Lucrezia and I, on either side, propped her up again and moved her back to our litter. There she sat with her feet on the ground—Mona Elena patting her hand—refusing to go inside and calm herself.
“He will burn to death!” she kept crying.
“No, Mama, he is well back from it, though I fear the office and showroom are lost.”
We watched as Jacopo, soot-covered and looking very much in command, moved down the bucket brigade and began shouting at a young man I now recognized as my cousin Marco, and several of our factory men, to direct their loads to the divide between the showroom and the weaving and dyeing chambers, the latter still miraculously untouched.
“See how brave your future husband is,” Mama whispered, recovering her wits, but grating on mine. “And clever. Should fire reach the dyeing vats, there could be a great explosion.”
Suddenly the thought of what she had just proposed caused Mama to shrink back into the litter. It was well that she did, so she could not see my abject expression. But Lucrezia saw, and turned her face away, for we had left on bitter terms the subject of my “husband.”
And then as though by the magic of thinking of that person, Romeo appeared before my eyes, racing round the corner at the head of a band of men! I could see they were his father’s workers, but they were dressed, not for their labors in the vineyard or orchard, but for some celebration. Now Roberto Monticecco brought up the rear, shaking his head disbelievingly at the terrible conflagration.
At Romeo’s shouted orders they joined the bucket brigade, relieving some of the factory men, who fell to the ground limp and exhausted and mightily grateful. Roberto and Romeo went to my father and wordlessly took up the effort by his side.
Heartsick and frantic as Papa was, he nodded thanks to the Monticecco men, and my heart soared to see it.
The fresh manpower behind the water brigade finally turned the fiery tide. Soon there was more smoke than flame, and then no more left of the blaze than a facade of blackened stone and charred window frames. The fire out, the night became dark again, with only a few street lanterns flickering on the faces of the dazed and exhausted men.
I followed Mama as she threw herself sobbing into Papa’s arms. He appeared too tired to be angry at the foolish women who had disobeyed his command and followed him to the disaster.
Marco, greatly relieved, embraced his aunt and uncle.
Silently I sought Romeo’s eyes. His face was racked with divergent emotion: waning passion from the fight, pride in his men’s bravery, but sorrow, too, for my father’s loss, and, if I was not mistaken, joy at seeing me again—his love, his wife.
Jacopo strode up to the clutch of us then, and I thought—with a flicker of apprehension—that I saw a darkness there, one beyond his oily, soot-smeared face. In the next moment, and to my horror, I knew I had not misjudged.
He gave Romeo’s shoulder a vicious shove.
Roberto was the first to spring defensively forward. He placed his body full between his son’s and Jacopo Strozzi’s. In the next instant Papa pushed Mama from the center of the clutch and confronted the face-off.
“How do you dare disrespect my son?” Roberto demanded of Jacopo. “He and my men just helped save this factory.”
Jacopo spit on the ground at Roberto’s feet. Everyone within sight gasped at the appalling insult.
My father put a hand on Jacopo’s arm. I could see he was trying in vain for calm, and to find the right words in question.
“Jacopo, my friend. What has been the offense here? As Roberto says, Romeo and his men risked their lives to save our property.”
“Thank God we were nearby,” said Romeo, still bristling.
“We’d come into town this afternoon,” Roberto explained, forcing evenness in his voice. “We all went to the cathedral to give thanks for our successful harvest.”
Jacopo seethed. “More like successful sabotage.”
With that, Romeo surged past his father and clutched Jacopo round the neck with viselike fingers. I startled at the fury I saw in his usually gentle expression.
“You accuse us of sabotage!” he cried.
Papa pushed the men apart. His features were twisted with confusion. To Jacopo he growled, “Explain yourself.”
“I was walking home from Arentino’s and thought that I should go to the factory and check the manifest for tomorrow’s shipment. As I rounded the corner, I could see smoke pouring from a lower window. And then I saw a man running away.” His eyes passed over the faces of all the workmen who had gathered in abject silence to hear the accusation. They fell on Filippo, a man I recognized as the Monticecco’s house servant. “That man,” Jacopo declared.
“That is impossible,” Roberto cried. “Filippo has never left my side. First at the cathedral. Then at the inn where we celebrated. But more than that, he would have no reason to set your factory afire.” Roberto turned to Papa with baffled eyes. “We are friends, Capello.”
“How easy it is to claim friendship.” Jacopo’s mouth set in a stubborn line. “I know what I saw.”
“You’re lying,” Romeo said. Everyone quieted and the unnatural silence simmered dangerously. “Why are you lying?”
With lightning speed Jacopo’s fist arced through the air, landing a sharp blow to the back of Romeo’s head.
Instantly the workmen were alive with anger, as though the blow had been made to a hive of bees. Now they were ready to fly at one another.
But Roberto called out, “Everyone! Quiet yourselves! Stand down!”
Papa sought my mother’s eyes. “Take Juliet home. At once!” His eyes flashed angrily. “You should never have come.” Then without hesitation he turned from us and pushed his way back into the throng.
Mama turned to me, panic in her eyes. I could see she did not wish to leave her husband in harm’s way. Neither did I wish to leave mine. But there was no choice.
We joined Lucrezia and Mona Elena, who had stayed behind at the litters. I saw worry on Lucrezia’s face, for she knew that my circumstances—complicated and untenable before—had just become dangerous in the extreme. But I saw no recrimination in her eyes, none of the anger or outrage with which she had punished me at the bottega not two hours before. Perhaps I only wished it was so, but I felt Lucrezia’s compassion—the sisterhood that binds all women in love.
With a whispered word of caution, Lucrezia and her mother went their way. Mama and I were taken home.
Chapter Twenty
We sat for a time at the dining table, clutching hands, silent in our misery and worry.
“They’re all right, Mama,” I said. I knew she believed I meant Papa and Jacopo. “If anything had happened to either of them, we would have heard by now.”
“At least your father and Roberto were keeping cool heads.” The words she spoke were true, but her furrowed brow belied her calm.
I brought us cups of warm wine and we sipped them, hardly meeting each other’s eyes. I could see Mama’s lids beginning to droop, but I did not dare suggest she go to bed.
Finally the front door opened and Papa was in our midst, all smoky and black-faced and strangely jolly.
“Everything is well,” he said wearily. “Well as it can be, having lost the office and the showroom. But the factory and warehouse were untouched, praise Jesus. And truth be told, the parts that burned were old and falling down. We shall rebuild. No worries.”
“But what of Jacopo and Romeo?” I said with perhaps too telling an urgency. “They were at each other’s throats.”
“They have forgiven each other for their insults.”
“And the accusation of the Monticecco’s fire setting?”
“Withdrawn,” said Papa with a wry grin. “A bit reluctantly, but withdrawn all the same. Those two will never love one another, but even now they are working side by side to clean up the mess.”
I felt a jab in my chest at those last words, for the thought was jarring and the image it provoked was false, for Jacopo hated Romeo. Jacopo knew of
our love. But could he know of our marriage?
I gasped at the thought.
“What is it, sweet girl?” my mother asked, concern darkening her features. “Are you ill?”
“No. It’s nothing.”
“We should go to bed,” my father announced. “Come, Simonetta.” He took Mama’s hand. “We are all very tired.”
“And relieved!” my mother said, smiling up at her husband.
We climbed the stairs together and they watched me into my room. I shut the door behind me.
I was anything but relieved.
I paced and paced, the space of my room and out to the balcony and back. Finally I relented and put on my nightdress and climbed beneath the covers. But I was full awake, as though it were bright dawn after a good night’s sleep.
Agitated, I rose from the bed and lit a candle at my desk. Sight of the flame brought memories of the factory fire. I picked up the quill.
Conflagration.
The fires of Hell do I see,
beneath the orange flames
fight my love and my enemy.
Inferno.
Blessed for the sight of my husband adored
brings our fathers pain
and bittersweet accord.
Devil’s fire.
Set by him in jealousy’s wake
finally vanquished by Good
and by Love’s sake.
I was grateful for the time that passed like a sweet spell in the writing. And then like a gift of more magic, I heard a crunching on the balcony floor. I rose and swung open the door, flinging open my arms, knowing it was Romeo.
Knowing this would be my wedding night.
And there he stood, moonlight and shadows. The shoulders broad, waist narrow. Feet set wide apart. Muscular legs strong. His beautiful hair was wild, his eyes shining bright. But he lacked a smile.
And he was covered neck to groin in blood.
The sound I made he stifled with his hand as he plunged into my room and pushed closed the door.
“What has happened? Where are you hurt?”
“I am unhurt.” He moved like a cat to the bedroom door and locked it. “This is not my blood.” When he turned to me again, the pain was so vivid on his face that I scarce believed him.
“Whose blood?” I said, growing fearful for the answer.
Romeo began to pace from corner to corner, as I had done earlier. He wrung his hands, then raked them through his hair. Yet he would not speak, name the victim.
“Whose blood!” I cried.
His lips were trembling. He plucked absently at the gory doublet. He seemed deranged. “Marco’s.”
“My cousin?”
He nodded. Then his face crumbled and he fell to his knees. “I killed him. He died on the end of my dagger.”
My arms, which had been welcoming, then beseeching, fell limp at my sides.Words escaped me. But there sitting on his heels before me was my poor desolate husband, now beginning to weep. I went to him and came down gently before him, unsure how to touch him, but wishing desperately to comfort him.
I lifted his chin. Tears were brimming, his cheeks a shallow pond.
“Tell me what happened.”
He closed his eyes and his mouth worked silently. I could see him remembering, though the words came slowly and hard.
“The fire was out. You and your mother were sent home. My father and yours”—his lips contorted in a pained smile—“refused to believe Jacopo’s lie.”
I was biting my lip hard. I took Romeo’s hands in mine, horribly aware that the blood that had dried upon them was of my own family.
“So we set to work. Inside. Throwing out in the street what remained of furniture and bolts of silk. The company books were somehow spared, and there was much rejoicing for that.” It seemed too hard for Romeo to continue, but I urged him.
“Go on.”
“I told my father to go home. That Mama would be worried. The men and I would stay till all was finished. Jacopo”—Romeo’s face twisted again—“suggested the same to your father. So there we worked, side by side—silkmen, orchardmen, vineyard men—sorry for the loss, but with goodwill and grateful for no injury to anyone.”
He stopped and opened his eyes, looking deep into my own. I saw confusion there, as though he sought but could not find the single moment when things had turned for the worse.
“I was out in the street. Most of the men had come out. We were neatening the piles of rubble, burned beams. What remained of your father’s desk. Then Jacopo spoke up. Said to Filippo, ‘You started the fire. No one can tell me different.’ Everyone stopped still where they stood. Filippo said, ‘Take that back, or I will break your face.’ And our vintner, a gruff man to be sure, he said quite loudly, ‘Strozzi pig.’
“All at once the goodwill vanished and everyone was trembling with anger, looking for a fight. I went toe-to-toe with Jacopo and said he should curb his foolish tongue, for Capelletti and Monticecco had made peace, not once, but twice, and I would not allow him to rupture it. Marco was at his side, agreeing with me. Urging Jacopo to stand down.”
Romeo’s breathing grew ragged and his face pulled into a grimace. “Then I heard sounds behind me. A thud. A cry. Sickening. I turned to see Benvolio down. His head . . . crushed. One of the silkmen was standing over him, his eyes mad, a burned beam still clutched in his hands. That was all it took.
“All hell broke loose. Men shoving men. Punches thrown. Knives drawn. I went to Benvolio, knelt at his side. He was moaning, bleeding from the ears. Then someone kicked me in the back. Hard. My hand flew to my dagger and I came to my feet, ready to fight. But it was Marco standing there, pushing away the man who had kicked me. His hands were outstretched like this”—Romeo opened his hands in supplication—“as if to say ‘I’m sorry, my friend.’ And suddenly he was lunging at me.” Romeo drove his fist into his palm. “Just like that! It happened so fast. He was pressed up against me, chest to chest, and I saw, behind him, Jacopo. Grinning.”
Romeo sobbed. “Then I heard Marco moan and I knew, I knew, oh Juliet, I knew he was on the tip of my dagger! But before I could move to release him, Jacopo came crashing into his back. His arms went around us both and he crushed Marco into me. Crushed him further onto my blade. Uugh!”
Romeo covered his face with his hands. “There came his warm blood seeping.... I smelled Jacopo’s stinking breath on my cheek and he whispered, ‘I set the fire.’ And then we both felt Marco—oh God, forgive me—we felt the life go out of his limbs. Jacopo pulled away and cried out loud for everyone to hear, ‘Murder! Look, here is murder!’
“All scuffles ceased. All eyes turned. Marco was dead at my feet. The knife was still in my hand.” Romeo turned away, ashamed to meet my eye, but I pulled him back.
“Yes, there was murder, my love. But you were not its cause.”
“Prove it!”
I was speechless.
“Prove it to anyone. Just try.” Romeo came to his feet, pulling me with him. “Everyone will swear to be a witness to the murder of Marco by Romeo. Even my own men were fooled.”
“It’s another of Jacopo’s lies. We will tell our fathers. Explain.”
“No.” He laughed miserably. “There is no explaining it, Juliet. There is only a dead Capelletti at the hands of a Monticecco. That is all anyone will wish to know.”
“How did you come here? Why did they let you go?”
“My men closed ranks around me. I bless them for their loyalty. They wanted me to run, but still I could hear them whispering, ‘Murder, murder.’ I did kill Marco. How could I explain it was not my intention? They held off your father’s men and pushed me, pushed me from the street near the factory. As I went, I heard Jacopo Strozzi shouting, ‘Let him go. He will not get far, for all of Florence will know of his deed!’”
Finally Romeo was dry-eyed. “So I came here. Where no one would expect to find me. To my wife.” He looked at me beseechingly. “Can you forgive me?”
“Romeo, love, you hav
e done nothing that needs forgiving.” But the words caught in my throat, and Romeo heard.
“You see?” he said grimly.
“I see nothing but the sad death of our friend and good cousin Marco!” I cried. “He was your kin, too, when he died. So let me offer my condolences to you.”
I took Romeo to myself, and he clutched me with hard, sinewy arms.
“Is it not an unkind cut that the one soul who succored our love is gone?” he said.
“Monstrously so,” I agreed.
There we stood, trembling with silent grief, for how long I cannot say.
“Let me take your clothes from you,” I finally said with all gentleness.
He stepped back and I pulled apart the blood-soaked leather laces of his doublet. He pushed it from his shoulders and it fell like a dead thing on the floor. The arms of his white shirt were dark brown with gore, and this he let me pull over his head. I went to toss it away, and turned back, regaining sight of him.
There he stood, my own husband, Romeo, in naught but his stockings and bare-chested. Despite his pain-racked face he was so beautiful to my eyes that I went and embraced him again, laying my cheek against the soft warmth of his breast.
“I am death, Juliet,” he rasped softly. “A young Reaper.”
“No. I hear your heart beating.You are life.You are my life.” I looked up at him. “Romeo. Husband. This is our wedding night.”
He tried to smile, but even such words as I spoke were weak medicine for what ailed him.
Thought of consequences for Marco’s killing, murder or not, pressed in on me, heavy, a suffocating cloak. I sought to throw it off with brave words.
“Soon you’ll go. Your uncles in Verona will shelter you. And meanwhile, together, we will set this right.”
I saw a flutter of a smile, the pain ebbing from his features like an outgoing tide. “Our wedding night,” he murmured ruefully.
I took him by the arm to my basin and bade him wash his hands and face in the frigid water. I dried them for him with a scented towel, then took his fingers and placed them on my face. I heard the rush of breath, his relieved sigh.
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