by Melinda Taub
She waved this off. “If your duty to your much-loved Montagues is not enough to move you, consider this,” she continued. “If we can bring a natural peace betwixt our two houses, what need will there be to force an unnatural one?”
He turned to her, puzzled. An unnatural peace? What did she— Ah. “We’d not have to marry.”
Rosaline’s arms were crossed, one delicate eyebrow raised. “For that boon, I think,” she said drily, “you’d send a dozen Montagues to the gallows.”
“I had rather ’twere Capulets.” He grinned. This plan had suddenly grown more attractive. “Very well, sweet unloved bride, what are we to do?”
“Well, detested husband,” she said. “Firstly, we are to get out of this attic.”
He nodded and made for the door. But Rosaline cried out before going three steps, crumpling to the ground. He darted back to her side. “My lady?”
She shook her head, trying to straighten up. “I twisted my ankle in my flight. ’Tis nothing.” But when she tried to put weight on her bare foot she hissed in pain.
Benvolio slid an arm about her waist. “Lean on me.”
Their trip down the stairs became a slow progression as Benvolio half pulled and half carried her down. He could feel her quick breaths jerking unevenly against his hand whenever her left foot touched down, but she uttered not a sound of complaint.
He felt a twinge of shame at what the feud had made of him. Who was he to spurn someone like her? His family’s hate was jealous. It demanded as much devotion as a lover. Benvolio was not blind; he knew it was no common armful of beauty pressed against his side. Truly, most young men of Verona would envy him his luck.
But most young men’s dearest friends were not slain by the Capulet she-wolf’s pride, his mind whispered in Mercutio’s voice. Thou art no unskillful lover of women, Benvolio. Go and find thee out one that never killed your cousin. Better yet, find a dozen.
And there it was, he thought, trying to ignore the feel of her body against his as he slid her to the ground. Clever she might be, and beautiful—but were it not for her, Romeo would live still. He would ally himself with her for the moment only to ensure that they could soon dissolve their betrothal and part ways for good.
As they made their way down the stairs, he thought he heard Romeo’s laugh.
Rosaline seized the first opportunity to shed his arms. As soon as they reached the bottom of the stair, she pushed him aside and started forward on her own—whereupon her ankle gave out immediately. Benvolio sighed and tucked her under his arm once more.
They had just passed the chapel doorway when a voice within cried out, “Halt, scoundrels!”
Turning, they found a monk in a brown cassock hurrying toward them. His normally gentle face was set in a scowl. “What mischief have you and your kin been at this time, Benvolio?” He glanced at Rosaline. “And what poor maid is now entangled in it?”
Benvolio gave a tight smile to his old schoolmaster. “Lady Rosaline,” Benvolio said, “may I present Friar Laurence?”
Rosaline narrowed her eyes, but swept him a curtsy as best she could. “Good morrow, Father, I have heard tell of you.”
“And I of you, my daughter.”
Benvolio could see at a glance that each of them knew the other’s role in the summer’s violence. Friar Laurence had taught all the Montague boys, and had been a special confidant of Romeo’s. It was he who had secretly married Romeo and Juliet—and, Benvolio suspected, he who had listened to Romeo’s earlier moonings over Rosaline, probably more patiently than Benvolio had. “Father,” he said, “we mean no mischief. ’Twas my kinsman Orlino who caused this morning’s strife in the square, but he, poor wretch, will trouble the world no more.”
“Will he not?” The friar glared. “Was’t not he, then, knocked me from my feet not five minutes since?”
Benvolio froze. “Orlino lives?”
“Aye, though he did run from this place as if all the hounds of hell pursued him.”
He must have been just stunned, then, when he fell from the roof. Benvolio didn’t know whether to be glad or not that his villainous kinsman’s life had not been cut short. “I promise you, Father, his discourtesy will be added to the lengthy ledger of his crimes when I catch him.” He tried to stride forward, but he’d forgotten Rosaline’s injury. She could not match his pace and stumbled, clutching his doublet as she hissed in a pained breath.
“Your pardon, lady,” he said as he righted her.
Friar Laurence hurried over, pulling Rosaline from him. “Come inside. You had better tell me all.”
The throbbing in her ankle soon died down.
By the time they had told the friar what they knew of Orlino’s treachery, the cool poultice he had applied to Rosaline’s foot had sapped the pain. She wished the nurse would take some lessons from him.
“And so the poisonous flower of your families’ hate buds once more,” Friar Laurence said quietly as he bent over her, gentle hands wrapping a bandage around her foot. “ ’Tis no surprise, when it has always had such diligent gardeners.” One of his brothers had retrieved Rosaline’s shoe from the roof, and now he slipped it back on her foot.
Benvolio had not ceased pacing since they had arrived in the friar’s cell. “Is she sound, Father? If so, prithee see her home so that I may be off. With every moment, Orlino puts more distance between himself and justice.”
The friar shook his head. “I cannot, my son. Thou must needs see thy betrothed home thyself.” At the sounds of disgust from both Benvolio and Rosaline at the word betrothed, he laughed. “Such a pair you are,” he said. “ ’Twas but weeks ago, in the heat of July, that just such a young Montague and Capulet stood before me, mad to be married. And now August wanes and Providence has sent another pair, just as mad not to.”
“Aye,” Benvolio said, helping Rosaline once more to her feet. “We’re as different from Juliet and Romeo as night from day. For one thing, I’ve heard Juliet had a civil tongue in her head.”
Rosaline tossed her head. “ ’Tis true, I’ve none of my cousin’s fatal weakness for Montagues, and thank God for that.”
“Nor for any other man. For what man of Verona could warm thee so well as thy darling pride does?”
“None, for men of Verona have far more skill at leaving ladies cold in their graves.” She looked at the friar, who was giving them a rather cryptic smile. “What?”
“As different as night from night,” he murmured.
Benvolio frowned. “What mean’st thou, Father?”
He shook his head. “Nothing. I am sorry, young Benvolio, but I must go. In two days’ time shall I depart Verona.” He stood, wiping the medicine from his hands with a cloth. “The prince has made it clear that, for my part in this summer’s sad events, I am no longer welcome here, so I shall join my brothers some leagues off at a monastery in the countryside.”
“Thou, Father?” Benvolio said. “Of all of us, thou art the least to blame.”
Father Laurence gave him a weak smile and squeezed his shoulder. “Thanks, my son.” He sighed. “But the prince blames me far less than I blame myself. ’Twas mine own pride that led me to believe I could end the feud simply by marrying Romeo to Juliet. Their youth, which sped them to such a rash and hasty union, ought to have been tempered by my wisdom; instead, I spurred them on. Exile is the least that I deserve.”
“If you deserve exile, so do we all,” Benvolio said.
But Friar Laurence merely shook his head. He led them to the doorway of the church, grasping each by the shoulder. “God be with you,” he said. “If, whether by marriage or some other design that you pursue, you can heal this breach within your families, the shades of Montagues, Capulets, and Mercutio will thank you.”
“Paris too,” pointed out Rosaline.
The hand on her shoulder stiffened. “Aye,” the friar said after a moment. “Paris too. Fare you well now, and take heed of what passed today—one who could set your effigies aflame is not likely to hesitate to cause you
real injury. You know not where the adder hides her sting.”
Benvolio and Rosaline made their way out into the street, turning up the hill toward her home. Benvolio looked back over Rosaline’s head to where the friar stood in the doorway, watching them. There was something strange about his old teacher’s manner. Probably it was just the grief that afflicted them all—but it occurred to Benvolio to wonder if the friar was hiding something.
Deep in Verona’s night, Orlino laughed.
Verona was still in chaos after the day’s events. The prince’s guards had calmed the worst of the unrest, but it was a momentary respite. Throughout in the city, hands rested on swords, and Montague and Capulet were on everyone’s lips. It was only a matter of time before the two families threw off this womanish peace forced on them by the prince and went to war. Then he and his brethren could crush the treacherous Capulets once and for all.
Orlino could not go home, for he was sure that his cousin was waiting for him. Benvolio, who soiled the very name of Montague. Orlino would enjoy striking him down just as much as he would the Capulets.
So he continued to wander the streets, keeping to the shadows. Unmasked, he was merely one more black-clad noble. Verona’s citizens took no notice of him except to give him a wide berth.
As the clock chimed midnight, the streets at last were empty. Orlino thought about contacting his benefactress—surely she could shelter him in her home, wherever that might be. But no, she’d said not to contact her this night. And Orlino’s blood was still too hot for sleep, anyway.
He wondered once again who she might be. Some great and noble lady, of that there was no doubt. They’d met but once, and he’d not seen her face. Come to Friar Laurence’s closet when he is at Mass, her note had said, slipped under his door by unseen hands. He’d arrived to find her already in the confessional, in the priest’s seat, so that he could not see her face.
“I am one who knows well how right the Montague cause is,” she’d said. “And how much you are an honorable young soul, Orlino. I believe we can help one another.”
“Orlino.”
Orlino started, his hand flying to his sword. His wanderings had led him back to the cemetery where he’d first encountered the Capulet wench Rosaline. Peering into the darkness where the torches barely reached, he saw another black-clad figure, masked as he had been.
“Who goes there?” Orlino called. “Are you one of her—”
“Draw your sword.”
“What?”
The slither of steel, and then a glint in the darkness. “Draw your sword, Montague.”
Orlino’s sword was scarcely unsheathed before the stranger’s steel rang against his. Stumbling backward, trying to keep his footing, Orlino quickly realized himself outmatched. He was a skilled swordsman, but his opponent seemed not even human, hand and arm and sword all part of one night-born creature.
“Who are you?” Orlino panted, desperately parrying the stranger’s thrusts. “Show yourself, devil.”
The masked man made no answer, except with his steel. Orlino cried out as the blade pierced his belly. The last sight his dimming eyes ever saw was his unknown killer, vanishing once more into the shadows.
Said Livia, “My lord, thou must be still.” She put a hand on his chest and pushed, sending him back into his pillows with a groan. She took off his linens, freeing him from the sweat-dampened bedsheets that clung to his frame. “Thy fever may have broken, but thou art by no means out of danger. Stay abed or I shall tie thee down.”
“Forgive me, lady.” Paris smiled up at her. “Canst thou blame me? These four walls grow ever more wearisome. ’Tis unnatural for a man to so rely on women’s aid, when ’tis I who ought to protect thee.”
“All the more reason to rest, so thou canst leave these four walls without swooning after a half-dozen paces.”
He gave her a pleading look but said, “Wisdom I shall heed. Now tell me, lady. What news from Verona?”
His eyes were clear and bright, his gaze steady. In the fortnight since the prince’s ball he’d steadily climbed back toward health. His wits had returned and his wound was healing nicely, though he was still as weak as a child. Settling herself by his bedside, Livia told him of the skirmish in the marketplace at Rosaline’s betrothal earlier that day.
“By my troth,” Paris said, “a spectacle unfit for a lady’s eyes and ears. Thou and thy sister were unhurt?”
Livia sighed. “I’ faith, Rosaline’s betrothal gown shall ne’er be worn again, which I count a shame, for I had hoped to make it over for myself. And some clotpole trod upon her ankle, but Friar Laurence gave her a poultice for it. He says it is only bruised and she shall be able to walk tomorrow. And as for me, I was not even there. She told me she’d no wish for me to see her yoked to the Montague and bade me stay at home.” She pouted. “And hence I missed all the excitement.”
Paris lay back against the fresh pillow she’d laid for him, a faint smile on his face. “Thy honorable sister is right to keep you as far from all Montagues as possible. I would not have thee come to any harm.”
Her cheeks warmed, but she replied only, “Rosaline says our own dear Capulets have just as great a part in this deviltry.”
He sighed. “Perhaps she is right. This feud of yours is a hard knot to untangle. And those it ensnares are hard pressed to escape.” He brushed a hand over his bandages. “As I know well.”
“Thou’lt go, then?” Livia swallowed. “When thou art well—dost thou plan to leave Verona, as my aunt Capulet suggests?”
Paris laid gentle fingers against her hand. “Let us talk no more of such sad matters.” Reaching for the chess set at his bedside, he hid two pieces within his closed fists. “Black or white?”
“Well, Rosaline, where are we to begin?”
Rosaline leaned out of the window of her cottage to find her betrothed lord awaiting her below. When he looked up and spied her, he grinned and waved, his other hand shielding his eyes against the morning sun. Rosaline could not help but smile in return. Swiftly, she ran down to the front hall and joined him. “Good morrow, Benvolio. Why so pleased, pray?”
“Not pleased, my lady, but eager.” He bounded into her hall. “This plan of yours I like more and more. ’Tis the first moment I have had any profitable occupation in weeks.” If he found it strange to make a social call on a cottage tucked at the back of the Duchess of Vitruvio’s lands, he did not show it, but looked around her bare hall in appreciation. “I like well your house. ’Tis not so crowded with knacks and trifles as my mother’s.” He unsheathed his sword, doing a few exuberant passes with an invisible opponent.
A scream issued from the stairs. Benvolio ducked as a chair came flying at his head. Rosaline turned to find Livia glaring at him, hands on her hips. “Back, villain!” she yelled.
Rosaline sighed. “Benvolio, may I present my sister, Livia.” She looked at the shattered chair. “She is the reason, as thou canst see, that our house possesses such a pleasing lack of furniture.”
Benvolio turned to Livia, who had seized another chair and seemed prepared to drop it over the banister, and carefully sheathed his sword. “Your pardon, lady, I pray. I meant no harm.”
“Hmm.” Livia’s eyes narrowed, but she withdrew the chair, muttering something in which Rosaline could discern the word “Montague.”
Gathering up the pieces of the chair, Rosaline turned to Benvolio. “Let us start with Orlino. Has he been found? If we can speak to him—”
“Orlino’s dead.”
“What?”
Livia was coming down the stairs, her narrowed eyes still fixed on Benvolio. “Orlino’s dead,” she repeated. “Did you not hear, Montague? His sword-slain body was discovered last night near the cemetery. I heard it in the market this morning.”
All the mirth drained from Benvolio. He leaned against the wall. “Dead,” he repeated. “Orlino dead. Slain.”
“I shall not mourn him,” Livia said, arms crossed. “Another Montague the city is better witho
ut.”
“Livia!” Rosaline scolded. “Speak not so of his kin.”
“I shall speak however I please of one that has done you such dishonor, Rosaline. He was a scoundrel and I hated him. Those who will not admit Orlino’s villainy, kin or no, deserve no better than he.” With a final glare at Benvolio, she turned and went back upstairs.
Rosaline pinched the bridge of her nose. “My lord, my sister means no harm—”
Benvolio held up a hand to stop her. “She’s right. ’Twas quite clear my cousin would come to no good end.” He drew a deep breath. “And this changes nothing. We must still start with Orlino, must we not?”
“Aye,” Rosaline agreed. “With his death.”
Accordingly they made their way to the cemetery. Rosaline hid a shiver as they passed through its gates. She had not been here since Orlino had attacked her; by day it looked quite different than it had that frightening night, but still, she could almost feel Orlino’s hands upon her as she spied the crypt he’d dragged her behind. Benvolio glanced at her sidelong. He said nothing, but drew her arm through his.
“Where do you suppose it happened?” he asked.
Rosaline looked round. The cemetery seemed tranquil and calm, no sign that it had ever been disturbed by the strife of the night before. The city’s dead slept quietly in a graveyard quite deserted. Or—no, not quite deserted, or entirely quiet.
“In youth when I did love, did love,
Methought it was very sweet;
To contract, O, the time for, ah, my behove,
O, methought there was nothing a-meet.”
“Hark,” Rosaline said. “Hear you this song?”
“Aye.” They made their way toward the voice, walking up a little knoll toward the Montague sector of the cemetery.
“But age with his stealing steps
Hath clawed me in his clutch,
And hath shipped me intil the land,
As if I had never been such.”
