Still Star-Crossed

by Melinda Taub

  No figure appeared even as the voice got louder, and for a fearful, idiotic moment Rosaline thought it must belong to a ghost. Then as they surmounted the hill, she realized why she had not seen anyone: The voice issued from an open grave, singing in time to upflung shovelfuls of dirt.

  “A pickaxe and a spade, a spade,

  For and a shrouding sheet;

  O, a pit of clay for to be made

  For such a guest is meet.”

  “Good morrow, master gravedigger,” Benvolio called. “We would speak a word with you. Pray, will you spare us a moment from your song?”

  Half of a dirty face peered over the rim of the grave. “ ’Tis a jolly song, is’t not, masters? I had it from a cousin of mine who lived among the Danes. Ah! He has gone up in the world, for he has buried princes and queens, whiles my humble self has never buried better than a count. And when I did so, the coffin was delivered closed, and I was not considered fit to see the noble body.” He looked affronted.

  Benvolio looked rather taken aback at this, but Rosaline laughed. “Well, all men are equal in heaven,” she said. “He that interred our Savior buried not a king.”

  “No, nor did he do the job right,” grunted the gravedigger as he hoisted himself out of the hole, “for his work undid itself afore a month was out. Ah!” His eyes lit up as his gaze landed on Benvolio and Rosaline. “My patrons! Your pardon, lords and ladies, I knew not that I addressed my benefactors.” He bowed and swept off his hat, clods of earth showering from the brim.

  Benvolio cocked his head. “Patrons? What mean you, sirrah?”

  “Marry”—the man beamed—“does not the poet live through the patronage of great nobles, who do commission him to write sonnets to their beauty and wisdom? Does not the painter earn his bread through flattering portraits of lords and ladies? Well, here in Verona, those who practice the grave arts have no greater or more generous patrons than Houses Montague and Capulet.”

  Benvolio was scowling beside her, arms folded across his chest, but Rosaline found herself rather amused. At least someone had found some small share of joy among the misery their families had caused. “I suppose we have given you a great deal of trade this season,” she said. “You should tell the prince of your love for our houses’ feud. He is certain it benefits none in Verona. ’Tis clear he has quite forgotten the gravediggers.”

  “Aye, lady,” the man said solemnly, “but by the time I meet with such a great one, he’ll have no use for conversation but with Saint Peter.” He sighed. “And truly, I doubt I shall even have a chance at that, for the prince is a young man. But there again, this is Verona. Nobles die young.”

  “Master gravedigger,” Benvolio interrupted, “we come to ask you—”

  “Young master Benvolio, well met!” The gravedigger shook him by the hand. “I recall you carrying your friend’s coffin into his grave. A fine funeral, that. Sometimes your houses use those crypts, which leaves my hands idle but for sweeping out a clean place for the fresh bones. But young Mercutio had a proper hole in the ground. Such weeping there was for him! But you, sir, you were ever strong, even as those around you wailed and moaned. If I meet with a family looking for a steady coffin-bearer, I’ll tell them, call on young Benvolio. He’ll do you proud.”

  Steady Benvolio might be, but Rosaline thought she could see the Montague temper begin to rise. She laid a calming hand on his sword arm. “Good master gravedigger, we thank thee for thy kind words. For the sake of the love thou bearest our families, wilt thou help us now?”

  “Aye, lady. Anything for such a frequent mourner. What’s your will?”

  “We are told Benvolio’s cousin was slain here last night.”

  “Oh, aye,” the gravedigger said, pointing up the hill. “ ’Twas the fiercest fight that e’er I saw.”

  Benvolio clutched Rosaline’s arm. “You were there?” he demanded. “Pray tell us what passed.”

  The gravedigger cast a dubious glance at his half-dug grave, and Rosaline plucked Benvolio’s purse from his side and offered the man a few coins. “There’s for thy pains, sirrah. We shall not keep thee long.”

  “Well,” the gravedigger said as he pocketed the coins, “the dead are nothing if not patient,” and he led them up the hill.

  “Here,” he said as they reached the summit, where a small grove of trees shielded the place from the rest of the cemetery. “I was a-digging for the grave of a young lady lately dead of consumption and I had stopped to sup, when young Montague comes from yonder”—he pointed back the way they had come, toward town—“with a frightful look upon his face. I had thought to call out, to pay him my respects as I did you, my lord and lady, but he walked on without seeing me. Before he had gone ten steps the other man was there, sword a-waving.”

  “Thou saw’st him, then,” Rosaline said. “Who was he?”

  The gravedigger shrugged. “Who can say? He was masked, and all in black. He could have been this one here, for all I could tell.” He nodded to Benvolio. “Though you’ve never killed a soul, have you, Master Benvolio?” He looked disapproving at the lack of murders to Benvolio’s name.

  “Did he speak?” Rosaline said.

  “But to say, ‘Draw your sword, Montague.’ ”

  “Naught else?”

  “Nay. My lord Orlino did as he was told, they had at it, and then the masked one slew Orlino as quick as you could spit and went back the way he’d come.”

  “Which way?”

  The gravedigger waved toward the main entrance to the cemetery. “And that’s all I saw, gentles.” Rosaline nodded. “Our thanks.”

  The gravedigger doffed his cap again before returning to his grave. Rosaline and Benvolio made their way toward the gates, which stood open and unguarded as usual. “And hereupon, our attacker vanished.” Benvolio sighed as they surveyed the gates from the hill up above. “Without leaving a hint of his identity.”

  Rosaline shook her head. “He did leave us a trace or two. Orlino was a strong swordsman, was he not?”

  “Aye, he was a fair hand with his steel, though he had not the wit to know when to draw it.”

  “And yet the stranger slew him. Therefore we may surmise the killer was one supremely skilled with the blade. How many men of Verona could best Orlino, think’st thou?”

  Benvolio shrugged. “Perhaps a dozen or two, lady. Andreus of Millamet, Viscount Matteo—Sir Valentine on a good day.”

  She frowned. “Fewer than that, I think. Marry, thou wast thyself injured in tangling with Orlino. If Orlino could wound the finest swordsman in Verona, there cannot be many who could best him.” She realized that Benvolio had stopped walking, and turned to find him looking at her oddly. “My lord?”

  He was trying to hold back a smile. “The finest swordsman in Verona, lady?”

  Rosaline felt a slight heat flush her cheeks. She’d been so deep in her pondering that she had not realized she’d accidentally given the Montague a compliment. “I have seen you defeat four men at once,” she said stiffly. “I speak not to flatter you, sir.”

  “I know it well, and I am all the more flattered by praise from one who had rather tear out her own tongue than ascribe to me any virtue.”

  She narrowed her eyes at his impertinent grin and started to retort, but something over his shoulder caught her eye. She gripped his arm, turning him. “Benvolio—”

  “I see it.” All mirth abruptly left him.

  They were standing at the top of the hill overlooking the cemetery’s gates, framed by the statues of Romeo and Juliet. HARLOT was once more painted across Juliet’s face.

  It was suddenly too much for Rosaline. Rage boiled within her like a pot overflowing. Wrenching free of Benvolio’s restraining arm, she tumbled down the hill. Once she had reached the gates, she clambered up the base of Juliet’s statue, whipping her scarf off and using it to scrub at Jule’s face.

  “Rosaline,” Benvolio said behind her. His gentle plea only infuriated her. She scrubbed harder until he firmly pulled her down. “Rosa
line, ’tis no good, the word is dried fast.”

  The sensible part of her knew that he was right—her pains were for naught. But, as she was beginning to realize was quite common when Benvolio was by, the sensible part of her was drowned out by something fiercer. She rounded on him, shoving ineffectually at his chest as his arms drew her down to earth.

  “Who did this?” she demanded, still trying to fight her way free of him.

  “Faith, I know not—”

  “Lies! Didst thou lead me to this place on purpose to mock me with this latest outrage? Wilt thou carry the tale of my distress back home for the Montagues to laugh over at the supper table?”

  “Thou knowest right well I’ll do no such thing—”

  “I know not the depths Montague duplicity may plumb—”

  “Rosaline!”

  His abrupt bark froze her hysteria for an instant, but it was his hands gripping hers that silenced her tirade.

  “I am innocent of this slander, lady,” he said softly, eyes burning into hers. “And well dost thou know it.”

  “They will not let her rest,” she whispered. “Little Jule’s end was so terrible, and they will not let her rest.”

  “I know. And thou hast my word that I will make them pay for it.”

  She shook her head slowly. “Who would do this to poor Jule?”

  Her fury drained as swiftly as it had come. He spoke the truth. Despite her momentary fury, she knew it was not Benvolio who had done this to her cousin.

  When had she come to trust him, she wondered? Benvolio, who had, on the day they met, all but called her a murderess—when had he become something like a friend?

  In confusion, she pulled her gaze from his, and something caught her eye. She fell to her knees at the base of Juliet’s statue, motioning for Benvolio to follow her.

  “No, you did not do this,” she said. “Nor did any other man.” She pointed to a corner, where a bit of the paint that marred Juliet’s face had spilled, staining the white marble. Imprinted in the paint was a pattern of smudged bumps and depressions, like a footprint. But it was no footprint.

  Benvolio knelt at her side, running his fingers over the marks. “What is it?” he said. “I’ve never seen aught like it.”

  “I have,” Rosaline said. “In mine own kitchen, when I spilled a jug of wine on the floor. ’Tis such a pattern made by the beaded trains upon the dresses ladies of Verona are wearing this season. The statue’s defiler was a woman. And if ’tis so, I know where we must go next.”

  Benvolio could not stop fidgeting.

  Rosaline shot him a quelling look as they waited at the gate. “Be still,” she hissed.

  “ ’Tis all very well for you,” he whispered in her ear. “She’s your great-aunt. You live here.”

  Rosaline shook her head, clasping her hands in front of her. “As you saw, the cottage I share with Livia is tucked away in the back of my aunt’s lands. I rarely come up to her house, and never uninvited.”

  “Still, you’ve Capulet blood. I may be the first Montague in a generation to beg an audience at this house.”

  The Duchess of Vitruvio had ruled Verona’s elite social circles for decades. Rumors, secrets, scraps of gossip—all of it found its way to her. If anyone had a notion of which of Verona’s ladies had defaced her granddaughter’s statue, it would be her. Rosaline had pointed out that she was their best chance, and Benvolio had been forced to agree. But not happily.

  “Then you’d better make a good impression, had you not?” Her hand gripped his to stay his nervous jingling of his change purse. “Be still, I say.”

  He gave her a glare, but subsided. “Harpy.”

  “Clotpole.”

  He slumped sulkily just to vex her. Rosaline gave him a sharp dig in the ribs. He straightened just as the gate opened. The hulking manservant announced, “Duchess Francesca will see you now, Lady Rosaline.” Throwing Benvolio a wary look, he added grudgingly, “And your companion.”

  As they trailed him into the house, Benvolio shot her a glance and was surprised to that find her eyes now held a spark of mirth. “Doth my cold welcome amuse thee?” he whispered.

  “Not the welcome, sir, but the aggrieved look upon thy face. Poor hurt fowl.”

  “I am, after all, a bloody-minded Montague,” he whispered back. “Perhaps I am unused to being insulted by one I may not correct with my sword.”

  The servant looked over his shoulder in disapproval as Rosaline endeavored to turn a snort of laughter into a cough, then sent Benvolio a reproachful look. He smirked. As they drew to the end of the hall, she leaned in close to whisper, “If you feel the need to slay Duchess Francesca, I for one shall not stay your hand.”

  He drew back to find her looking at him, one eyebrow raised, a small merry smile on her lips.

  “Well, come in, stand not whispering outside the door.”

  Benvolio gave one last tug at his doublet, self-consciously smoothing the Montague crest on his sash, and then followed the imperious voice’s command, trailing Rosaline into one of the grandest parlors he’d seen outside of the prince’s palace. The duchess had been a Capulet herself, before she’d wed the Duke of Vitruvio, now long dead. Her branch of the family was not quite so wealthy as that she’d wed her daughter to, and her husband’s wealth was his title, not his lands. But his was an old and venerated line, and the greatest of their remaining glory seemed to be gathered in this one room—silken and velvet pillows piled on mahogany chairs, a gilded mosaic on the floor, and the walls adorned with enormous portraits of the duchess’s ancestors, each frowning more severely than the last.

  The haughtiest face of all belonged to Duchess Francesca herself, ensconced in an enormous brocade chair at the center of the room. She regarded them, unmoving, as Rosaline made her a curtsy and Benvolio bowed.

  “Well, niece?” she said. “Why hast thou brought this creature before me?”

  Rosaline smiled. Benvolio was beginning to admire her ability to do that when she so clearly longed to strangle someone. “As well you know, Your Grace, ‘this creature’ is to be my husband.”

  The duchess’s eyes narrowed. “That’s as time shall try.”

  Rosaline’s face was all innocence. “Know you of some reason we may not be wed?”

  “When a betrothal celebration ends in flames and a riot, ’tis natural to wonder if the wedding day will ever arrive. Go to, girl, do not waste my time. I know right well thou lov’st not this Montague. Indeed, I loved thee the better for thy defiance. Why didst thou agree to wed him, in the end? How did the prince persuade thee? ’Twas ne’er for the sake of duty, nor for thy family, thou sly thing.” Her gaze raked down Benvolio’s form. “He’s handsome enough, I suppose. But wert thou a maid to be swayed by a handsome face or by pretty words of love, thou wouldst have wed his cousin Romeo. He was the handsomer, and the richer too.”

  Rosaline and Benvolio exchanged glances. As they’d expected, the duchess knew all. “My reasons are mine own,” Rosaline said.

  “Aye, thou keep’st ever thine own council. ’Tis why I have let thee live so long upon my charity. Thou and thy sister need less care than my hounds.”

  “You are kind indeed.” Rosaline gave her the sweetest of smiles. Benvolio wondered at her patience. “But, Aunt, we come to you for help with another question. Know you any lady who might have cause to do injury to the Capulets?”

  Duchess Francesca jerked her chin toward Benvolio. “Any lady of his family might. Wherefore?”

  Swiftly, Rosaline described the latest defacement she and Benvolio had found on Juliet’s statue. “In short, we believe some lady of Verona may be behind all this deviltry,” she concluded. “We thought perhaps you might have heard some whisper of it.”

  “Suppose I had,” the duchess said sharply. “What would you do? Thou art scarce more than a child, Rosaline, and little regarded even within your own family. Why meddle in the affairs of thy betters?”

  “Unimportant though we may be, we may still expose these mal
efactors to the prince’s justice.”

  The duchess’s piercing gaze swung to Benvolio. “The prince’s brand of justice showed itself when he let thy cousin Tybalt’s murderer walk free,” she told Rosaline.

  Benvolio’s jaw tightened. “No murderer was Romeo. He did only what he had to to avenge Mercutio’s death.”

  “Murder is murder. He should have hanged for what he did.” She shook her head. “The guilty must be punished by the law.”

  “Then help us see them punished!” Rosaline said. “Help us to expose the miscreants who defile your granddaughter’s grave! Tell us who is behind all this.”

  “Tell you?” the duchess said. “You? The prince hath already made puppets of you both. How did he compel thee to marry, Rosaline? I suppose he told thee the truth about House Tirimo, though he was sworn he’d never breathe a word. Men’s oaths are easily broken, even princes’.”

  Benvolio had no idea what she was talking of, and a glance at Rosaline showed she was equally confused. Benvolio started to ask, “What—”

  Rosaline nudged him. He fell silent. “The truth about House Tirimo,” she said. “Aye, Aunt, you have hit it. He told me the truth.”

  The old woman snorted. “I knew it. When thy mother died and the prince called me to the palace to tell me he would supply enough gold to keep thee and Livia in honorable state until you were both married, he bade me swear to keep it a secret from you for all my days. He even disguised the funds he sent to you as rent for House Tirimo. He invented a merchant from Messina for a tenant, for he claimed his honor would not allow him to accept your thanks.” She shook her head. “As if that house could ever fetch enough to succor two gentlewomen. ’Tis on the unfashionable side of the hill and its stables are terribly small.”

  Rosaline had gone white. Had she truly not known of this? Her aunt looked on quite placidly, despite the news she’d just delivered. How could she keep such a thing a secret, even at the orders of the prince? By heaven, the things these Capulets wrought upon each other were almost worse than their treacheries to Benvolio’s house. “Of course, you are right, Aunt,” Rosaline said. “He had only to tell me of this great kindness and he could ask of me any boon.”