Still Star-Crossed

by Melinda Taub

  “Kindness indeed,” the old woman said. “I warrant he plotted all along to yoke thee to such a knave.”

  Rosaline shook her head as though to clear it. “This matter with the prince is not our business today,” she said. “If you would not see me so yoked, once more I pray you, tell us who defiled Juliet’s statue.”

  “Heavens, girl, I’ve no notion,” the duchess said. “If I had, would I have kept it a secret? For, as I have told you, I am a great lover of justice. Yes, what is it, Lucullus?”

  The duchess’s servant had entered on silent feet and reached her side without Benvolio noticing. For a big man, he was terribly quiet. Benvolio supposed someone in this house had to be. He bent over his mistress, murmuring something in her ear. The duchess stood. “My daughter’s servant is here on some errand. Why she keeps her dead child’s nurse about I cannot imagine. Get thee gone, Rosaline, and take this miscreant with thee. Thou art grown forward and impertinent. Ask no more questions of this house or any other. I’d lock thee up in this house, but ’tis clear the rash youth of Verona do not scruple to clamber over gates locked by their elders.”

  Benvolio got to his feet in frustration, blocking her path. Rosaline laid a restraining hand on his arm, but he shook her off. “You disparage the prince, forbid Rosaline to act, and of course, I and all my family you consider scoundrels,” he said. “Pray tell, lady, who is to stop this mischief, then?”

  The duchess looked at him—a more appraising gaze than the dismissive glances she’d so far offered him. “You are new to this earth, young Montague. Think you truly that your elders are unpracticed at protecting our families? The Capulets are old. We know how to survive.”

  Benvolio had any number of things to say to that, but Rosaline sent him a warning glance, and with an effort he held his tongue. She took his arm and led him out into the corridor.

  Her head was held high, her fingers light on his arm, her steps measured, as much a model of maidenly decorum as if he were escorting her from a royal audience. But the moment the front door had shut behind them, her pace increased almost to a run. Her hem acquired a coat of red dust as she hurried up the long red path to the front wall of the duchess’s estate. He caught up to her just past the gate, where she stood staring back over the wall and up the hill. He followed her gaze to the small house she shared with her sister. Which the prince’s largess had made possible.

  “Thou truly didst not know that the prince—” he began.

  “ ’Tis no matter,” said his betrothed. She did not meet his eye.

  “But how came it that—”

  “I thank you, but you need not concern yourself with it, signor.”

  Benvolio had any number of concerns, actually, not the least of which was that Rosaline seemed unaware that her hands were so tightly bunched into fists that her knuckles were white. But he took his cue from her sudden brittle formality and let the matter drop. It was probably wise that a Montague not insinuate himself into Capulet finances. Instead he leaned back against the wall, trying to look as though the odd mood that had overtaken her was not making him nervous.

  She turned to him then, an over-bright smile on her face. “The day grows hot,” she said. “Let us dine before we continue our search.”

  He shrugged. “If it please thee. Wilt thou come to my house? My mother has some fine cheeses.”

  “Nay, I’ll go home. Shall we meet in the square at two o’clock?” Without waiting for a response, she turned and headed down the road without him.

  Benvolio sighed, and wondered if he ought to ignore the fact that she was walking in the opposite direction of her little cottage.

  Her father’s house seemed small, thought Rosaline.

  In her memory it was vast, but of course she herself had been smaller when last she lived here. She had been inside House Tirimo only a few times since her mother had died. Although her tenant never seemed to occupy the house, still it was his by right, and she could not intrude. But now that she knew the merchant from Messina to be imaginary, she felt no qualms about letting herself in.

  The house was bare, but not choked with dust—she’d arranged with her aunt’s servants to keep it clean. She shook her head at herself. How grown-up and wise she’d thought she was, taking care of her family’s house and fortunes, when all along, she and Livia had been living on the prince’s charity. It made her cheeks burn.

  She wandered from room to room, choked with memories. Here was the small, sunny sitting room where her mother had taught her to sew. Here was the closet where she’d run and hid after her father shaved his beard and she thought him a stranger, until he’d coaxed her out by singing her favorite song. Here was the nursery, where, family legend had it, a four-year-old Rosaline had taught two-year-old Livia to open the latch and escape. Even when Livia was just a tiny bundle of dimples and blonde tufts, Rosaline had considered her sister her particular responsibility.

  All this could have been lost. Had the prince not decided to grace them with a small fortune, the house would have been sold by now, and she and Livia might have already been forced to take holy orders. Instead, they had a home, a monthly income, and a house still to sell for Livia’s dowry when the time came. The magnitude of his gift took her breath away. There was no way she could begin to repay it.

  What a strange man Escalus was. There were two versions of him that lived in her mind: the handsome, brave prince she’d idolized and adored with all her childish heart, and the cold-hearted villain who had so cruelly blackmailed her into doing his bidding. Now she had to admit that neither vision was precisely correct. Why had he chosen to manipulate her so brutally? Surely he knew that if he had simply revealed how he’d helped her all this time, honor would compel her to repay his kindness with any favor he pleased, up to and including wedding Benvolio.

  For that matter, why had he done this in the first place? She had thought he’d quite forgotten his Tirimo playmates. Why help them? And why conceal it? Was he ashamed to admit any connection to them?

  Her wanderings took her back to the front hall. While not nearly so grand as her uncle’s house or the duchess’s mansion, Rosaline had always considered it one of the most elegant rooms in Verona. A wide staircase opened onto a floor of creamy white marble. Sunlight poured through the wide windows. A rug lay in the center of the floor. Rosaline smiled. This was probably her aunt’s doing. With her foot, she flipped a corner of the rug over, and glimpsed a bit of the blue and gold mosaic below. Her mother had been mortified that her father had installed a large mosaic of the Tirimo family crest on the floor, but Rosaline had thought it beautiful.

  She rolled the rug up, then kicked it over to the wall. Once more, the crest was bright and glittering in the sun, welcoming any who might enter to House Tirimo. She stepped back, wrapping her arms around herself as she admired it.

  She would never forgive Escalus for what he had done, but he gave her this, and for that she blessed him.

  “Rosaline?”

  For a moment she thought the subject of her musings was behind her. But when she turned, she found not her sovereign, but her betrothed hovering in the doorway. “Benvolio,” she said. “I thought we were to meet in the square.”

  “Aye, at two. ’Tis nearly three now.” He said nothing of how he had known she would be here, but she supposed it was shamefully obvious, after the way she’d run off.

  She closed her eyes. “Your pardon. I lost track of time.”

  He shrugged. “I thought perhaps thou wouldst. Didst thou dine?” She opened her mouth to lie and say she had, when her belly gave an unladylike growl. Benvolio grinned. “So I thought. Therefore I bade our cook make me this.” He held up a basket. Before she could say a word, he lay a little blanket on the floor, and then spread out a feast. Bread, cheese, sausage, even a little bag of cherries. He waved a hand. “Fall to.”

  Yet more charity. Why did all the men around her seem to think she must be coddled like a baby? But Benvolio had already plumped himself down on the floor an
d begun eating with a boyish appetite. It did look good. She supposed it would be rude to refuse. She sat down across from him and began to eat.

  Benvolio looked around with frank interest as they dined. He was especially captivated by the crest on the floor. “By my sword! Is that a sea serpent?”

  She smiled. “Aye. My father hailed from the Western coast, and his lands were by the sea.”

  He looked it over, asking questions about the meaning of each element in the crest, its history, whether the family had ever fought any interesting wars. She answered as best she could, and for once she found that speaking of her family did not pain her.

  The confused ache in her chest was replaced with a companionable spirit. After he’d reduced her to giggles with an imitation of the duchess’s haughty voice, she realized that this was one of the first hours of simple joy she’d passed since Juliet’s death. She wondered if it was the same for him.

  “Thank you.” She waved over their repast. “This was kind.”

  “We Montagues know what it is to be subject to the prince’s whim. Forgetting meals is the least of it.” He tossed a cherry in the air, caught it in his mouth, and grinned at her around the stem. “I still hate thee deadly, of course.”

  She stuck out her tongue. “Of course.”

  As they finished their meal, conversation turned once more to business, and to the parts of their conversation with the duchess that did not pertain to Rosaline’s house. “Didst thou note it?” she asked. “I’d warrant the duchess was hiding something.”

  “Think’st thou so? It seemed to me she merely wished to be as unhelpful as possible.”

  “Perhaps,” Rosaline said slowly. “But she truly hates the Montagues. For her to tell me to leave them alone—” She frowned. “ ’Tis strange, that’s all.”

  “Think you your aged aunt leapt out into the night with her sword and slew Orlino?” he asked, packing their dishes away in his basket.

  She laughed. “Aye, she’s a master swordswoman, no doubt. ’Tis why she wears such wide black skirts—to conceal her blade beneath.”

  Benvolio shuddered. “A fearsome thought indeed. Come, let’s away and seek this swordsman.” He gallantly offered her his arm. “I shall protect thee from any and all murderous old ladies we meet.”

  She started to take his arm, then stopped, taking him by the shoulders and turning him away from her. He craned his neck back to look at her. “My lady?”

  She was frowning at his back, fingers tracing over his doublet. “After we left the duchess’s house, you leaned against her wall.”

  “Yes. Why?”

  Her fingers scrubbed against his shoulder blade, then she extended her hand to show him what she’d found. Paint. Half-dry black paint.

  “It can’t be she.”

  “It must be she.”

  “It can’t.”

  Rosaline ground her teeth in frustration. Hours had passed since they’d left House Tirimo. The sun had set, her feet ached, the hem of her dress was thick with dust, and they had had this argument up and down Verona. “Why would my aunt deface her own granddaughter’s statue?” she demanded. “Use your wits.”

  “That old termagant would do anything to be disagreeable,” Benvolio said darkly. “Besides, what say you of the black paint?”

  “I say she had her wall painted,” Rosaline retorted. “A crime dozens in Verona are guilty of.”

  “And ’twas thee who said she was hiding something.”

  “Aye, something. I am not ready to accuse her of murder.”

  Benvolio shook his head. “You take such pride in holding yourself loftily above our skirmishes. But you are just as quick to leap to the defense of a fellow Capulet as any of your eager-bladed cousins.”

  “What do you suggest we do, then?”

  “Go to the prince,” he said promptly. “Tell him what we’ve found.”

  “Tell him what?” Rosaline laughed. “Your Grace, prithee, clap the matriarch of the Capulets in irons, she hath an impatient air and a black wall?”

  Benvolio ducked his head, conceding her point. “To my uncle, then. We can gather the men of my house, return to the duchess, and find the proof we need, whether she will or no.”

  Rosaline rolled her eyes. “If a throng of Montagues invades her house, no proof will be strong enough to calm the passions roused thereby. The city will be in flames within the day.”

  “What, then?” He threw up his hands.

  “We continue as we have been. Even if the duchess is somehow involved, she cannot have slain Orlino. If we can find the swordsman, we may unravel her secrets too.”

  “We have visited half the passable swordsmen in the city today. None of them could have done it.”

  “Then tomorrow we visit the other half.”

  He shook his head. “Thou hast more patience than I, lady.”

  “Not so much as you may think,” she snapped.

  He looked up, startled at her waspish tone. They both began, reluctantly, to laugh. “You are right,” he admitted. “I just wish we could stop this. A murderer walks free; I hate to waste even a moment.”

  “I know.”

  He extended his arm in apology, and she took it. They walked on in silence through Verona’s lengthening shadows. Rosaline leaned gratefully upon him. She was unused to walking so much, but she had been loath to contradict his assumption that she could keep pace.

  The moon hung over the eastern wall, huge and nearly full. As they walked on, Rosaline found herself staring at it, lost in its glow. “Romeo compared me to the moon,” she said suddenly.

  The arm under hers grew tense. But Benvolio said only, “Oh?”

  “Aye.” Rosaline found herself smiling. “I used to tell him he must mean to insult me, to call me after something so round and pockmarked.”

  Benvolio chuckled. “He never heard a sonnet but he rewrote it ten times worse. Apparently execrable poetry was pleasing enough to Juliet, though.”

  “No,” she said. “No, I doubt it. Romeo had wit aplenty. But ’twas not I who was destined to ignite it. I am sure whatever he told Juliet was beautiful.”

  “He never spoke of her,” Benvolio said quietly. “Never confided in me.”

  Rosaline sneaked a glance at him. He was lost in thought. She rubbed a bit of his sleeve between her finger and thumb. “I truly thought ’twas for the best, you know,” she said hesitantly. “I knew he did not love me, for all his torrent of gifts and sonnets and declarations. Spurning him I thought a boon.”

  He said nothing, but gave her arm a squeeze. Rosaline was almost ashamed of the warmth that burst through her. Had she been waiting so pathetically for his forgiveness?

  He pulled away, and Rosaline looked around, startled to find they’d arrived at the door of her cottage. The sun had set now, and she suppressed a shiver, surprisingly cold without his warmth at her side.

  Benvolio’s arm was still half extended toward her. “Well,” he said. “Until the morrow, then.” He started to say something else, then stopped. Staring at her, he swallowed hard.

  “Aye, until tomorrow.” Seized by a sudden impulse, she raised herself on tiptoe to press a kiss against his cheek. She felt his breath hitch in surprise against her temple. Cheeks flaming, unable to meet his eyes, Rosaline whispered, “Good night,” and slipped inside her door.

  “I swear, Your Grace, I know not who it was.”

  Escalus rubbed a hand over his eyes. The darkness would hide his weariness from young Truchio’s earnest gaze.

  The Palace Guard were not best pleased with his decision to take Venitio and ride the city streets. But he knew not what else to do. Yesterday, the betrothal ceremony, meant to dampen the flames of the feud, had ended more disastrously than he could have imagined. Then young Orlino had been slain in the night. Tempers were higher than they had ever been. His city was about to explode, and if the sight of its stern-faced sovereign was enough to dissuade even one impetuous young man from drawing his sword, it was worth the danger to himsel
f.

  He was holding Verona together with all his might, but he did not know how long his grip could keep it from flying apart.

  “I’m sure you know who scrawled insults on the Capulet wall today,” he said. “And I am sure ’tis no coincidence I found you lurking so near the house of the Duchess of Vitruvio. Come, Truchio, I tire of your kin’s false stupidity. Who but one of the Montague youths would do such a thing? Was it you? Young Marius? Marcellus? Tell me.”

  Truchio raised his chin, remaining silent. Escalus sighed. In truth, he had expected nothing else. “Young knave, you help neither yourself nor your family by hiding treachery in your midst,” he said.

  “I hide no treachery, I, upon my life,” Truchio whined. “Ask Benvolio. He’ll tell you.”

  The prince followed his gaze and drew in a breath, drawing Venitio to a halt. Sure enough, Benvolio was there.

  This was not the first time today that the prince’s wanderings had carried him to Rosaline’s house. The duchess’s estate was near the outskirts of town, but Venitio’s steps seemed to point that way without Escalus’s direction. He had seen no one there before. Now Benvolio stood before the gate, looking up at the cottage. After a moment, light was kindled within. Benvolio, the prince realized, had been seeing his betrothed home.

  He ought to be pleased, if Benvolio’s feelings for Rosaline were growing warmer. He was requiring them to marry, after all. But telling himself that did nothing to soothe the urge to seize Benvolio and drag him away from her.

  Rosaline was within. Rosaline, who loved him. She had told him so. Escalus had only to go inside, to tell her that she need not wed the young Montague on her threshold, and she could be his.

  By God, he wanted to do just that.

  He drew in a sharp breath as it washed over him. Finally, he admitted to himself what Isabella had tried to tell him. Renting Rosaline’s house, arranging her marriage, even the drunken evening he’d spent with her—she’d captured his attentions not because she was a Capulet useful to the Crown, but because he desired her.