret she liked to keep, save her own. “Perhaps it was footpads.”
“Footpads who made the survivor rip away his Capulet colors? No one will believe it. I hear the Prince is going to summon Montague and Capulet both, again, to put a stop to the brawling. Questions will be asked.”
I shrugged. “You should go home,” I said. “If Capulet blood is up, you have no business wandering alone.”
“I’m not alone,” she said. “I’m with my attendant, as is any decent woman.”
“Tell me you’re not off to an assignation.”
“Brother!”
That called for a second shrug; the outrage in her voice was far too obvious. Veronica was up to something, but what, I could not say; nor did I truly care. I’d warned her. If she insisted on putting herself in danger—or in a dalliance that could ruin her marriage, at the very least—then it was no business of mine. Though no doubt my grandmother would blame me for that, too.
On the strength of that, though, I sent two of the bravos as escorts for her and the old woman. Whatever mischief Veronica was intending, the men would keep the secret; they were well paid to do that, and they knew that my uncle took a very dark view of betrayal. She’d be as safe as might be—at least from any enemies.
From herself . . . that was another matter altogether, and one to which I was not inclined to give much worry.
Romeo was moody, and before long slipped away. I dispatched another of our followers to cover his back. Mercutio tried to talk to him, but Romeo was—as seemed to be usual for the day—unwilling to speak, and our friend came back to me shaking his head. “He’s off to brood,” he said. “Love does some men no favors, Benvolio.”
I wondered whether he was speaking of himself for a moment, but he flashed me a broken, mad grin. “I know where he’s bound. I followed him yesterday,” he said. “His love’s a thick wine, and his mornings are hangovers . . . he climbs a tree beyond the wall and writes more poems. At least now he has the sense to tear them up when he’s done.”
I wasn’t much satisfied with that, but I let it pass. Hunting Romeo down wouldn’t make him any less moody. He had to find that balance for himself.
I found the silk merchant for my mother, and told him that he’d be called upon soon; Mercutio fancied a pair of fine leather gloves, but they came from a stall that featured a Capulet banner, and the vendor sneered at us.
I stole them for him, a deft and quiet lift that was done in a moment as the merchant’s eye roamed elsewhere. I tossed them over as we walked, and Mercutio clucked and wagged a shaming finger, but only after he’d put them on.
We purchased meat rolls from a handcart, and had free wine from a vendor hoping to supply House Montague. A street performer fresh from Fiorenza produced doves from his dirty beard, to the screaming amusement of a group of children; he had a wild-man look that made me think he put his thrown coins into the purchase of a bottle rather than food, but his hands were steady and clever enough. A mountebank sang nonsense songs and juggled while balanced on a pole, and mocked the passersby with hurled insults, all in good fun . . . until he chose to mock a Capulet who’d stopped to stare.
It was not Tybalt—it was some lesser, vacuous cousin—but he was quick enough to anger, and his shouts of, “Capulet, to me!” quickly drew a knot of red and black around him, which ranged out to surround the jester. The jester’s painted face took on an anxious look, and his eyes darted around for escape, or rescue, and found neither. Someone kicked the pole from under him, and he went tumbling, but tumbling is a mountebank’s trade, and he came up unhurt—until another Capulet punched him squarely in the mouth.
“Churls,” Mercutio said. He was gripping the hilt of his sword. “Clowns beating clowns—it’s unseemly. We should take a hand, Ben.”
“No,” I said. “Two Capulets were killed this morning, and Montague blamed. No more brawling today.”
Mercutio’s sympathies we
re with the jester, or at least against the Capulets now joining in the beating. “We can’t let them trounce him without an answer! We look like cowards!”
“He’s no kin or oath to us,” I said. I winced, though, when I saw a boot drive deep, and the jester’s head snap back. “Balthasar, run for the city watch. Bring them.”
“Sir,” he said, and dashed away.
It took too long, but he did return with the prince’s liveried men; the Capulets were warned by shouts, and melted into the thick crowds, leaving behind the huddled body of the mountebank and his broken pole. He wasn’t dead, at least.
And it proved to me that the Capulets were raw-nerved today, and ready for any kind of insult to be avenged. Not a good day to be abroad in Montague colors.
I’d taken note of the Capulet cousin who’d started the trouble. Close personal note.
And so, when the bells rang to summon the faithful to mass, I said, “Off to the chapel with us, then, you scruffy pagans. You could all do with a sermon or two.” Such a visit served two good purposes—it would ease the gossip about my missed morning mass, and it protected us from Capulet wrath for a time. In the heat of the afternoon, after mass, no one would be so eager to fight.
“Not I!” Mercutio said with such alarm he might have been the devil himself. “I’m fresh-shrived just this morning, I assure you. I’ve no desire to have a double blessing.”
He winked at me, just a quick and fleeting expression that made me think his shriving was less of the spirit than the flesh . . . and had come from the hands of his Tomasso, who was studying for the priesthood. I cleared my throat in uncomfortable realization, and nodded, and Mercutio darted off through the crowd, cheerful and mad. He made it a point to flirt with a young, comely shopgirl. He often did such things, though I did not think he appreciated her beauty for anything more than what was visible. Safer for him to be thought a rake.
“The rest of you,” I said to the men, who looked sadly resigned, “off to the church.”
Balthasar and Abraham ranged ahead, while I accepted the cordial greetings of allies and neighbors on our way through the crowds, with Alessandro and two others trailing behind. By the time I caught up to them, Balthasar and Abraham had found trouble.
Capulet trouble, in the narrow street that led off the square. As I found them, Abraham said, in a pleasant enough tone, “Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?” A common enough insult, one that would at least occasion a challenge.
The Capulet smirked. “I do bite my thumb, sir.”
This time, the tone was not so pleasant. “Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?” Abraham was plainly giving him a chance to walk away, but the Capulet’s smirk only widened. He shrugged and glanced at his companion in red and black.
“Is the law on our side, if I say aye?”
“No,” the other Capulet said, clearly the more cautious. His caution, though well planted, did not take root.
“No, sir,” the first said, in a hearty and mocking tone, “I do not bite my thumb at you, sir, but I do bite my thumb.”
The second clearly gave up his attempt to make peace, and stepped forward then to brace my servants. “Do you quarrel, sir?”
“Quarrel, sir? No, sir.” Abraham had his own blood up and running high, and Balthasar’s warning pluck at his sleeve did nothing to dissuade him. I considered calling them in, but I saw more Capulet colors pushing toward us.
And some of them worn by Tybalt.
“If you do, sir, I am for you; I serve as good a man as you,” warned the Capulet bravo.
“No better,” Abraham scoffed, well aware I was behind him.
“Well, sir—” began the first Capulet, but he was cut off.
“Say better—here comes one of my master’s kinsmen,” the other Capulet muttered, and now that they knew Tybalt was watching, the matter was as inevitable as a falling wall’s crash.
“Yes, better, sir,” the first instantly amended.
“You lie,” Abraham said.
And that was the moment when it turned from speech to action. “Draw, if you be men,” the Capulet spat, and steel appeared, on both sides—the two Capulets, and my own men.
I had a choice then, but I knew the Capulets were wounded today, and I’d done the blooding, true enough. It would do well for Montague to yield gracefully, and in public view.
So I stepped forward and beat down their swords with my own. “Part, fools!” I said, and shoved Abraham back. Balthasar, ever attentive, stepped back willingly. “Put up your swords.” And it might have calmed the waters, if only Tybalt had not stepped in behind me.
His voice was silken and cold with amusement. “What, are you drawn among these heartless hinds? Turn, Benvolio. Look upon your death.”
Balthasar was trying to signal me to withdraw, but I knew there was no way to avoid this now; it was a direct challenge from an equal, or near equal. I turned to face Tybalt, and the sight of his arrogant face made my heart race and my hands shake with the need to do for him what I’d done for his man earlier in the day.
But I did try. “I do but keep the peace,” I said, as reasonably as I could. “Put up your sword, or use it to part these men with me.”
He laughed. “Drawn, and you talk of peace!” The laughter stopped, and for the rest of it, he was deathly serious. “I hate the word, as I hate hell, all Montagues, and you,” he said, and there was such venom in it that I did not doubt him. His sword slid free, and the glint of it in the sun caught my eyes. I felt myself go into that cold space again, all concerns falling free. “Have at you, coward!”
He was no brawler; Tybalt had been trained by the best, and he was—by many accounts—better than me, and faster. Even with all my concentration, it was difficult to follow the flicker of his movements as he thrust; I parried, but only barely, and my returning attack was beaten casually aside. I was hard-pressed, then, all my attention on his body, his eyes, the deadly grace of his blade, but I was also aware of the shouts, the riotous noise of blades clashing and cudgels clacking on one another as our men joined the fray, as did others who wanted to earn favor from one house or the other. It quickly became a street brawl, with injured men screaming and blood slicking the cobbles. Someone was giving a call to battle to strike both houses down and stop the fight, but it was of little note until I heard Balthasar shout a warning, and over Tybalt’s shoulder I saw the tall, imperious figures of Capulet and his lady wife. Capulet—elderly and gouty—was trying to call for a sword, but she foiled him in the way that wives do; meanwhile, behind me, I heard a similar argument in familiar voices.
My uncle Montague was also drawn to the fight, and my aunt was hell-bent on holding him back.
Good that the women of both houses had sense, because as I managed—again, barely—to hold off Tybalt’s next assault, I heard more shouts, and saw the flash of the prince’s liveried men pushing through and laying about with their own cudgels. Peacemakers, clouting heads to enforce the point. Behind them came the prince of Verona himself.
Tybalt and I broke off, breathing hard, glaring hate, and I realized that just this once, my cold distance was boiling away. I wanted his blood, badly as he wanted mine. There was a grudge between us, at least in my mind. . . . Rosaline, beaten and huddled in a corner, and him, wiping blood from his hands. He needed a sword in the guts to teach him better.
But it was not to happen now. There were too many witnesses, and already our men were withdrawing to safety, throwing down their weapons under the threat of angry authority. The injured were being pulled aside to make room for Prince Escalus’s advance; someone hastily threw down a cloak to prevent him from staining his shoes with the blood of victims.
He spoke. I don’t remember the speech, and did not attend the words even then, save that it ended in a threat to kill anyone who broke the peace again, whether Capulet or Montague.
I was busy staring down Tybalt. Neither of us had put away our swords, though a sharp word from my uncle finally made me—reluctantly—sheathe.
“Calm,” he whispered to me. “Calm, sir; you are in the presence of the prince, and he asks your attendance.”
He was right; this was no time to indulge my rages, and with an effort that shook me to the marrows, I controlled myself, then nodded to him to let loose. He did, seeming doubtful, but I turned from Tybalt and walked toward my uncle and aunt, the Capulets, and Prince Escalus. The prince, surrounded by his retainers, frowned upon all of us. He looked pointedly down at the cobbles, still stained with blood, and the moaning injured being helped away from the area.
My uncle, ever the politician, turned upon me. “Who broached this ancient quarrel?” His words might be neutral, but his tone was accusing. “Speak, nephew. Were you by when it began?”
I explained that it was Tybalt’s fault, in a way that might have been overly witty, given the situation and the moods of those involved; Capulet scowled at me, but he did not object, which proved to me he’d seen what had transpired, at least in part. Lady Capulet was too concerned with keeping her skirts from the blood.
My aunt, however, was more concerned—of course—with Romeo and his absence from the fight than with my own mortal danger. I was the excess elder boy; I was bred to fight Montague’s battles, after all. Romeo was meant for higher things.
I tried not to resent that. I lied, a bit; I knew he’d be blamed for having been with us at the market, and there was no reason to drag him down as well. I told my aunt most of the truth—that he had gone beyond the wall, and was in the wood. To my surprise, my uncle gave the rest of the story, though I was well prepared to provide the information Mercutio had given me.
“He’s been seen there many a morning,” Montague said, with a frown not for me, but for the worry he felt, though he was careful to keep his voice low, and his back turned toward the Capulets. “Adding tears to the fresh morning dew, and adding clouds to clouds with his sighs. Black and portentous may this humor prove, unless good counsel prevails.”