Still Star-Crossed

by Melinda Taub

  Rosaline nodded and returned to the cloak he’d laid out for her. Benvolio curled up on the other side of the fire, apparently quite comfortable sleeping out of doors.

  Rosaline, on the other hand, had never slept out in the wild. When a twig snapped, she sat bolt upright. “Is it highwaymen?” she hissed.

  Benvolio’s sleepy chuckle drifted across the fire. “ ’Tis a rabbit, lady.”

  “Oh.” She settled back down. “Art thou certain?”

  Benvolio heaved himself up, dragging his cloak around the fire and resettling himself a few feet behind her. “There,” he said. “Now any highwaymen or villainous rabbits will meet my blade ere they encounter thee.”

  She ought to object to his lying so near, but he had already begun to snore softly. Rosaline’s own eyes grew heavy. With Benvolio’s steady warmth at her back, sleep soon found her.

  Benvolio found it hard to wake her up.

  In the night Rosaline had drawn close—or perhaps, he acknowledged, it was he who’d reached out and drawn her against his side—and he’d woken to find her warm body pressed against his, her hair tickling his nose. He gently drew a few modest inches away, and as the sun rose he lay watching her, sleepily distracted by how its rosy hues played in her hair, smiling at how she twitched and snuffled as the smoke of the dying fire reached her nose. But he’d promised her they’d make an early start, so he squeezed her shoulder.

  “Leave off, Livia, ’tis not near day.”

  He chuckled. “Day is here, lady. Dost thou not hear the lark?”

  She rolled over, her arm flopping across his face. “Hush,” she mumbled. “ ’Tis not the—”

  She froze, perhaps realizing that she was not in her bed and Benvolio was not her sister. She cracked one eye open. “Perhaps ’tis the lark,” she acknowledged.

  Benvolio grinned. “I am ready to declare it any bird thou say’st, lady.”

  Narrowing her eyes at him, she sat up. “How close are we to the monastery?”

  “Eight leagues off, I should say.” He rose and stretched, wincing at the protests from his saddle-sore body. After breakfasting on some bread and cheese from Benvolio’s pack, they broke camp and set off, riding together this time. Just after midday, they turned a bend in the road, and a large stone edifice rose before them, surrounded by farmland. There was a smaller gray building off to the side.

  “Montenova Abbey,” Benvolio said. “And the nunnery of Saint Cecilia lies beside it. I’ll go and tell them we’re here. Prithee stay and let the horses graze.”

  “Aye.”

  Benvolio walked up the road and raised the heavy iron knocker. The hollow thump was so muffled by the large oak door that he wondered if it could be heard inside at all. But a moment later a voice called, “Who is here?”

  “I am Signor Benvolio of Verona,” he called. “I seek an audience with Friar Laurence, late of our fair city, now resident among your brethren.”

  There was a pause, then the door creaked open. A small, white-haired monk came bustling out. “Brother Laurence, you say? Wherefore?”

  Benvolio was not inclined to lay the whole sordid tale at the feet of a stranger, even a holy friar. “He was my schoolmaster. I crave his counsel,” Benvolio said.

  “I am sorry, good signor, Brother Laurence sees no one. He is but newly arrived, and he has been deep in prayer and speaks little. He wishes no company.”

  Benvolio hid a frustrated sigh under a polite smile. The monk at the door returned it gently. “Only tell him I am here,” Benvolio said. “I am sure he will change his mind. I pray you tell him ’tis a matter of some urgency, touching the House Montague.”

  “As you wish,” the monk said doubtfully, and withdrew.

  He returned a few minutes later. “As I told you,” he said, saintly smile still in place, “my brother Laurence abjures earthly company. Good day to you, my son.”

  “Wait! It’s urgent. Please—”

  But the door shut in his face. Sighing, he returned to Rosaline’s side. “What did they say?” she asked.

  “Their door is barred to us.” Benvolio swore, then said, “Your pardon, lady.”

  She shrugged. “An ’twere ladylike to swear …”

  “We came all this way! I was so sure he’d help us.” Benvolio cast a longing glance at the doorway. “What are we to do?” His hand strayed toward his sword.

  “Benvolio!” Rosaline grabbed his arm. “Thou’lt not draw your sword on men of God. There must be another way.” Rosaline frowned, twisting one curl around her finger. “Sanctuary,” she said finally. “Go thou back there and claim sanctuary. At least then thou’lt be within their walls. Friar Laurence cannot escape thee forever. He’ll have to emerge to eat. Then canst thou force him to acknowledge thee.”

  Benvolio shook his head. “Sanctuary is for those in peril of their lives,” he said.

  “What think’st thou that thou art?” Rosaline pointed out.

  “Fair enough. But what of thee?”

  “I’ll to Saint Cecilia’s. They will let a maiden pass the night there, ’tis certain.”

  Benvolio frowned. “I like not that thou shouldst be so far. But I suppose thou shalt be safe enough among thy future sisters.”

  She looked startled. “What?”

  “When you take holy orders, I mean.”

  “I— Of course.” She nodded to the monastery. “Thou hadst better go.”

  Odd. For a moment she’d looked like she’d altogether forgotten her plans to become a nun. She had not changed her mind, had she? That thought was surprisingly welcome—for her sake, not for his, of course. How could such a fair and witty maid hide herself away from the world, allowing her bloom of youth to wither unadmired and unloved?

  But he knew his advice on the subject would hardly be welcomed, so he said only, “Very well.”

  Returning to the monastery, he rapped once more on the door. When it opened, the monk sighed. “My son—”

  Benvolio had never shoved a man of God in his life, and he endeavored to do so now as gently as possible. The monk gave a squawk as Benvolio strode past him into the hall.

  “What in the world!”

  Benvolio held up a placating hand. “I claim sanctuary within these walls.”

  The monk’s eyes narrowed. “Sanctuary is not for children who have not got their way. ’Tis a haven for those desperate souls in mortal danger from without.”

  Benvolio gave him a mirthless smile. “Holy father,” he said. “ ’Tis clear you know little of what has passed in Verona of late. Mortal danger is an apt description of my circumstances.”

  The monk threw up his hands and scurried off. After a few minutes he returned, and Benvolio was conducted to the abbot’s study, where he was once more told that Friar Laurence was unavailable.

  “Then I will simply stay until he is free to see me,” Benvolio said firmly. “Are there any chores an able-bodied man may perform for your holy order, Father? I would be happy to help for as long as I remain here.”

  The abbot sighed. “Well, son,” he said, “it seems you shall have your will. Master Montague, you may pass the night here, if you’ll consent to take your leave at daybreak.”

  Benvolio smiled. “I’ll do so happily, if I have done that I came for. Where is Friar Laurence?”

  “I told you, he’ll none of you!” But the abbot’s eyes flicked toward a tower at the northeast end of the building. Benvolio smiled inwardly. Rosaline’s plan showed wit indeed.

  A convent such as this could be her home.

  Saint Cecilia’s was rather less grand than the monastery, though constructed of the same cold gray stone. Many ladies of Verona took orders here. She had long thought she would be among them. But of course, the prince had changed everything. Rosaline knocked on the large wooden door and a small window opened. “Who goes there?” said the rectangular section of nun that appeared.

  “One who would shelter with you for the night,” Rosaline called. “My name is Rosaline, daughter of Niccolo Tirimo.
I am a lady and a maid.”

  “Come in, my child,” she said to Rosaline.

  She did, looking around as she followed the nun to the abbess’s chambers. The convent was plain but well kept, echoing with the sounds of prayer and the quiet steps of its black-clad occupants. Some of them darted curious glances at Rosaline, probably thinking she was a new postulant. Benvolio must be wondering why she had forgotten that she was one day to join such a cloister. In truth, she had not given a thought as to what to say to her traveling companion. Should she tell him that her heart was the prince’s now? There was no official understanding between her and Escalus, and in any case, what would Benvolio care? The only reason they’d passed so much time together was to escape their own betrothal. If he heard that another man had now spoken for her, he would probably cheer. Yes, it would probably be a great relief to him to be rid of her for good, even though she had helped him at every turn, had believed him when no one else would, had even fled the city to help him. But what of that? He would always—

  “My lady?”

  She turned to find her guide hovering uncertainly behind her. In her anger she’d outpaced the woman without noticing.

  She was tired from traveling. That was the only reason that the thought of Benvolio blessing her love for Escalus had driven her into such a fury. She carefully declined to consider any other explanation.

  The friar was not easily tracked down.

  Benvolio spent the day helping the monks, chopping wood, hauling water, and tending to their livestock. They gave him a poultice for his wound, which was already healing—luckily, it was not too deep. But no matter how much he tried to ingratiate himself, none of them would usher him to see the man he’d come for. He had a feeling that the abbot was assigning him outdoor tasks to keep him far from his quarry.

  Growing impatient, on the second day he took his supper early and then waited outside the dining room, standing in a corner where he was not easily observed. The monks flowed in and out in twos and threes, supping for an hour or so before heading to their evening prayers. Finally, as the night hymns began to echo through the stone halls, he spied a lone figure hurrying from the dining hall.

  “Good e’en, Father,” he said, stepping out to block Friar Laurence’s path.

  Friar Laurence started, clutching a hand to his chest. Glaring at Benvolio, he crossed himself, then moved to step around him. Benvolio stepped aside to block him again. “I bade you good e’en. Have you no kind word in return for your old pupil?”

  Friar Laurence merely scowled and hurried past him. Apparently his silence would not be broken so easily.

  Nor was Benvolio easily discouraged. He hurried after him. “Very well, I shall accompany you. I am sure you are famished for news of home, banished as you are.” The friar tried to walk faster, but Benvolio’s long legs easily kept pace. “Another of your old pupils is dead, did you know?” The friar looked pained at that. “Aye. Truchio is slain. They say it was a man clothed all in black. Know you who Verona’s deadly shadow might be, Father?” His voice had grown loud. The monks they passed looked rather scandalized at such earthly tidings being shared under their roof. Friar Laurence, now muttering a Hail Mary, gave him a tight shake of the head. “Come, I am sure you know, sir. You were ever at the center of my family’s bloody doings. Why, Romeo slew himself nearly beneath your nose!”

  A wide-eyed young monk crossed himself as they passed him. Benvolio cared not. Unexpected anger was building in his chest. Verona was burning, and the friar had cloistered himself in this sleepy place. What a coward.

  “Well,” Benvolio continued, “if you know not who the man might be, what about she who aids him?”

  A ripple of shock passed across Friar Laurence’s face. “Aye,” Benvolio said. “There is a woman involved in all this, as well you know.”

  They had reached the base of Friar Laurence’s tower. After pulling the heavy wooden door open, the friar at last turned to look him in the eye. “Stop,” he hissed. “I cannot help thee. I swear I would if I could, but I cannot. Go home.”

  He tried to draw the door shut, but Benvolio wrenched it from his grasp. “I have no home. If once I set foot within Verona’s walls, I shall be killed. I stand accused of the death of Gramio, a young Capulet.” He followed the friar up the winding stair to the summit of the tower. The friar was a learned man, and it seemed his brothers had honored him with rather fine quarters. He had been here only a day or so, but he must have sent his things ahead, for he was as comfortably ensconced as though he’d been here for years. His chamber was small but airy, with windows on three sides. His books lined the shelves, and Benvolio recognized many of the volumes of Latin and mathematics that had tortured him and Romeo as small boys. A desk was scattered with papers and ink pots. Plants overspilled their pots and twined over the windowsills. This must be heaven on earth for the retiring, scholarly friar.

  “A fine chamber,” Benvolio said. “I shall not find the prince’s jail so comfortable, I fear. Does my fate not trouble you at all, my old teacher? Or will you idle away your days here till all your pupils are slain and none of us remains to remind you of your sins?”

  Friar Laurence turned to look at him at last, and the grim set of his jaw reminded Benvolio of his school days. The friar had been a gentle, tolerant teacher, but on the rare occasions when the small Montagues had reached the limits of his patience, his fury had awed them. Benvolio could still feel the sting of the switch on his hand.

  But he was not a child anymore.

  “Attend and mark, young scoundrel,” said the friar. “Much as I might wish to stop your kinsmen’s slaughterous ways, my loyalty is to a higher power than the Montagues. Even for my dearest pupils, I will not break my vows.”

  Aha. A clue at last. Benvolio seized on it. “Break your vows?”

  Friar Laurence closed his eyes. “I have spoke rashly.”

  What part of his vows could prevent the friar from saving lives? Benvolio puzzled as the friar went to the window, stooping over the sill, his body an arc of defeat. Benvolio pushed aside a pile of papers to perch on a corner of the friar’s desk. Then it struck him: A friar was privy to all sorts of information, very little of which he was at liberty to share.

  “Someone told you something in confession,” he realized.

  Friar Laurence said nothing, but the slump of his shoulders told Benvolio he was correct. “Who was it?” he asked.

  “Well thou knowest, boy, I cannot tell thee.”

  “Father, lives are at stake. Give me a name. Some hint at least. God will understand.”

  “Knowest thou God’s plan, now?” The friar gave a bitter laugh. “Nay, I have sinned enough in thy family’s name.”

  Benvolio’s fist clenched in disappointment. In doing so, he nudged one of the piles of papers, which began to slide off the desk. As he righted it, he noted a small red book beneath it. It was open, both pages covered with the friar’s tiny, neat writing. A passage caught his eye.

  … fear if she stoppeth not, Romeo shall soon …

  Benvolio frowned, intrigued. Friar Laurence still had his back to him, head bent in prayer. Praying that Benvolio would let him be a coward in peace, no doubt. Discreetly, Benvolio tugged the journal toward him, so he could see the full page.

  A came to me again today for confession. Sweet soul, she little understands the intelligence she possesses. Her loyalty does her credit, even if those she grants it have little merit.

  The attacks continue, and of course none shall suspect their culprits, for the villainess is too highly placed. I fear if she stoppeth not, Romeo shall soon be joined by the greater part of his kin, and by the Capulets too, strange though that seems. But I cannot speak to stay L’s murderous arm. What can the vixen have done to earn such fanatical following? And how can a mother so persecute her own daughter’s—

  Before Benvolio could read on, a hand slammed down upon the pages of the book. Friar Laurence snatched it from beneath his nose, snapping it shut. “How dare
you!” he snarled, peaceful face twisted with fear and rage.

  “How dare you!” Benvolio cried, stabbing a finger at the book. “Enough, Friar! I know right well that the Duchess Vitruvio is behind all this, and there’s the proof!”

  The friar drew a sharp breath. His nostrils had gone white. “You know nothing.”

  “L. Who is L, Friar?” He saw suddenly, in his mind’s eye, the duchess’s hulking, silent servant bending over her. Lucullus. Her manservant. It was he who wore the mask. Benvolio extended his hand. “Give me the book. The prince shall know of this.”

  But Friar Laurence ran to the window and rang a bell that hung there, the clangor echoing through the courtyard below. Seconds later, three of the monks’ servants burst through the door. “Seize him,” he said. “Escort him without our walls. His sanctuary is at an end.”

  Prayer, then cooking. Prayer, then laundry. Prayer.

  The day was long, the work hard, the food sparse, and the bed cold. The abbess was a cold-eyed woman of fifty, clearly contemptuous of soft noble hands. To appease her, Rosaline had insisted on joining entirely in the life of the nunnery for as long as she stayed there, just as a postulant would, but as she knelt in the garden, trying to pry radishes from the ground with throbbing, aching fingers, she was glad she would not be adopting this life permanently.

  She paused to wipe her brow. A few feet away, a postulant bent over her own row of turnips; two more knelt beyond her. In a few minutes the bell would ring, and they would file in to wash and go to supper. In truth, it was not the work that bothered her, but already she chafed against the monotonous tyranny of the hourly bell. The clamor and color of life in Verona seemed as distant as the Orient. Here there was only the murmur of prayer, the gray stone, and always that bell. There was beauty in the order and simplicity of the nuns’ lives, but by this day, it was dull.

  Still, she’d passed an entire day without once hearing the names Montague or Capulet. Which was a pleasant change, to be sure. Such a day was unlikely to pass once she was Princess of Verona.