by Melinda Taub
“That shall not be needed. Thanks and good night, good Penlet. That will be all.” Escalus ushered him out, ignoring the disapproval emanating from the prim little man, and shut the door behind him.
When he turned back, Rosaline had risen from the chaise. Most of the musicians had left, but a lone lute was still picking out a melancholy air. The song drifted up through the open window, and Rosaline stood before it, dancing in the moonlight.
Escalus caught his breath. He knew, of course, that Isabella’s little friend had grown into a woman. But it was only now as she twirled, humming to herself, that he truly realized how lovely she’d become. Curls loose and wild, skin silvered by the moon—she was a captivating creature.
When she caught him looking, Rosaline smiled and extended a hand, and before he knew it she’d drawn him into her dance.
His feet followed the familiar steps as his eyes locked on hers. “I did not think thou wouldst grace me with a dance, lady.”
Her eyes were soft now. “ ’Tis lucky thou art to have it, scoundrel that thou art.”
“Scoundrel, am I?”
“Aye, ’tis the kindest word for thee, for thou didst break a young lady’s heart most grievously.” She twirled away before turning back into his arms. “Mine own, when I was seven. Never did a lady weep harder for a lost lover than I did when thou didst go away to study.”
He laughed. Her hair smelled of something sweet and springlike. Escalus wished he could pull her closer. “Thy pardon, dear playfellow. I never knew thy little heart was mine to break.”
“Oh, it was,” she said. Gaze catching his, she whispered, “It is still.”
Escalus’s eyes widened. “Rosaline—”
She kissed him.
Since the moment Escalus took Verona’s throne, practically every waking thought had been devoted to the care of his city. Even momentary pleasures, like riding Venitio, he only permitted himself so that he could attack his work with more vigor afterward. God knew Verona required all he had to give. But this was the first moment in memory when he realized just what he had given up.
Brawling families, aggressive neighboring cities, the thousand headaches Penlet brought him daily—all of it melted away, leaving nothing but the press of her lips and the warmth of her body and her arms winding round his neck. He knew she was drunk, he knew he was being dishonorable, and, God, he knew what he was going to do to her on the morrow—but still, Escalus found himself wrapping her in his arms, and, just for a moment, pulling her closer.
It was over as soon as it was begun. Rosaline pulled back, and “Oh,” she said. “Oh, I do not think I can stand anymore.”
He steadied her swaying body. “That is because you are drunk, lady.”
She blinked at him. “Oh.”
With a sigh, he tucked her against his side and helped her carefully up the stairs to his bedchamber. True to her word, she could not keep to her feet, and Escalus had to scoop her up and carry her.
As he laid her in bed, her eyes were already drooping shut. Escalus brushed a few stray curls from her cheek before stepping away. He would pass the night on the chaise downstairs. But first, he spent a few moments watching her as she slipped into a deep, trusting sleep.
When she woke, he would shatter that trust forever.
Livia slipped into Paris’s room.
She’d hoped for a few minutes alone with him, given the lateness of the hour, but as usual, her aunt was by his side. Her dark, glossy head was bent over his, murmuring something to him as her long, pale fingers stroked soothing patterns over his arm.
She looked up at the door’s creak. “Niece,” she said, not looking best pleased to see Livia. “Why art thou here so late? I thought thee at the ball.”
“ ’Tis done,” Livia said, pulling up a seat next to Paris’s bed. “ ’Tis past midnight. You ought to go to your bed, Aunt. As for me, a horrid Montague has given me such a fright that I shall have no sleep.”
Paris started at the sound of her voice and tried to sit up. “Montague? What—”
“Peace, gentle Paris.” Lady Capulet’s hand pressed him back into the bed. “Livia, what have the Montagues done this night?”
Livia helped change Paris’s bandages as she related Orlino’s offense, and the bravery of Gramio and her cousins, noting as she did so that his wound looked much better. His skin had lost its feverish heat, thanks to her care. He would soon be on his feet again.
“Gramio is a coward,” her aunt said. “He ought to have run that scoundrel through.”
Livia frowned, smoothing the edge of the bandage on Paris’s chest with her thumb. “The prince would have arrested him.”
“He should have done it in any case,” Paris’s hoarse voice said. “ ’Tis no worse than Orlino deserves.” He seized Livia’s hand, his eyes burning into hers. “When I am well again, Lady Livia, your honor shall be better defended. I swear it.”
Lady Capulet gasped. “He knows thee!” she whispered. “Oh, sweet Paris, thy wits return at last.”
Livia clutched his hand, and smiled. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her aunt smile too.
The morning sunlight sliced through Rosaline’s eyes.
With a groan, she rolled over. The sun had never seemed quite so painful to her closed lids before. Why was it so bright? And what was the matter with her blanket? It didn’t feel like hers at all—
Rosaline sat up. This wasn’t her room. This wasn’t her house.
She was still at the palace.
With a sinking stomach, Rosaline threw back the coverlet. She was relieved to find herself still fully clothed in her red silk gown, now quite wrinkled. What had happened? She remembered leaving the ball with the prince, and after that her memory began to falter. But they had not—surely, he would not—
“Good morrow, my lady.”
She turned with a gasp. There, dressed for the day and quite composedly eating a piece of bread and butter, sat the prince.
“Set your heart at rest,” he continued. “Your honor is quite intact. Not that the rest of the city is likely to believe that.” He nudged a second slice in her direction. “Breakfast?”
Rosaline raised a shaking hand to her curls, finding them in hopeless disarray. “Esc—Your Grace, what happened?”
He looked at her over the rim of a steaming mug. “What has happened,” he said, “is that I got you shamefully drunk and put you, quite chastely, to bed. Oh, I was a perfect gentleman, and you were the very picture of an honorable maiden—but Verona knows not that, do they? All they know is that you accompanied me to my private chambers. And that you were not seen to leave.”
Rosaline swallowed. Women had been driven out of their families for less. A noblewoman’s chastity was sacred. Even the hint of an indiscretion was enough to shame her forever.
What was worse, her shame would not only fall on her. No family would permit their son to marry Livia.
“My sister is long gone, by the way. ’Tis nearly ten o’clock. Very clever of you, trying to escape into her court, but her servants told mine that she was bringing two Verona sisters home with her, and it was not hard to guess whom they were. When I saw Isabella off I told her you had admitted all to me last night, that you had changed your mind about leaving Verona, and I sent her on her way. She shall miss you, but sends her love, and she is glad you have found some way of remaining in Verona.”
“Oh God. Oh God.” She buried her face in her hands. “We are ruined. Unless—” She looked up at Escalus. “You can save us. Please, my lord. You can, can—” She tried to stand, but a wave of nausea swept her back to the bed. “Tell the city—” What? That she had passed the night in his bed, drunk?
“I shall let it be known that you passed the night with my sister,” Escalus said. “ ’Tis well known you are friends. ’Twill be believed.”
He was right. That would work. Rosaline hated to lie, but for Livia, she would. “Thank you, Your Gra—”
“Or,” he said, “I could say nothing. And let
Verona think of you what it will.”
An icy fist seemed to grip Rosaline’s heart. Slowly, she sank back down to the edge of the bed. Suddenly this strange morning began to make a terrible kind of sense. “You planned this.”
“Yes.”
“What do you want?”
“You know what I want.”
Rosaline laced her fingers together. She stared at her white knuckles and said not a word.
“I will tell your uncle this afternoon that you have agreed to wed Benvolio,” her sovereign said. “In a fortnight, I will formally announce your betrothal before the city. Shortly thereafter, you will wed him. If you do this, I will save you and your sister from dishonor at your hands.”
Rosaline pressed her eyes shut. In her mind, she could see the little dark-haired girl who had loved her prince with all her might—who had never quite stopped loving him.
When she opened her eyes, the little girl was gone for good.
Did Escalus see some of this in her face? Did he care? She thought he flinched when their eyes met, but before she could be sure, his cool, regal mask was back in place.
“As my sovereign commands,” she said with a deep curtsy. False-faced cur.
Knavery’s plain face is never seen till us’d.
—Othello
BENVOLIO OF MONTAGUE. BETROTHED. He could scarcely believe it. He’d tried to prepare for it—he’d known that Rosaline’s fit of temper would come to naught in the end, for what citizen of Verona, no matter how curst and shrewish, could flaunt the prince’s will? But in spite of himself, the obstinate gleam in Rosaline’s eye as they danced at the prince’s ball had given him hope that she would succeed in destroying the match.
Now two weeks later they stood in the town square, before a crowd of merchants, nobles, and peasants. Benvolio wore his best doublet; at his side Rosaline was still as a statue in a pale green gown, white flowers in her hair. Beside her, looking no happier than she, was her great-aunt. The Duchess of Vitruvio stood straight and haughty, eyes scanning far out into the crowd, as if by ignoring everyone gathered on the dais for the betrothal, she could prevent it from happening. They were also flanked by their uncles, perhaps for appearance’s sake, perhaps to ensure that they did not try to run. Benvolio could not speak for the lady, but he for one had certainly tried to calculate how quickly he could make it out the city gates. But unlike the Capulet shrew, he knew his duty. If the prince and his uncle said he must marry, marry he would.
“… And so Rosaline, niece to Lord Capulet, shall wed Montague’s heir, Benvolio,” the prince was saying to the assemblage below them. “And their love shall kill their families’ hate. Their wedding day two weeks hence shall be a feast day for all Verona.”
A great cheer went up at that. Benvolio glanced at his bride. Rosaline looked fairer than ever, but her eyes were like two agate stones. Their love. Hah. If neither of them slew the other in their sleep, Benvolio would count his marriage a great success.
Rosaline’s eyes met his for a moment, then slid away. Beside her, her great-aunt’s jaw was clenched grimly. Then her eyes narrowed, fixed on the distant corner of the market square. Puzzled, Benvolio followed her gaze. At first he could not see what had drawn her eyes, but then he saw something stirring. Something was happening in the rear of the crowd. The cheers were giving way to shouts of confusion. As they surged forward, Benvolio could see what the commotion was about.
A cart with three passengers drove through the crowd. The driver, who wore a black mask over his face, struck the onlookers mercilessly with a whip till he could push his way through the square. As the cart drew near, Benvolio drew in a sharp breath. The other two passengers were actually dummies made of tarred rags, one in bridal white—cruel effigies, he realized, of himself and Rosaline.
“A wedding gift to bless this foul union!” the masked driver cried. He threw a torch down on the cart, which burst into flame, and then leapt out into the crowd. The square filled with cries of terror as the flames crackled across the wooden frame, engulfing the two effigies. The flaming figures melted toward each other in a ghastly embrace.
“Montague treachery! Seize him!” a voice called.
“Liar! To arms, Capulets!”
The prince raised his arms. “People of Verona—”
But the crowd, roiling with panic and rage, was beyond even the prince’s ability to control. The smell of fire mingled with the stench of fear as they stampeded forward over the dais. Benvolio saw a flash of green and turned in time to see Rosaline fall beneath the racing feet of what was quickly becoming a riot. Shouldering his way through the press of bodies, he managed to pull her back to her feet, only to have her ripped from his side immediately.
As Benvolio turned, seeking her, he spied a black-clad figure disappearing onto a roof.
With a curse, he pushed his way to the edge of the square. How had the devil—he looked up. Ah. The stalls that lined the square were overshaded with cloth awnings. Seizing a corner over a fruit stall, Benvolio hauled himself up, using it to clamber onto the roof. Several buildings away, the man in black ran.
Benvolio pelted after him, his hands and knees soon covered in orange dust from scrambling over the steep slants of Verona’s close-set rooftops. The man he chased was fleet of foot, but he was no match for Benvolio’s determination. When the man stumbled, Benvolio leapt across the alley and was upon him.
“Now,” he panted, ignoring the man’s muffled curses as he wrestled him over, “let us see what knave—”
He ripped the mask off. It was Orlino.
Benvolio growled. “Is there no end to your treachery, cousin?”
Orlino fought like a wild beast beneath him, pausing only to spit in his face. “No cousin of mine are you. You sully the name of Montague, you craven dog-hearted foot-licker!” A crazed grin appeared on Orlino’s face. “ ’Tis why I agreed to give my aid.”
Benvolio gave him a shake. “Aid to whom? Who guided you into this mischief, Orlino?”
But Orlino’s struggles had crumbled the masonry beneath them, and suddenly they were sliding toward the edge of the roof. They were atop a church, and its steep roof offered nothing to stop their slide. Benvolio’s feet scrambled for purchase. One crash sounded, then another, as the bits of masonry he’d broken fell to earth far beneath them. Orlino took advantage of Benvolio’s imbalance to throw him off and gain a grip on his sword. Benvolio, clinging to the roof with both hands, could not reach his own. Orlino staggered to his feet, pointing his blade toward Benvolio.
A flash of green below him on the street was all he saw before something flew through the air and struck Orlino hard on the side of the head. Benvolio did not stop to wonder what it was. In the moment that it distracted his cousin, he managed to hook a foot in the eaves and hoist himself back onto the roof. Orlino tried to dance back out of his reach, but he’d forgotten how close the edge was. For a moment he seemed to hang suspended, eyes wide and locked with Benvolio’s. Then he plunged out of sight and Benvolio shuddered as he heard him hit the ground in the alley below.
“B-Benvolio?”
Benvolio crawled toward the front of the roof. Below him on the street, white-faced, wide-eyed, and dirt-streaked, stood Rosaline. She wore only one shoe. That explained what had hit Orlino.
When she saw him, she waved, then disappeared from sight. Half a minute later, she reappeared when she opened the shutters to an upstairs window.
“Benvolio, come to me. Canst thou climb safely in here?”
“Aye, I thank thee, lady.”
He made his way over to the window, crawling in to find himself in a small attic chamber hung with dried herbs. Rosaline gave a shaky sigh when his feet landed solidly on the floor. “Thou art well,” she breathed. “Oh God, sir, I thought—”
He shook his head. “I am unhurt, thanks to thee.”
She leaned out, trying to crane her neck to see where Orlino had fallen. “Is he—”
“Look not.” Benvolio reached out a hand to cup her
brown curls, turning her face away from the unmoving body below.
“Heaven help us,” Rosaline whispered. “It begins again.”
Benvolio nodded. “Like before.” Death, treachery, endless hate. It was hard to breathe at the thought.
Rosaline turned wide eyes to meet his. “No,” she said. “Not like before. Didst thou not note how Orlino decried us both without naming himself a Montague, so both families would believe they were under attack from the other? Someone did this on purpose. Perhaps the same soul who defiled Juliet’s grave.”
“Orlino—”
“Not Orlino. He is a hothead, nothing more. Someone else is rekindling our family’s war.”
She was right. Orlino was not clever enough to plan something like this. Benvolio stood beside her at the window as she stared out over the city spread beneath them. A cool breeze ruffled his hair. Somewhere below was someone who planned to destroy them—no, someone who had already begun.
“I’ll not allow it,” Rosaline said.
“What?”
Rosaline turned to him, her chin raised. “Our families have sworn peace. Whether these vicious mischief-makers be within our ranks or yours, they speak not for us. Only if we can reveal their treachery may this war truly end.”
Benvolio shook his head. “And how are we to find them, pray? And if we do, why should they heed the protestations of a callow youth and a shrewish virgin? ’Tis folly, lady.”
“Marry, is it? I shall make no protestations, I, but throw them to the prince’s justice, whosoe’er they may be.”
He barked a laugh at that. “Of course you will, sweet, gentle Rosaline. But pray do not assume that your frigid disdain for your kin is how I feel toward the Montagues. I’ve no interest in sending my blood to the prince’s jail like common criminals.”
“Your devotion to House Montague is nothing if you willfully harbor poison within its walls. Or are you too much a coward to cast it out, Montague?”
Dear lord, the woman could talk a man into believing day was night. He turned away from her, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “No coward I, and were you a man I’d cross swords with you for saying so.”
