by Melinda Taub
Lord Capulet’s face was red, his brow furrowed. “I know not what the truth of this is,” he called gruffly. “But, wife, if you want me to attest to the character of our guests, you will have to tell me when they are under our roof.”
Escalus raised his hands. “Enough!” he roared. “Each speaker is more fantastical than the last.” He turned to Rosaline. “If this be Friar Laurence’s book indeed, how came it to thy hands?”
She swallowed. “I—I stole it.” Better she be sanctioned for that than let the prince know that Friar Laurence had willingly violated the sanctity of confession. The crowd murmured at that. She continued quickly, “Punish me for that crime if need be, but, Escalus, you know well that I have never lied to you. I did only what was necessary to save an innocent life. If you believe me a liar now, I shall regain your trust most bitterly before the day is out, for Paris’s army is poised to attack.”
“Cousin?” Escalus called to Paris, who had not moved from the rear of the crowd. “What say you to these accusations? Pray defend yourself.”
“I shall make his answer,” a voice replied from behind them. “He is guilty of every word, and worse.”
Rosaline turned and gaped. There, behind her on the dais, blue eyes filling with tears and slim shoulders set, was Livia. In her hand she held a small bundle of cloth. She ignored Rosaline, ignored everyone, to stare over the crowd’s heads at Paris.
Paris looked as surprised to see her sister as Rosaline herself. “Love, why art thou here?” he demanded. “Thou wast to wait for me back at camp—”
Escalus’s eyebrows raised. “Camp?”
“Aye,” Livia said. Her voice rang out over the crowd, her hands clasped behind her back. “The camp where he imprisoned Benvolio and Rosaline, before she escaped. Where he gathered enough men to storm Verona in an hour.” She drew a deep breath. “And where—”
“Livia—” Paris pleaded, his voice high and panicked.
“I’m sorry, my love,” Livia said, and then, turning to the prince, “Where he promised to make me princess of Verona.”
There was a long, shocked silence. Livia seemed frozen, staring at the dumbfounded Paris, as a tear slipped down her cheek. She unfolded the black scrap in her hands and held it aloft. It was a black mask. “This was among my lord Paris’s things in his tent,” she said. “He was the man in black. He slew Orlino, Gramio, and Truchio, all three.”
Lady Capulet screamed, “Traitor!” and before anyone could move to stop her, she plucked a dagger from her bosom, lunged across the executioner’s dais, and plunged it to the hilt into Livia’s side.
Time seemed to slow down, shattering into a thousand pieces. The surprised little uht that fell from Livia’s lips as the blade slid into her. Her body wilting toward the ground. Benvolio leaping at Lady Capulet, wresting the knife from her. Rosaline screaming, “Livia!” as her sister crumpled, racing to catch her in her arms.
“Livia?” she demanded frantically. “Livia?”
His greatest sacrifices. All for naught.
Escalus grimly drew his sword as chaos erupted around him. Paris had wheeled his horse about and was racing away from the city. No doubt returning to this army of his, whose existence Escalus could no longer disbelieve. The crowd was roiling with shock and suspicion; they had not turned on each other yet, but they soon might, if he knew his subjects. To his left, Rosaline cradled her sister, shrieking her name; behind him, Benvolio struggled to keep Lady Capulet from escaping. Escalus rushed to his aid to subdue her. She fought like a wild animal, and it took several of his men to wrestle her to the ground. Escalus growled, “I want her in irons in my dungeon straight away.”
She faced him with a crazed grin. Her sleek hair had fallen halfway out of its pins, and her fine gown was stained with mud and her niece’s blood. Escalus wondered how he could have looked at her and ever thought her anything but mad. “I shall not pass the night there,” she taunted. “By sunset ’tis thou that shall be a prisoner, Escalus, while I stand by the throne.”
“Take her away. We’ve no time for her ravings.” He turned to Benvolio. “How now, Montague?”
Benvolio, dirty and bruised and pale, managed a smirk. “In better health than I expected to be ten minutes ago.”
Escalus clapped him on the shoulder. “Good. I’ve need of thee.”
Benvolio nodded, took a deep breath, and knelt to the man who, moments before, had been planning to have him executed. “I am Your Grace’s to command.”
Escalus gave him a nod and turned to the assembled crowd, raising his arms. “Hear me, Verona!” His subjects quieted. “I am betrayed,” he called. “We are betrayed. If we cannot fight as one, Verona will fall by sundown. For generations, we men of Verona have shed each other’s blood—can we now unite against those who would slay us all? Tell me, city of mine, can we fight side by side with our countrymen—all our countrymen?”
Numb shock glazed the faces of the crowd. Montagues and Capulets glanced at each other uneasily. Escalus gritted his jaw. Even now, they feuded.
“Aye,” Benvolio’s harsh voice called beside him. He glared at his young cousins until they too muttered, “Aye.”
“Can we face the enemy as one?”
“Aye.” This time it was old Capulet—white-faced, shaking like jelly, still staring at the spot where his wife had disappeared, but raising his sword in a trembling salute.
“Can we prevail, Verona?”
“Aye!”
“Can we win the day!”
“Aye!”
Every sword was raised, every throat roaring out in unison. The threat of imminent destruction, at least, was enough to unite his fractured people. “Capulet, to me,” he called to Lord Capulet. “And Montague.”
The two old enemies mounted the platform to the prince’s side. Giving each other wary nods, they stood some distance from each other. “Together, you will look to our defenses,” Escalus said, telling them with his glare that he would brook no disagreement. With a sigh, old Montague stuck out a hand and Capulet took it.
“I’ve ten score men, all told,” Capulet said gruffly.
“I’ve about that number. Paris’s forces will likely dwarf us—his lands are vast and his purse vaster. But we shall be better armed than his mercenaries.…”
As they conferred, Benvolio tapped Escalus’s shoulder. “Where am I to go?”
Escalus looked Benvolio over properly for the first time. He’d lost weight, and was covered in cuts and bruises—some of them, he realized ruefully, likely dealt by Escalus himself—and he was swaying slightly where he stood. He had been through enough at Verona’s hands.
But Benvolio, apparently reading his mind, scowled and said, “I shall not be mewed up in chains of safety while my kin and countrymen are abroad. No one has suffered more at these villains’ hands than I; no one deserves more to face them.”
Escalus nodded. “In that case, you know what I will ask of thee, Benvolio.”
Benvolio’s gaze followed Escalus’s up the hill. “Paris.”
Paris’s army was in sight by noon.
Rosaline watched them crest the hill with a shiver. A team of the prince’s men had borne Livia back within the city as gently as they could, but her moans of pain would haunt Rosa line’s dreams.
Now they were ensconced in the topmost tower of the palace, where Escalus had insisted on installing them. “If the city should fall, every guard in this palace shall fight to the death to protect you.”
Hardly comforting, since that would mean that everyone they knew was dead, but Rosaline was glad of a safe place for Livia, and for the prince’s physicians, who were currently clustered about her sister’s bed.
Livia gasped her name, and Rosaline flew to her side, grasping her hand in hers. “Shh, shh. Rest.”
Livia shook her head and said in a dry whisper, “I’m sorry—should have—known—should have said—”
Rosaline shook her head. “Hush, little one. ’Tis no fault of thine.”
A
pale hint of her usual humor crept into Livia’s eyes. “Always—think I’m a child.”
It was true. Rosaline had paid little attention to Livia these last weeks. It never would have occurred to her that her impish little baby sister could have involved herself in trouble such as this—or that she could have kept it secret from Rosaline for so long. She pressed Livia’s fingers to her lips. “No child could have been as brave as thou wast today.”
“Paris told me—” Livia coughed, and with an effort continued, “He told me thou hadst fled Verona forever. ’Tis how I knew he lied. Thou wouldst not leave me so without a word.”
A tear slipped over Rosaline’s nose. “No, nor may’st thou leave me.”
But if Livia had a retort to that, Rosaline was not to learn it, for she fainted once more. Escalus’s chief physician took Rosaline’s arm, drawing her from Livia’s bedside.
“Let her rest now.”
“Will she—” Rosaline could barely force the words past the lump in her throat. Livia’s breathing was shallow, her cheek nearly as pale as the pillow where it lay. “Will she live?”
“While she breathes, there is hope.” But the man’s face was grim. Rosaline gripped his arm as the room seemed to swim around her.
There was a little cough. “Lady Rosaline?”
Rosaline took a deep breath until the world solidified, and turned to find Chancellor Penlet hovering in the doorway. He gave another little cough, then said, “His Grace would speak with you.” His gaze swept over her. “My … lady.” The following cough was rather distressed. Rosaline realized she was still wearing Benvolio’s clothes, now thick with grime and blood. She offered Penlet a manly bow just to irk him further, then slipped past him and down the stairs.
Benvolio and Escalus were waiting for her in the chamber below. She paused on the landing, regarding them. Both were armor-clad, Benvolio in a breastplate with a Montague crest, the prince in a shining silver helmet surmounted by a stylized golden crown. She shivered. The handsome prince who’d begged to win her heart, the young man who’d mocked and goaded and kissed her—they were going to war.
Both looked up as she descended to them. The prince’s gaze was solemn, but questioning. Benvolio, on the other hand, offered her a quick grin and winked behind the prince’s back. “Your Grace,” she said. “Signor Benvolio.”
Escalus took her arm and drew her a little ways away from his companion. “Verona owes you a debt, lady,” he said stiffly. “Our city’s gates would never have been closed in time without you. Your bravery puts my boldest men to shame.”
She winced. Such rigid formality, she knew, masked hurt. “I did but what I must, for you, and for Verona.”
“And for Benvolio,” he said softly.
She ducked her head. “He needed my help.”
“And so thou didst flee with him, under the cover of night.” He drew a shaky breath. “I thought he’d killed thee.”
She turned tear-filled eyes up to his. “Escalus—”
“Nay.” He pressed two fingers to her lips. “Now is the hour for war, not the heart.” He took her face in his hands, heedless of their audience, and kissed her forehead. “I am glad thou liv’st, lady. All else shall keep till after we have prevailed in battle.”
“Ahem.”
“Ay, by and by, Penlet.” Escalus kissed her hand in farewell and took his leave, Benvolio at his heels. Rosaline waited for him to bid her farewell too, but he said not a word, and her cheeks flamed as she realized he had overheard what had just passed. She mouthed his name, but he merely jerked a bow and then he too was gone. They had not spoken a word to each other since that night in Paris’s camp.
Turning, she flew back up the stairs, pelting into the tower and throwing herself halfway out the window. Far below, two armor-clad figures rode toward the gate. One of them stopped to look back up at her. On impulse, Rosaline pulled out her handkerchief and let it flutter from her fingers down to the courtyard below.
She did not see who caught it.
The Battle of Verona was soon joined.
As Benvolio’s uncle had surmised, Paris’s forces were mercenaries for the most part. They had expected a rich prize, easily won; many of them turned and ran the moment they saw Verona’s forces massed and waiting for them. But even so, Paris remained the commander of an immense horde, and they had come prepared for battle, while Verona’s men had only scant hours to make ready. The plain that lay to the east of the city, usually dusty and quiet, was soon a-clang with sword against sword and awash with blood.
Benvolio patted his mount’s neck—not the exhausted Silvius, but a steady enough creature of the prince’s—and raised his sword, guiding his company to draw in and shore up its flank. The prince had put him in command of a small force of Verona’s best warriors. They darted from one knot of fighting to the next, offering what aid they could. Benvolio was glad to be of service, for Verona’s beleaguered forces needed every scrap of aid they could get. He just hoped he lived long enough to fulfill the task the prince had set him.
A broken cry to his left drew his attention, and he looked over and saw a slight Verona youth struggling with a much larger foe. Wheeling his mount about, he bore down on the pair. One swipe of his blade effectively drew the enemy’s attention from the boy to himself. The mercenary, a man of forty with mismatched armor and a long brown beard, snarled a gold-toothed grin and aimed a jab at Benvolio’s side, which he neatly parried. A few more passes, and the man realized he was overmatched and withdrew, leaving Benvolio to bend over the boy, who was hunched with his hands cupping his side.
“How now, sir knight?”
The boy shook his head. “ ’Tis but a scratch.”
Benvolio pulled his hands away and suppressed a hiss. Quite a scratch. “Marry, Signor …”
“Lucio. Of House Capulet.”
“Signor Lucio, thou hast done a man’s work today. ’Tis time to retire. Hie thee back to the city.”
“Nay. I’ll not withdraw a coward.” Young Lucio had a familiar stubborn chin. Over his shoulder, Benvolio caught the eye of another young Capulet, this one slightly older. Valentine, he thought. The youth had much the look of his cousin Tybalt. He offered Benvolio a slow nod. Benvolio had no time to do more than return his salute before their attention was called back to the battle before them.
Old Montague was fighting for his life.
His arms, once strong and terrible, trembled under the brunt of yet another blow. He spared a glance behind him, but there was no path to take in retreat—nothing but foes, as far as the eye could see. Years of practice kept his sword arm moving, parrying, avoiding his opponent’s blade, but it was only a matter of time. He would see his wife and son before the day was out.
“Yahh! Back and back, you misbegotten swag-headed puttocks!”
The weight on Montague’s sword arm was suddenly relieved when a mountain of flesh and steel surged between him and his opponent. He knew that vast form. Lord Capulet wore a helmet and shoulder guards, but no breastplate—doubtless it had grown too small for him in the years since he’d had need of it. He shed drops of sweat as he swung his sword in a great arc over his head with a roar. Montague would not have thought his old rival could move half that fast—was fairly certain that the man had not done so these twenty years—but corpulent though his form had grown, it seemed a warrior’s grace and zeal had not entirely deserted it. Well, a warrior’s zeal, at least. The invader, taken by surprise by the behemoth suddenly hacking at him, faltered under his swift attack, and after a moment wheeled about and retreated toward his own forces.
“That’s right! Tell them ’twas Capulet that sent you hence!” Lord Capulet yelled after him. “By God, there’s vinegar in me yet!” He turned to Lord Montague and said, “Well met, sir, whoe’er you may be, for all men of Verona are as brothers today— Oh it’s you.”
Montague had raised his helm, revealing his face, and he could not help but laugh at the look of dismay on his old foe’s face. “Brothers indeed,
for you have saved me, sir,” he said. “A sweeter revenge you could not have than to put me in the debt of my most loathed enemy. I pray I shall have the chance to return the offense before the day is out.”
Capulet, after a moment, harrumphed a laugh as well. “Come, you old scoundrel, let’s play out our fury ’gainst our foes and not each other for this day. With luck, one or both of us will fall to the enemy, and none need tell of this shameful passage.” Together, they wheeled their horses and charged back into the fray, roaring out their battle cries.
“For Montague!”
“For Capulet!”
“For Verona!”
His city and his crown, he feared, were lost.
Verona’s forces fought on bravely, and never had Escalus felt more fierce pride in the city he ruled. But Paris’s army was simply too numerous. Little by little, they were slicing Escalus’s army away, forcing them back toward the city walls. The ground was littered with Verona’s dead. The northern gate had briefly been breached, and though only a small force had made it into the city proper, repelling them had cost many lives.
Escalus surveyed the field with a lump in his throat. His own life was nothing, compared to the safety of the city. To protect it, he would do the unthinkable. He would surrender.
“Ready a white flag,” he told his page, who looked astonished. “We’ll go to Paris to parley.”
The boy shook his head in horror. “My lord, my lord, you cannot surrender yourself to him. Surely we can still prevail.”
But even as the boy spoke, a fresh wave of troops came pounding onto the field from the east. There was no way his weary countrymen could withstand yet another onslaught. The devil take his cousin! Where had Paris gotten so many soldiers to follow him? He must have bankrupted his estates. Of course, he soon hoped to replace them with a city.
Although oddly, this latest force did not appear to be mercenaries, nor did they wear the colors of Paris’s house. In fact, their blue-and-white livery was that of—
