Still Star-Crossed

by Melinda Taub

  “Very like it, I suppose,” her mistress said, with that sweet, winning smile. “But well you know that Paris was lying ill all that time. ’Twas young Benvolio slew Gramio of Capulet.”

  But the nurse shook her head. “My lady, I may be an old and simple servant, but pray do not undervalue my wit. Paris was recovered by then, and he was gone from his bed that night. Methinks we have given unwitting shelter to a murderer. We must to the Crown. The prince must know of this.”

  She turned to go, but Lady Capulet’s hand gripped her arm, nails digging into her flesh. “Verona’s prince already knows all,” she said. “Verona’s rightful prince. Prince Paris.”

  Rosaline soon realized he was mad.

  Paris was pacing the length of the tent, his eyes lit with a vision only he could see. His face was flushed with an almost holy joy; his body, lean and strong, moved with grace. He would have been beautiful if he were not so frightening.

  “At first I knew not that my savior was Juliet’s mother,” he said. “I lay in pain-racked delirium for weeks as I hovered between life and death. She was nothing to me but a cool hand at my temple, a soothing voice. Her face was so like my beloved’s that I believed she was an angel, Juliet come back to guide me to heaven.

  “But then my fever abated, and I knew her for who she was. No earthly love, but an angel indeed—a heaven-sent mother to restore me and set me on my path. I would have left then, but in her wisdom she persuaded me to remain hidden in House Capulet.”

  “Why?”

  He paused, fingering the crest at his shoulder. “What knowest thou of Verona’s succession?”

  “What is there to know? The crown passed from Escalus’s grandfather, to his father, to him, and thence to his future son.”

  He shook his head. “My father and Escalus’s were brothers. My claim to the crown is as great as his. The crown of Verona is rightfully mine.”

  Rosaline’s eyes went wide. It seemed she had greatly underestimated her grief-racked aunt. They all had. “Paris, your father was younger brother to the old prince. He never made any claim to the throne. Is this the poison she poured in your ear?”

  “Not poison. Salvation. Ah, canst thou not see? Escalus has been a blight on fair Verona—his reign has brought naught but strife and pain and destruction. Providence intends I should rule. Surely canst thou see that, from what thine own family has endured.”

  Rosaline shook her head slowly. “I have said it a thousand times: The Capulets are neither cursed nor persecuted. None can end the feud but the feuders. The prince is not to blame. ’Twould be easier for a ruler to stop the tide than to prevent Montagues and Capulets from brawling.”

  Paris gave her a pitying look, as though she were a child who insisted that two and two made five. “I love my cousin well, but if he is allowed to continue, Verona will not stand. Your aunt did but show me the truth of this, and helped me to prepare Verona to welcome my succor as it should.”

  Rosaline narrowed her eyes. “And how did you accomplish that?”

  “I’ll trouble not the mind of an innocent maiden with the ways of warriors,” he said soothingly. “Thy sister, dear to me as she is, knows none of this, and nor shalt thou.”

  “But my aunt knows. Have you no care for her gentle womanish heart? Tell me, Paris. My maiden’s mind is stronger than you think.” Paris remained closed-mouthed, but Rosaline’s eyes went wide. There was no need to hear it from Paris’s own lips—she knew what he had done. “ ’Twas you who killed Gramio.”

  Paris’s smile was sad. He bowed his head in acknowledgment. “I shall say prayers for his misguided young soul forevermore,” he said. “And for Truchio, and for Orlino. I take comfort in knowing that their young lives would soon have been swallowed up by the feud, even had it not been my hand that slew them. I gave their deaths a purpose.” He turned and dug through a small chest, emerging with a black mask. “ ’Tis strange, is it not, that such a small scrap of cloth should strike fear into an entire city? Thine aunt sewed it for me with her own hand. There’s another in my room back in Verona, but I brought this one to remind me of all I have done.”

  “And my aunt, I suppose, defaced her own daughter’s statue.” The thought made her feel as ill as that of Paris slaying those poor boys.

  “My lady was very brave, to make her way through Verona by night and write those things. But she knew this seeming slander was the only way to truly honor Juliet’s memory.”

  “But why? What can your aim be? Why did you two slay young Montagues and Capulets alike?”

  “Because I had no choice. Verona must be pushed to the brink of civil war so that I can seize my rightful crown.”

  Rosaline was numb. “Our houses must be in open war on the streets, so no one will be on guard against your army’s approach. ’Tis why you falsely implicated Benvolio.”

  Paris put a compassionate hand on her shoulder. “Aye. And I am sorry, but ’tis why he must die.”

  Oh God, oh God, her mistress had run mad.

  “Lady,” the nurse said, her voice taking the even, low tone that had never failed to soothe Jule from a nightmare. “Lady, Paris is no prince.”

  Lady Capulet shook her head. “Thou art wrong, nurse. No rightful sovereign could have allowed all that has passed. Dost thou mind the night Tybalt was slain?”

  The nurse nodded, shivering. Brave Tybalt, who had toddled hand in hand with her lady Juliet as a babe, lying bloody and rent in the street as Lady Capulet screamed over his body was a sight that haunted her nightmares. After that, she thought her mistress’s rage spent, collapsed into all-encompassing grief. It seemed her fury had but been hidden.

  “I was as trusting as a child then,” her mistress said, her gaze far away. “I looked to the prince over Tybalt’s body and asked—begged—for justice.” She gave a bitter chuckle. “Can you imagine? I, mistress of the ancient house of Capulets, daughter to a duke, begging for the justice that was owed me—and our so-called prince looked at me and offered only to send Romeo into exile. I knew, when Romeo slew my dear kinsman and escaped with his life, that vile Escalus would never have my fealty again. When I found Paris, I understood Providence had sent him to me to bring Verona on the right path at last. When he takes his crown, he will crush the Montagues under his righteous fist.”

  “And our house too?” the nurse whispered. “Paris has already begun the bloody work.”

  “Fear not,” Lady Capulet soothed. “Some sacrifice is necessary to claim our house’s due glory. Those Capulets who are worthy shall be saved, even exalted, once Paris has claimed his throne. House Capulet must die to live, but once my husband and his pack of puling, brawling nephews are gone, it shall rise anew from the ashes, without Montague to trouble it. And when Paris takes a Capulet bride, the throne shall be ours as well.”

  “A Capulet bride?”

  Lady Capulet gave a sly smile. “I am not so indifferent to the sweet looks and sighs between him and my niece as they may think. I am quite content to give her to him. Even now, Paris approaches, having gathered an army of his allies. The prince shall throw the gates open for him so that he may bear Benvolio hence, little knowing he is welcoming his own downfall.”

  “A cunning plan,” the nurse said slowly.

  Lady Capulet smiled. “I could not have done it without thee, dear retainer. Thy loyalty shall not be forgotten.”

  The nurse sat down heavily on Paris’s one-time bed, her mind in a whirl. Here she had nursed him faithfully—the man she had once helped Juliet to spurn and deceive. She had gotten above her station, taking it upon herself to help Juliet defy her parents, and when the dear child died of it, she had been determined to be ruled by her mistress’s wisdom henceforth.

  But this—this was too far. Would Juliet rejoice to see her own family destroy her husband’s kinsmen? She could not believe it. Lady Capulet was not to blame, of course—grief had twisted her mind down this treacherous path. The loss of Juliet, the nurse thought, was enough to drive anyone mad.

 
; “My lady,” she said soothingly, “let’s to the palace. I’ll tell how Paris hath deceived you. Prince Escalus will have compassion for your grief. I am sure you need not fear our prince’s wrath—nay, he will be grateful, if you tell him what is coming.” She took her mistress’s hand in both of hers. “Come, lamb, let’s to the palace and confess all.”

  Something like rage flashed across Lady Capulet’s face. Then she smiled. “Think’st thou in thy soul this is the wisest course?”

  “Aye, lady, I am sure of it.”

  “I cannot dissuade thee from it?”

  “I bow to your ladyship’s wisdom in all matters, but in this I must do my duty. ’Tis but for love of you and yours, my lady.”

  Her lady drew her hand away and stepped behind her, squeezing her shoulder. “Dear, dear nurse. Has House Capulet ever had a more loyal servant? Thy fealty shall never be forgotten.”

  The nurse patted the hand on her shoulder. “I do but discharge my duty.”

  “I know.” And then a cord was passed about her neck and pulled tight.

  “Dear soul,” Lady Capulet said in her ear as the nurse gasped and choked and clawed at the scrap of cloth about her throat. “Even in death shall thou serve us. Shh, shh.”

  I’m dying, thought the nurse.

  And, I do not understand.

  And, Juliet, I come.

  Soon thereafter, a scream broke the air when the nurse’s lifeless body was discovered crumpled near the Capulet doors. A note was thrown on her body like trash:

  THUS TO ALL CAPULETS.

  Cry “Havoc!” and let slip the dogs of war.

  —Julius Caesar

  BENVOLIO WAS DREAMING OF his wife.

  In his dream he was at a great feast. His wife was whirling across the dance floor, her laughter echoing all around him, but no matter how he pushed through the crowd he could never seem to get to her side. Though the room was stuffed from wall to wall with every droning noble he knew, and the heat should have been stifling, somehow the air was cold. Perhaps that was the reason for the ache in his bones.

  Romeo and Mercutio were acting the fool, as usual. No matter how many times he told them to stop teasing him, they persisted in mocking his nuptial state.

  I’ faith, Benvolio, I’d thought not to see you so yoked, said Mercutio.

  Aye, said Romeo. Rememb’rest thou not our oath to remain three bachelors until we die?

  There was something wrong with that, but Benvolio could not remember what. Finally it hit him. Thou art no bachelor, Romeo. Thou’rt wed.

  Aye, said Romeo. But I’m no traitor.

  Who have I betrayed? I wed for love.

  For love of her? Or hatred for thy friends?

  I hate you not! Benvolio exclaimed. What hath my love to do with you two, pray?

  He’s right. Mercutio grinned. He’s just a fool. Some men do bear the yoke, some cuckold’s horns, but our Benvolio’s the only man whose marriage made him don a cap and bells.

  A cap and bells? No fool’s cap do I wear.

  A cap at least, Mercutio replied. And hush! For that same fool-maker draws near.

  And yes, suddenly his wife was just behind him, and he kept turning around and around, trying to draw her to his side so he could present her to his friends, explain them to each other, but she seemed determined to prove their bad opinion of her right. She laughed, darting away from him, never letting him see her face behind her curtain of long dark curls, but for some reason her hand kept reaching out to pinch his hip.

  Then he awoke, and he realized that the pinching was real. Rosaline’s toes were digging into his leg.

  “Thank God,” she said. “I thought you’d never wake. It’s been hours.”

  “What—”

  “Hush,” she hissed. “Be still.”

  Benvolio blinked his exhaustion from his eyes. He stifled a groan as sensation returned. His muscles were stiff and sore, and the scabbed wound across his chest had begun to throb again. Paris’s men had tied him to a post in a tent near the edge of camp this morning, and had left him alone there ever since. Despite the cold ground he sat on, his grumbling stomach, and his worry for his companion, he’d finally nodded off some hours after sunset. Now he awoke to find Rosaline bound to another pole, just opposite his, her lower lip caught in her teeth as she stretched her foot toward him to prod at his belt. Her shoes sat discarded beside her, her dress ridden up to her knees.

  “What art thou about?” he gasped, trying to ignore the sensation of her toes creeping along his inner thigh and— God in heaven.

  “Freeing thee,” she whispered, nodding toward his side, and he realized she was trying to reach his dagger. It was small, and hidden under his sash, so the guards had missed it, but he’d been unable to twist enough to reach it himself. Rosaline’s long, flexible legs and nimble toes, however, showed every sign of reaching their prize.

  To distract himself from pursuing thoughts of her legs, he whispered, “Why art thou here? I’d not have thought Paris such a scoundrel as to hold a lady in such conditions.”

  “He did not wish to. He would have held me in his tent, but I had to find thee, so I made him see I was too dangerous not to imprison properly. I tried to stab him with a butter knife,” she said proudly.

  “Foolish maid! He could have killed thee!”

  “Hush.” Her toes gave a twist and with a suppressed cry of triumph, she withdrew his knife. Drawing it back toward herself, by dint of much bending she was able to put it in reach of her hands. She went to work on her bonds. As she did so, she related to Benvolio what she’d learned of Paris’s plans.

  Benvolio set his jaw. So Paris meant not to let him live. “Dear God.”

  “Aye,” she said grimly. “We’ve no time to waste. They have Silvius tied just outside. The guard is snoring. If we can slip our bonds, we can flee before they know we’ve escaped.”

  Benvolio’s mind flew over what he’d seen of Paris’s defenses. It was possible—possible—that she was right. They were near the edge of camp, after all. There was a chance they could bypass the guards outside the tent, sneak past the sentries, and be gone before anyone was the wiser.

  But Rosaline had overlooked something. She seemed to think his death was imminent, but if Paris planned to use him to bait a trap for the prince, Benvolio was more valuable to him alive, at least for the moment. Paris could drag him before Escalus himself, and let him rave of an army waiting over the horizon; who would believe the crazed murderer he was thought to be?

  Rosaline, on the other hand, was a much greater threat. She had the ear of the prince, who would have no reason to doubt her. Paris would have to find a way to convert her, as he had evidently endeavored to do, but if it became clear that Rosaline was not going to fall in with his plans, Paris would have to silence her.

  Benvolio would not permit that.

  Aloud he said only, “An excellent plan. What time is it?”

  “Near midnight.” Rosaline huffed a curl out of her eyes to give him a smile, then returned her concentration to her bindings. After a moment she blew out a triumphant breath and drew her hands from behind the post, the ropes now severed. She quickly crawled to him and bent over his wrists, attacking his bonds with the knife. A strand of her hair tickled his cheek; he closed his eyes, trying to lock the sensation in his memory. Perhaps this was what his dream-friends were trying to tell him—Rosaline had indeed made a fool of him, for he was about to do the most foolish thing he had ever done.

  She made quick work of his bonds and helped him to his feet. She started toward the front flap of the tent, but Benvolio shook his head—he did not wish to risk waking the guard. Instead he guided her toward the rear, where the canvas was held together with laces. Retrieving his dagger, he cut enough of the bindings for them to slip through. The rows of tents backed nearly onto each other with only a few feet of space between them, forming a narrow canvas alley. Heart in his throat, Benvolio guided Rosaline along the slender pathway until they were out of sight of the te
nt where they’d been imprisoned. Then, motioning for her to stay where she was, he slipped back out.

  Rosaline had been right, thank heaven—Silvius was hitched to a post not ten feet from where he stood. Sending up a quick prayer of thanks to whomever watched over wayward Montagues, he beckoned Rosaline over. Luckily, they both still had their long cloaks, and he pulled up her hood and his own, tucking her curls back behind her ears. With any luck, they would pass for a groom and a stableboy.

  There were a few fires in their death throes at intervals between the tents, each dotted with dozing sentries and idle gossipers. But none seemed to take note of them as they took Silvius’s bridle and began walking him toward the road. As they slipped past the line of torches that ringed Paris’s camp, into the enveloping darkness beyond, Benvolio sighed. Perhaps his desperate plan would not need to be put into action, after all.

  “The prisoner has escaped! To arms!”

  Oh hell.

  Benvolio seized Rosaline’s wrist in one hand and Silvius’s reins in the other and ran. Risking a glance over his shoulder, he saw the camp was in an uproar, torches darting hither and thither. Already, mounted men were starting toward the road. “We must mount, we must away!” Rosaline said, tugging at his arm, and Benvolio turned to her, locked an arm around her waist, and kissed her, hard. Then he pulled back, taking advantage of her momentary confusion to seize her by the waist and all but throw her into the saddle. “Go,” he said, and smacked Silvius’s withers as hard as he could. Silvius reared and bolted, Rosaline clinging to his neck. He had one last glance of her pale, bewildered face staring back at him before he took a deep breath and shouted, “Paris, thou blackguard, face me like a man!” as he charged back into camp.

  One man against a thousand was poor odds, even if he had been armed—Rosaline still had his dagger. Still, he laid about him with his fists—no need to make anything easy for these vile traitors. His goal was distraction rather than escape, and he intended to buy Rosaline as much time as he could. It was not until they had him bound once more that the captain thought to ask, “Where is the lady?”