Still Star-Crossed

by Melinda Taub

  And it mattered not a jot. This marriage was more essential than ever. He could not disrupt it for the yearnings of his own foolish heart. Damn these two houses. They would never know what they had stolen from him.

  Venitio snorted and stamped, drawing Benvolio’s attention. His eyes widened when he saw his sovereign staring at him silently. He made him a bow. Escalus nodded but said nothing, nor did he approach.

  He wheeled Venitio about, pointing him back toward the palace. “Hie you home, Truchio,” he muttered. “Get back to the streets where the Montagues live. Here’s no place for you.” But he did not wait to see if the boy complied before he rode for home himself.

  On the morrow, he would wonder if he had sealed the boy’s doom.

  Once more, night’s torches lit Benvolio’s steps.

  It was becoming a habit, he acknowledged wryly to himself. This time, at least, his sleepless wanderings through Verona’s streets had less to do with grief than confusion. Rosaline’s keen green eyes haunted his thoughts.

  The idea of marrying her had grown no less absurd. If Benvolio married a Capulet lady, he’d never have a moment’s peace, from her or from anyone else. The prince and his uncle were foolish to think otherwise. And yet, what if they succeeded in breaking the betrothal? The thought of her vanishing from his life caused a strange pain in his breast.

  Benvolio had never been in love, and he was certain that he was not now. When he compared the turmoil Rosaline provoked in him to Romeo’s sighing, poetical ardor, he found they had little in common. He felt no urge to write sonnets, nor to moan her name and weep. That was love. This was—irritating.

  No less so because it seemed to have displeased his sovereign too. What had been the meaning of that encounter by Rosaline’s door? Why had the prince looked at him so coldly? How could he be displeased if they were together? He had betrothed them, after all. Did he think he meant Rosaline some dishonor? He thought perhaps he ought to go to the palace, to explain, but he could not explain his feelings even to himself.

  And so he wandered, for hour upon hour, as the night grew deep and the streets empty. He hoped Rosaline’s sleep was peaceful, for he’d be little use tomorrow if, as he thought likely, he walked till sunup.

  “Yahh! Halt, Montague! Your house’s defeat is at hand!”

  Benvolio drew up short when he suddenly found the tip of a sword wavering before his nose. Following it down to its owner, he found a young man in Capulet garb, wavering excitedly before him, scowling and fierce as a terrier.

  Benvolio sighed. “You were in the graveyard three weeks ago when Rosaline was attacked. Hail, fellow.”

  “Aye. Gramio is my name, and I shall be your doom!”

  “Will you?” Benvolio inquired, stepping out of reach of the erratic blade. “I defeated you and two of your fellows together that night. Have you grown a better sword arm since?”

  “Capulet fortunes have changed since then,” the Capulet blustered proudly. “Thy cousin Truchio was as arrogant as thee, till he met our guardian spirit’s blade. Draw thy blade and give me satisfaction!”

  Benvolio had been struggling not to laugh at this fierce little fowl. Now he grew sober, his hand drifting toward his sword. Unlike Orlino, Truchio was a good-hearted lad and had stayed out of trouble since that night in the graveyard. “What mean you?” he said. “Where is Truchio?”

  “Dead,” Gramio laughed. “The spirit clad in black, the guardian of the Capulets, ran him through on the Eastern road, two hours after sundown. ’Tis the ghost of Tybalt come again to restore our house’s honor.” He brandished something—a bit of cloth—and Benvolio grew cold. It was a Montague sash.

  His sword was in his hand before he knew what had happened. “Give me that,” he said quietly.

  Gramio grinned fiercely. “So thou art no coward after all. Have at it.”

  “What,” Benvolio growled. “Art thou a savage, taking trophies from the dead? I said give it to me!”

  The first hint of fear showed in Gramio’s face. “Montague—”

  Benvolio brought his sword crashing down against Gramio’s. There was a fierce rushing in his ears, drowning out everything else. The street, the torches, the night air—all of it ceased to exist. He could have been fighting atop the church altar on Sunday, for all he cared. He would get back Truchio’s sash, or one or both of them would die in the attempt.

  Slash. He opened a cut in the Capulet’s left shoulder. Slash. He nicked his sword arm. Clang. He parried Gramio’s attempt at an attack so fiercely that the scoundrel cried out in pain, clutching his wrist. Gramio was dodging left and right, employing every paltry trick he knew to stay out of Benvolio’s reach, but none of it would be enough. Benvolio was sick of bowing and scraping in the face of Capulet insults while his family died around him. Tonight it ended.

  Coldly, he evaluated the series of maneuvers Gramio had begun, parrying them almost lazily as he waited for the mistake he knew was coming. Gramio was panicked and sloppy; in just a moment he would fall slightly off balance, forcing him to step back and leave his left side open—right—now.

  Gramio’s poor swordsmanship saved his life. Had he recovered from his falter with slightly more grace, it would have fallen out as Benvolio had predicted, and his sword would have buried itself in Gramio’s heart before he’d had time to think. Instead, Gramio fell backward, sprawling to the ground, his sword spinning out of his hand.

  It only put him out of reach for an instant. But it was long enough to pierce the red haze that had descended over Benvolio’s gaze. Though anger still screamed in his veins, reason was beginning to reassert itself. The short mop of dark curls that flopped across Gramio’s face with every frightened breath were much the same as those he’d earlier struggled not to draw his fingers through. This was Rosaline’s cousin.

  Planting a foot on Gramio’s chest, he pointed his blade at his throat. “The sash. Now.”

  Gramio’s eyes flicked toward his sword, lying just out of his grasp. Benvolio’s jaw clenched, his hand tightening on his sword. Yes. Reach for it. Please.

  But for all his bloodlust, Gramio valued his own life. With a sulky glare, he held the sash up to Benvolio. His fingers were about to close around it when something slammed into him from the side, hard, sending him flying across the cobblestones. He did his best to roll and control his fall, which was probably all that saved him from serious injury. As it was, he hit his head on the wall so hard that he saw stars. Rolling over, he saw another swordsman standing above him. He was masked, and dressed all in black.

  Beside him, Gramio gave a savage cheer. “Ha! Vengeance has found thee, foul Montague! Behold our guardian spirit!”

  Whoever the masked man was, he had no interest in a swordsman’s honor. He gave Benvolio no chance to regain his bearings or even to raise his sword before his own was slashing downward in a deadly arc. Benvolio scrambled backward, trying to avoid the man’s blade, but not fast enough. He hissed as he felt a vicious slash across his chest.

  “Who are you?” he panted. “What is your quarrel to me and mine?”

  “Vengeance,” whispered the stranger, and struck Benvolio’s blade with his. Weakened by his injury, Benvolio could not prevent him from knocking the sword from his hand. He flinched, waiting for the killing blow.

  But instead, the masked swordsman picked up Benvolio’s sword, turned, and plunged it straight into Gramio’s chest. Gramio’s cry became a gurgle. He died with a look of shock frozen on his face. The man in black retrieved his own sword, bowed to Benvolio, and walked back the way he’d come, soon swallowed by the shadows.

  Recovering from his shock, Benvolio hauled himself to his feet and gave chase.

  “Halt, villain! Coward!” he screamed. “Will you murder a man who never raised a sword to you and flee under the cover of darkness? Come and face me like a man!”

  He reached the intersection and turned a circle, searching for any sign of the murderer. But he was gone.

  On unsteady feet, Benvolio return
ed to slain Gramio’s side. The lad’s eyes still stared at where his phantom killer had been. Benvolio fell to his knees. What manner of demon was this who cut down Montague and Capulet alike? Numbly, he reached for the hilt of his sword.

  A scream broke the air. Looking up, he found a laundress had dropped her basket and was pointing a trembling finger at him. “Murderer!” she screamed.

  “I—no, I—” Benvolio realized as he climbed to his feet, hand still resting on the sword’s hilt, how this must appear. “ ’Twas not I, we were both of us attacked—”

  But now a crowd of merchants and early market-goers were gathering in the gray pre-dawn light.

  “Murderer!”

  “Villain!”

  “Halt, in the name of the prince!”

  Much later, Benvolio realized that if he had stayed, if he had gone to the prince and explained his innocence in Gramio’s death, he might have avoided much that followed. But after the night he’d had, all he could think was run.

  And as the sun rose on another bloody Verona day, he did just that, leaving his sword where it was, pinning a Montague crest to poor Gramio’s chest.

  O, a kiss

  Long as my exile, sweet as my revenge!

  —Coriolanus

  “COME, ROSALINE! COME, LIVIA! Nieces, wake!”

  Rosaline gasped and sat up in bed. Someone was pounding on her door, yelling loud enough to wake the whole of the duchess’s estate. Pulling on a dressing gown, she leaned out the window. The sight below made her gape in surprise.

  “Uncle?” she called. “By heaven, what—”

  “No time, child!” Lord Capulet roared up to her. “Wake your sister, gather your gowns, and hie you both to House Capulet, an you value your lives and your maidenheads!”

  Rosaline ran down the stairs, opening the door to her uncle. “Calm yourself, good my lord. What is it?”

  He entered, mopping at his brow. He looked as though he’d run to Padua and back. “ ’Tis the Montagues,” he said. “They make open war upon us. Every Capulet lady and child is to withdraw within the safety of House Capulet’s walls, so that I may protect you.”

  “Rosaline?” Livia, sleep-mussed and yawning, was stumbling down the stairs. “What’s that noise?”

  “Uncle,” Rosaline said firmly, “I thank you for your pains, but if this is another street brawl, I’m sure there is no need for your protection.”

  “Gramio was slain last night,” Lord Capulet said.

  Next to her, Livia gasped. Rosaline gripped her hand as their uncle related the circumstances in which his body was found. Rosaline pressed a hand to her mouth, trying not to be sick. Livia wrapped her in her arms and guided her to the couch.

  “I pray your pardon, Rosaline,” her uncle said heavily as she clung to a shaking Livia. “You saw the blackness of this Benvolio’s heart long ere I could. I should never have agreed with the prince’s foolish scheme to marry you with him.”

  Rosaline felt as though her stomach had dropped through the earth. “Benvolio?” she whispered.

  “Aye,” her uncle said, grim-faced. “ ’Tis he slew Gramio.”

  Rosaline shook her head, clutching Livia closer. “Ah! No, not he, Uncle. Some kin of his perhaps, but not he—”

  “Was not this his sash?” Lord Capulet said, producing a torn length of crimson cloth.

  Rosaline closed her eyes. Benvolio had worn just such a sash the night before. Had any of his other kinsmen worn them? She thought so, but could not be sure. “I know not,” she whispered.

  “Marry, you may not, but the sword that pierced it, and Gramio’s chest, is known to be Benvolio’s.”

  Could Benvolio really slay her kinsman on the street?

  She recalled the fury in his eyes as he’d slashed his blade across Orlino’s face, and shivered. Aye, he could. If roused, he could.

  “Very well, Uncle,” Rosaline said, meeting his gaze steadily. “We’ll away to House Capulet.”

  He gave a short nod. “Good. There’s one there who would speak with thee.”

  “Curst girl, I’ll punish thee if thou speak’st not!”

  The prince winced as Lord Capulet thundered at his niece. It was a familiar scene, if missing a few players: Rosaline sat, hands folded, staring at thin air; her uncle Capulet was seated behind his desk, growing ever more red-faced. And Escalus himself, watching. Just as they had been the night he’d told Rosaline she was to marry Benvolio.

  Circumstances had changed, but the obstinate tilt of her chin had not.

  “I have told you, Uncle,” she said calmly. “I know not where Benvolio may be found, nor anything of last night’s slaughter save what you yourself have told me.”

  So she had been saying this past ten minutes, and though the prince could see her growing irritation, still her voice remained even and low. Her curls were pinned neatly back, her green dress spread carefully over her knees. Like a statue in a hurricane, battered but unmoved. Rosaline could not be made angry unless she chose to be, quite possibly the only Capulet ever born with such control. It was that, he supposed, that had made her an object of such fascination to him, that had made him so hell-bent on using her in his scheme. He’d been certain that that captivating mix of wisdom and beauty was just what Verona needed.

  Now he wondered if it was Verona he’d really been thinking of.

  “I mean not to accuse you, Rosaline,” Escalus said. “I seek only to keep you and yours safe from Benvolio’s bloodthirsty ways. I know you have kept company with Benvolio of late—”

  Narrowed green eyes flashed to his. “How know you that?”

  “I saw him outside your house yesternight.”

  “Why hast thou passed thy days with thy cousin’s killer?” Lord Capulet blustered. “Tell thy betters, or it shall fall heavy on thee.”

  “ ’Tis none of your affair, Uncle.”

  “We’ll be the judge of that.”

  “Your judgment, gentlemen, betrothed us in the first place. I’ll keep mine own counsel, I thank you.”

  “Insolent girl!” Lord Capulet heaved himself to his feet, glaring at her.

  Escalus laid a hand on his shoulder. “Signor, might I speak with your niece alone for a moment?”

  Capulet squinted at him. “Why?”

  Escalus merely offered him a thin, polite smile. Capulet threw up his hands. “Well, she’s at Your Grace’s disposal. If you can get any sense out of her, I thank you.”

  He left, slamming the door behind him. Rosaline turned to Escalus, squaring her shoulders, preparing for a fight. The prince held up a hand. “I told thee, I mean thee no harm. I wish merely to capture thy cousin’s killer.”

  “And I have told you, I know nothing that might help you,” she said. “Two Montagues are dead as well. Why seek you not their murderer?”

  “None saw who slew Orlino or Truchio, but Benvolio’s guilt is proved.”

  Her gaze was glacial. Rosaline might not be quick to anger but nor was she quick to forgive. “Nothing is proved.”

  Escalus sighed. Why was he taking her down the same path they always trod? “Thy pardon, fair maid,” he said.

  This startled her icy composure. “What?”

  He knelt and took her hand. “I cry thy pardon for the unwilling betrothal I forced upon thee. Had I had any inkling of Benvolio’s true nature, I should have cut him down myself before allowing him within a mile of thee.” He swallowed hard. “Tell me he hurt thee not.”

  Her eyes were wide, lips parted in surprise as she gazed down at her sovereign abasing himself before her. “I—I—” She shook her head slightly. “He was ever a gentleman.”

  “Thank heaven.” He gripped her hands in his.

  But she slowly drew back, eyes clouded with confusion. “If you mean to once more use our former friendship to compel me—”

  He shook his head impatiently. “Thou hast my word, I shall never do so again. It was the worst choice that ever I made. No, speak or speak not, the choice is thine.”

  “I thank
you.” She hesitated. “And—while you are here—it seems Livia and I have much more to thank you for.”

  Her face flamed bright red. Ah. She had found out. He rocked back on his heels, trying to keep his face an innocent blank. “I know not what you mean.”

  “You do. ’Tis thanks to you we’ve been able to live in honorable state.” She shook her head. “Why did you not tell me?”

  In his mind’s eye, he saw the black-clad, solemn young maid she’d been when he’d come back to Verona. At thirteen she was already a beauty, but she seemed not to care how the eyes of the young men of the court followed her. His own parents were recently dead too, and he did think of speaking to her, of sharing their grief. But princes did not show friendship to penniless maids, did they? He was not sure, and there was no one he could ask. His parents were dead, his sister gone away. His new crown was heavy on him. Would she think he was courting her? No, surely she would be more sensible than that. Would Verona think he had taken her as a mistress? The Montagues would certainly say so, if they saw him paying special attention to a Capulet maiden. That would not be good for Verona. He must think of Verona.

  He was sixteen, and still outgrowing his doublets every two months. It had been easier to give her some money, and say nothing.

  “I never intended you should know of the gold I give your aunt for you,” he said. “I did not do it to compel you to my will.”

  She shook her head. “And did you never consider that I might prefer to be compelled by such kindness than by that jade’s trick the night of the feast?”

  “No,” he admitted. As usual when he thought of that night, a great wave of shame and confusion overtook him. “Canst thou forgive me for what passed that night?”

  She stood and moved away from him. “I remember little of it. How can I know whether to forgive?”

  He drew a deep breath. “I brought you to my study,” he said. “We drank some wine.”

  “Some wine.” Her arms were crossed.

  “A great deal of wine,” he allowed. “Virtuous thing that you are, I had to give you enough to keep you still.” Her eyes went wide. “That is, to persuade you not to return to the ball.”