by David Hewson
Juliet stood up and smoothed down her pale dress. Paris had passed them without noticing they were there. He seemed to be headed for the monastery, too. Perhaps her mother sent him, planning they should meet. All around her the ones she loved were making preparations. She felt as if she were nothing more than a cog in the mechanism of a relentless machine, turning to the will of others.
‘I will see the friar. Leave me now.’
‘Happy days! Then… happy nights…’
Nurse waddled happily back towards the city.
‘Faithless,’ Juliet whispered. ‘After all these years. I never knew you were so faithless.’
Paris came into view again, striding beneath the monastery portico with a jaunty, expectant step.
Juliet waited a while watching the ducks on the river. Then she walked through Laurence’s neat garden of herbs, on to the cloisters and the modest covered arcades, head down, aware of the cemetery at her back.
* * *
Out in the street Romeo looked around at Mantua’s grand square, the imposing castle, the ducal palace next to it surrounded by scaffolding, builders climbing over the walls like busy spiders. So much ornamentation and ostentatious wealth. Scarcely an inch of plaster on the regal buildings had gone unadorned. There was a house opposite as Isabella said. Small doors, small windows and a tricorn hat painted by the front window. Doubtless the unfortunate jester’s, though what might lead a clown to the scaffold he couldn’t guess. Nor could he take his mind off Juliet and Verona. Whatever Escalus had threatened, he would return and steal her from behind the cruel walls of the red-brick prison that separated them.
Nico the apothecary came out of the shadows of the colonnades by the castle. ‘Well? How’d it go?’
‘Badly. There were these odd servants. And a monkey.’
‘So…?’
‘And her nipples were poking out of her dress! I think she’s slightly mad.’
‘Here in Mantua we prefer to think of our lady as eccentric.’ They set off for the Piazza Erbe. ‘You need to understand. This isn’t Verona. What you saw was business as usual in the Castle San Giorgio. Isabella’s regent and rules the way she wants. She designs those dresses herself, you know. Lots of posh women copy her. None of our business. We have but one job in life. Give the toffs what they want, take their money, then go safely home. It’s important to fit in with the gentry and try not to giggle.’ He grabbed Romeo’s elbow. ‘You didn’t, did you? Giggle?’
‘No. Nor did I get a job. You need to speak Greek apparently.’
Nico blew out his rosy cheeks. ‘Ah. The old Greek excuse. She hasn’t used that one in a while.’
‘Pardon?’
‘No one ever gets anything out of Isabella d’Este at first asking. Third time lucky is the best you can hope for. Especially if you turn up here the day after murdering someone. She’s being cunning as usual. We’ll get there. What do you want to eat?’
Nothing much, he said, and recounted the awkward conversation about her husband and Lucrezia Borgia.
Nico tutted. ‘God, it must be bad if she’s mentioning it to strangers. We’re dead lucky it’s Isabella ruling the roost here, not him. If it weren’t for that good woman the flag of Venice or Milan would be flying over this place not our own. That husband of hers is a wrong ’un. Good at war, terrible at everything else. Including choosing bedfellows. The Pope’s daughter is the least of his problems. I had one of his household round not long ago asking if I had a cure for the pox. Wanted it for an acquaintance. Right. If he’s been hanging round Roman brothels her lord’s going to pick up something so nasty no man alive can cure it. Isabella won’t want him. Nor will the Borgia woman either. Bad end coming there.’ He shook his head, as if this were a personal matter. ‘He’ll be saying his prayers before long and begging for deliverance. Fat lot of good that’ll do him.’
‘What? Prayer?’
‘Yes, prayer. I don’t care what mad fantasies my brother’s been serving you up in Verona but don’t expect any from me. I’ve seen what that Lord of his puts up with and I don’t like it. Call this a Christian land? When half the warlords who pray to the same God can’t wait to chop each other to pieces? Thousands of willing idiots happy to go along with that, too?’
They were soon back in the piazza. The place was so much smaller than Verona, but perhaps richer. And those painted houses… he couldn’t decide whether they looked fetching or ridiculous.
Nico stopped and looked about him. The old rotonda church where he kept his stall was busy with trade: cloth and food, wine and religious trinkets for the faithful.
‘That place is built on a temple for the old gods, you know. Jupiter and whoever they were. So many of them and they were always at it, fighting and loving and taking sides. Just like us. Now we have this new one. Just him. Maybe that won’t last either. And we’ll have the Turks along tomorrow telling us… things are different, folks. You worship this one now. Don’t argue.’
Romeo liked this unusual, disputatious man. ‘But you would. You always do. Your brother told me.’
Nico stared at him. ‘Up to a point. If there’s a foreigner waving his sword around telling me what fairy story to believe you think I’d bicker with him? Do I look daft to you?’
‘No, but–’
‘No, but nothing. Muslim, Jew, Zoroastrian, all those funny religions they have out east. Whatever they are… I don’t care. The answer’s the same. If the world belongs to them just tell me where to kneel and show me the prayers I’m supposed to say. You know what they used to teach us back when we were little kids in Otranto? Some old fool called Tertullian. “The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church.” What a load of cobblers. I’ve seen more martyrs’ blood than most men and, let me tell you, the only thing that grows out of it is women wailing, misery and yet more violence. When a dead man comes back from the grave and tells me I’m wrong I’ll change my mind. Till that happens I’ll keep this life I’ve got, thank you. It’s the only one I know.’
He clapped his hands. Embarrassed by that outburst, Romeo thought.
‘Well. Here endeth the lesson. You do want some grub, lad. Everyone has to eat. We’ll try the Lady Isabella again on Friday. Say nice things about that horrible monkey of hers next time. That usually helps.’
* * *
Paris sat in the cool of Laurence’s cell, looking at the jars and vials, impatient to be away.
‘Tomorrow?’ the friar asked when the count had told him the news. ‘You wish to wed the Capulet girl tomorrow?This is impossible. They only buried her cousin this morning.’
‘All the more reason to get on with it. Her mother said she’d be here. Why is she late? Tardiness is a sign of sloth. One I refuse to tolerate.’
That, Laurence suggested, was an opinion best left until after a wedding ceremony. ‘I know nothing of a visit from the girl. The haste of all this concerns me–’
‘It needn’t,’ the count snapped. ‘Capulet wants it and so do I. The ceremony will be for the Dominicans to hold, not you. I’ll deck the city with flowers. Verona won’t have seen a wedding like this in years.’
Somewhere close a plainchant began. Laurence felt lost. The monastery was a place for quiet and worship. Not scheming and deceit. He’d seen enough of that already. ‘From my experience the happiest marriages often have the most modest of beginnings.’
Paris sneered. ‘And what would a celibate friar know of that? You are one of those who stays true to his vows, I presume?’
Laurence rarely formed quick opinions of a man. The count was to be an exception. ‘I do my best. Do you know Juliet’s feelings? Have you asked her?’
The question seemed to surprise him. ‘We have met and spoken. I walked her in their garden. The time’s agreed. The priests are booked. Her father’s about to spend a small fortune on a banquet and I shall do the same, twice over. What else is there to know?’
‘I counsel you to… pause a little. A few weeks. Months even. She’s an intelligent girl, a touch
headstrong, perhaps. You need to coax her to your side.’
‘Nonsense. Capulet says she weeps immoderately for her cousin. What use is it to talk to her of love in that case? Venus doesn’t smile in a house of misery. That will come later. When we are married.’ He smirked. ‘She is a beauty, a prize. Tomorrow night I’ll wipe away those tears with a passion the likes of which will leave her breathless. Panting. Sixteen! I’ll teach her things–’
Laurence’s eyes flitted to the door. Juliet had entered in silence and stood there, listening.
‘You’ll teach me what?’
Paris laughed, amused by her presence, not embarrassed in the least. He got up and took her hand, bowing effusively. ‘The ways of love. As a husband should. We’re happily met, my lady, my wife.’
She withdrew her hand. ‘Not yet.’
He beamed and said, ‘Tomorrow.’
‘So I’m told.’
They sat down and he shuffled his seat close to her. ‘Your mother said you came to make confession to the friar.’
She nodded.
‘To confess you love me, Juliet.’ He winked. ‘I know.’
‘I come to confess my love, sir. Yes. In that you’re right.’
‘See!’ He grinned defiantly at Laurence. ‘She adores me. I told you. Tomorrow morning we will seal that love before God.’ Another wink, lascivious this time. ‘And in the evening, beneath the sheets, with one another.’
‘Your hand is on my leg, Count,’ Juliet told him in a venomous tone. ‘This seems forward. The goods have not yet been paid for.’
He removed his fingers, sliding them down her thigh. ‘But they shall be, sweetest. In ways you’ll never forget–’
Juliet edged away from him. ‘Friar. If it would suit you more I will return a little later. I can wait in the garden.’
Laurence looked at Count Paris and didn’t smile. ‘I have time for you now, child. Later doesn’t suit.’ He nodded at the door. ‘This is private. You must leave us.’
Paris got up, happy, slapping his thighs. ‘God forbid I should come between my beloved and her little monk. Talk to her, Friar. Prepare her well. Don’t give away any of our manly secrets, mind.’ He put a finger to the side of his nose. ‘That’s if you know any. Quick…’ He bent down and in a flash placed a wet and clumsy kiss upon her cheek. ‘There’s a taste of it, girl. Your father can rouse you in the morning. I’ll rouse you tomorrow night, that’s for sure.’
They stared at him in silence until he strode out of the cool and shady cell.
Laurence went to the door, bolted it, returned and shook his head. The plainchant ended. The room was as quiet as the grave until she spoke.
‘I will not marry that man. I would rather take my life–’
‘Do not say that!’
‘Then what?’
‘He’s adamant your father’s agreed. The time is set. Tomorrow. And nothing will prevent it.’
‘If I could show him the vows we signed–’
‘I warned you! Against your father it would be difficult enough. Wave that piece of parchment at a man of influence like Paris and he’ll laugh in your face as he throws it on the fire. And where’s your so-called husband?’
‘So-called? You married us!’
True, he thought. That was a rash act. A foolish effort to bring two warring houses together. Now, they were more apart than ever.
‘I can see no way out of this. None whatsoever…’
Then words failed him. Out of her dress she’d retrieved a small and slender dagger. Juliet raised the weapon, delicate fingers round its shank. The point glittered in the late afternoon sun streaming through the cell window.
‘God joined my heart to Romeo’s and you our hands. Before I’m sold off like a slave to another I swear by everything I know I will use this sharp blade to end things.’
‘There is no greater sin,’ he whispered.
She laughed. ‘Not forcing a woman to marry against her will?’
‘No suicide has hope of redemption–’
‘You think I care?’
He looked around him at the little room. She did, too, seeing the bottles and the vials and jars.
‘My mother said you could give me a potion. Some medicine to make me better.’
He reached across the table, took her hands and gazed into her eyes. ‘It’s the world that’s sick. Not you. I lack a garden big enough to find a cure for that. If only…’
He went quiet, thinking.
‘If only what?’
‘You’d take your life?’
‘I will. Tonight.’
Laurence got up and found a blue glass vial. Then an empty black one, a skull on the side. ‘If you’re brave enough to face death then…’ He closed his eyes and whispered, ‘Oh, God, forgive me. Do I make this dreadful condition worse?’
‘I will kill myself.’
He showed her the little blue bottle. ‘This is a simple herbal tonic. You may tell your mother I gave it you. Then throw it away.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s largely useless anyway. But this…’
He uncorked the black vial and turned it upside down.
‘Is empty,’ she said.
‘As always. It’s made for poison. To kill the rats and plague with it, or so we hope. I distil the doses to order. It’s too dangerous and too volatile to keep any other way.’
She took the bottle from him. ‘Your poison’s kinder than the knife?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never found a rat to ask. But that’s not what I’ll give you. Watch. Listen. Carefully.’
Half an hour it took, crushing, mixing, boiling, burning. The little cell filled with strange aromas, some floral, some foul. At the end, he had a few spoonfuls of a dark and viscous liquid which he poured carefully into the bottle with the skull.
‘Go home. Be pleasant. Say you’ll marry Paris in the morning. Tonight sleep alone. No one in your chamber, no one near. Then…’ He held up the vial. ‘When you hear the midnight Marangona strike, drink this down.’
She took the bottle. ‘After which I die.’
‘So it will seem.’
Juliet cocked her head to one side, waiting.
‘This is a powerful narcotic. You’ll look dead to any but a physician. Your breathing turned so shallow it will scarcely be perceptible. The same for your pulse.’
She shook the bottle and gazed at it.
‘The roses in your lips and cheeks will fade to the colour of pale ashes. Your eyes fall shut. Your skin turn cold.’
‘But I’ll be alive? They will know.’
Laurence picked up the blue bottle. ‘Not if no one deals with you but me. Tomorrow morning I’ll visit your home. There I’ll tell your parents I gave you this simple tonic. And you…’ He picked up the black vial. ‘Stole this while my back was turned. After which we’ll find you. I will judge you dead. For them. Tomorrow evening, twenty-four hours or so after you take this draft, you’ll wake. Refreshed, the Ottomans always said. As if the drug renewed you.’
‘Where?’
He pushed back his chair. ‘The crypt of the cemetery chapel. A private place.’
‘A charnel house?’
‘The dead need somewhere to lie before they go into the ground.’
She thought for a moment. ‘What else?’
‘I’ll send one of the brothers to Mantua. Romeo can take the friar’s cloak and papers, and return in his place. For midnight tomorrow.’ Laurence grimaced, thinking. ‘There he can find you in the dead house. You can flee.’
There was no expression on her face at all. ‘Then what will my parents think?’
He shrugged. ‘That you were stolen. Or miraculously revived and ran. That’s the best I can offer, Juliet. I’m a humble churchman. Lies and scheming are not for me.’
‘You seem quite good at them.’
He bit his tongue and said, ‘Wherever you go–’
‘Venice. Rome–’
‘Wherever you go you must write to your mother and father when you can. Tell them
you’re alive. Tell them about Romeo.’ He sighed. ‘Send them to me for confirmation if you like. The consequences–’
‘This is my battle, Friar. Not yours. But I will write.’
‘Then perhaps one day you’ll be reunited. Parents and children. Capulets and Montagues.’
‘Perhaps. You must show me this place where I wake from the dead.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I want to see it. I wish to be prepared.’
Laurence found a torch and lit it from the candle. ‘Very well. Come.’
* * *
The cemetery was a short walk along the river. The chapel stood at the end of a path bordered by a high wall and cedars, with an iron gate at the road which was locked after dark to keep out robbers. It was a low building with a crucifix over the stone porch. He asked her to wait and went inside. After a moment he came out and said the place was empty. No priests. No corpses.
They walked through the small chapel. Then she followed him down damp, worn limestone steps into a chamber beneath the earth. A line of tracery windows allowed some light to shine on three worn marble tables in the centre. A pair of plain wooden coffins stood beside them, for paupers, Laurence said. It was a quiet, bare place with a smell to it she didn’t want to think about. Water was trickling somewhere close.
‘As I said, the drug should last a day. But nothing’s perfect. All I can guarantee is that sometime in the night you’ll wake up. If Romeo’s not there for you…’
‘Then in my shroud I’ll wait.’
‘I’ll tell him to bring clothes. And money. And to think of where you’ll go. Let’s stand outside, child. Enjoy the day while we can.’
They did that and couldn’t think of anything else to say. When the sun began to dip towards the western horizon she turned to him and asked for the vials.
‘I will swallow this gladly,’ she insisted when she took them. ‘I will live. When I wake Romeo will be there. So the two of us can flee this place and find… somewhere…’
He was nodding, a little too anxiously. She embraced him and kissed his cheek.
‘I’m sorry for the distress I’ve caused you, Friar. I hope to bring it to an end. But I will not live a slave.’
