by Rachel Caine
I wondered how much of what my grandmother knew had reached him. “My noble uncle, do you know the cause?”
“I neither know it, nor can learn it of him.”
I pressed him, but it was obvious Romeo’s father did not know the cause of his sorrows, which was a great relief . . . until around the corner, who should come but Romeo himself, trailed by the two faithful retainers. He looked doleful, but his sorrow lessened a bit, replaced by concern, when he saw the state of the street, his father and mother, and the prince. The frowning, lingering Capulets he ignored, save a single glance.
I knew, though, that from the determined set to his chin, Romeo was bound to spout something that would be not only unwise, but dangerous, and likely having to do with the Capulets, and so I quickly turned back to his father and said, “Please you, step aside. I’ll discover his grievance.”
“Do so,” he instructed me sternly, and extended his hand to my aunt. “Come, madam, let’s away.”
The Capulets, who would not have retreated before Montague lest they seem weak, or risked his impugning them to the prince behind their backs, took a hasty good-bye as well. The prince was slower to depart, but leave he did, taking most of his men with him, save a contingent left to watch those who stayed with severe and quelling stares.
“What passed here?” Romeo asked, looking around at the remnants of chaos. “No, let me chance a guess: a clash between two unhappy houses.”
“I have no wounds,” I said. “Thank you for your concern.”
“You never have wounds,” he said absently. “Was it just a little while ago I left you?”
“Just a while.”
“Sad hours seem long . . . was that my father?”
“It was.” I shook my head. “I know I am a fool to ask, but what sadness lengthens your hours?”
“Not having that, which having, makes them short.”
I knew well where he was headed. “In love?”
“Out.”
“Of love?” Please, I thought, let it be so. Let him be mournful because he’s finally reconciled to the idiocy of his suit. . . .
But no. My cousin could never be so agreeable. “Out of her favor, where I am in love . . .”
He went on, at least sensible enough not to mention Rosaline by name, but every worshipful syllable he spoke made me ache to beat him senseless. He knew it was a sickness, knew it was impossible, yet he persisted. I answered his plaintive questions, aware that attacking my cousin in the open square would be a fool’s job.
But when he finally said, “Farewell,” and met my eyes squarely and earnestly to say, “You cannot teach me to forget,” I almost gave in to the temptation.
And as he walked away, lost in his fog of love and madness, I said, “I’ll pay that doctrine, or die in debt.”
And I meant it, every word—I would make him forget. No matter the cost.
• • •
The aftermath of the day’s riot meant that the city of Verona fell into a sullen, deceptive peace. The Capulets still walked the streets in their gang of red-clothed bravos, and our men still matched them, but on opposite streets, and at a distance. Only the women of our houses met and mingled with any kind of impunity, and although it did not look like war, it most assuredly was; I knew women well enough to understand that most of what they did, exquisitely mannered or not, was calculated to improve their own station, or that of their families. In their own ways, the girls of noble families were soldiers—merely armed with very different weapons of charm, beauty, and guile.
If the women were soldiers, my grandmother was the undisputed and widely feared mercenary captain, capable of great cruelty and unexpected generosity. My mother no longer played the game—or rather, played a different one: that of widow, one foot in her husband’s grave and waiting to step the other down. Her only concern seemed to be making acceptable matches for my sister and me. Veronica had consented to the old man they’d chosen for her—no doubt the showers of pearls and gems he’d given her had swayed her opinion of him—and as for me . . .
Upon arriving home, fresh from battle, I found I would soon be combed, scrubbed, curried like a horse on parade, and put before the marriageable young girls of Verona once more.
Mercutio, stretched out on my bed with his head propped on my feather pillow, watched with great, delighted attention as Balthasar chose my clothes for the event—nothing like as subdued as I would have preferred, but a sky blue doublet with black slashes, embroidered with our crest in gold. The tie-on sleeves were more blue, worked with floral designs. I stood in injured silence, head tipped high, as Balthasar added the damned things.
“The very thing to impress the ladies,” Mercutio offered, and popped a grape in his mouth. His eyes were shining with mischief. “Pity that outsize codpieces have gone off fashion. Now, that would persuade a girl to overlook your considerable flaws.”
“My master has no flaws,” Balthasar said stoutly, “save a sometimes questionable taste in companions.”
Mercutio clutched his chest and rolled theatrically. “A hit! A palpable hit! Ben, you must discipline this fool before something terrible happens to him in his sleep.”
Balthasar sighed. “Finished. You look a young Adonis, sir.”
“And look how Adonis ended,” Mercutio added. “Go on, then. Turn for us. Show the goods.” There were times when I hated Mercutio, and I silently glared at him until he sat up. “If shopping for wives makes you so ill-tempered, perhaps you’re not suited for it,” he said. It was a gentle enough intimation, but it caught me wrong-footed, and I bared teeth at him in something less than a smile.
“It isn’t that I don’t favor women,” I said tightly. “You know that well enough. It’s that I don’t like being marketed like a prize stallion.”
“Be careful they don’t check your teeth, then,” he said. “All men must marry, lest they burn, or so says the apostle. Even I am due for the altar soon enough. Reconcile yourself, boy, and stop drawing such a face as to appeal more to gargoyles than girls.” He paused, then continued, with a grin. “And you are not the prize stallion, you know. That falls to Romeo. There’s no reason to make a gelding of yourself.”
“Your friend speaks truth, master,” Balthasar said, and brushed a bit of dust from the velvet. He clucked his tongue in disapproval and brushed more energetically, until I felt like a carpet in need of beating. “Heaven knows, a wife would do you considerable good, sir. Perhaps you’d not feel so in need of sneaking out at night and returning with ill-got bits and bobs.”
“To be fair,” Mercutio said before I could, “he rarely brings them back here. I sell them on his behalf. And you, dear Balthasar, get a nice income for your silence, as you’d do well to remember.”
“I do confess it every Sunday,” he said placidly. “Your lady mother is waiting, sir. I can do no more for you.”
That was both a relief and unfortunate, since it meant proceeding from the simmering pan to the roaring fire, but I sighed—not entirely manfully—and walked toward the door with the air of the condemned to the gibbet.
“Wine, Balthasar,” Mercutio said, reclining again. “I feel we should toast our friend’s good fortune and future marriage prospects.”
Balthasar, never loath to give away my wine, was already in motion when I swept out, walking with a steady, fateful tread through the narrow, dark halls, into the hot blaze of the atrium courtyard garden, where my aunt Montague sat embroidering beneath the orange tree while her ladies chattered like bright-colored birds. Her sharp eyes watched me go, no doubt well aware where I was bound.
I knocked at my mother’s chamber door and was admitted immediately. There were two others seated with her at her small table, and a servant was pouring cooling drinks for all. My mother, in her widow’s black, nodded to me pleasantly, but her eyes had gone a little cold. I was late. She was not amused.
“Benvolio,” she said. “My son, I present to you Lady Scala, and her daughter, the lady Giuliana.”
I
spared less than a glance for the visiting noblewoman, though I gave her an elaborate bow and kissed the air above her fingers with all the best courtesy. My mother would be noting any lapses in my courtly graces, I knew, but I’d been trained well, and hard, and I knew the line of my leg and the angle of my bowed head were perfect.
Then to the girl.
This was what my mother expected of me. Giuliana was thirteen, perhaps; where Veronica was, at fifteen, a well-practiced vixen, this round-faced creature looked ill at ease in her finery, like a child playing at woman. I was no old man, but the difference between seventeen and thirteen seemed dire. I felt nothing for her but a distant sort of pity that she be thrust at me like a basket of baked goods in the market. She stood, though, and, with all her concentration, performed an adequate curtsy of her own, spreading her thick, muffling skirts wide as she bobbed. She still wore a maiden’s cap, but beneath it her hair was a simple, uncomplicated brown. Her eyes were the same plain color. She gave me a tentative smile, which I returned without any sense of feeling.
I knew what was expected of me. I took up the dish of sweets and offered it to her. She took a honeyed fig with intense relief and popped it into her mouth, chewing with too much enthusiasm for courtly correctness, and an uneven blush crawled up her neck and stained her cheeks as she realized she’d betrayed both her discomfort and her childish lust for such sweet things. She refused a second and sipped her juice, gaze furious and fixed on the table before her.
I did feel sorry for her, at least a little; she was a pawn in this game, and I at least had the status of some higher piece, perhaps a knight, perhaps even a castle. I’d be sacrificed in the end, but I could more likely achieve my ends than she.
“Do you play chess?” I asked her on impulse. Her gaze flew up to mine, wide and surprised, as if she’d never expected to actually have to speak to me. She glanced quickly at her lady mother, who gave her an encouraging smile.
“Y-yes,” she said. “On occasion.”
“Would you like to play?”
“If—if my lady mother—”
“Of course,” Lady Scala said warmly. “My daughter is most clever with such things. And with singing, and the lute. She’s been well and classically trained.”
My mother’s chess set was a large, baroque thing; it had belonged to my father, I knew, and many was the time I had sat as a very young boy, struggling to learn the rules of the game. By eight I had been decent enough to outmaneuver my mother; by ten, I’d bested the chess master employed by her to test me.
Giuliana took her place across from me and studied the board. She picked up one of the pieces and studied it curiously. Her fingers, I noted, were still chubby, still child-length. She had growing left to do. “I’ve never seen one like it,” she said. “It’s very beautiful.”
“My mother brought it from England,” I said. “It was a gift for my father.” The pieces were minutely carved ivory and ebony, truly masterworks. She put the king carefully back in his place and, after a few seconds of contemplation, opened with her pawn. I countered. She moved. I countered. It went on so for several silent minutes before I began to see her pattern forming, and felt an unexpected surge of admiration.
Giuliana looked up at me, recognizing that I’d appreciated her strategy, and smiled. The shyness was gone now, replaced with confidence. “I studied under Master Traverna,” she said.
“And you do him credit,” I said, and moved out my knight. “But I studied under Master Scagliotti, who defeated him twice.”
“Only twice,” she said, and moved her castle. “Check.”
I glared at her, then down at the board. She was correct. I’d completely overlooked her trap. I quickly moved out of danger, and set up an attack of my own, which she defeated. Before long, we’d quite forgotten that we were expected to be potential mates, dancing politely around each other, and were trading wicked barbs as the pieces fell between us. She was merciless, the tiny Lady Giuliana. I won, but it was a close thing, and if we’d been facing each other on the battlefield, the cost would have been high on both sides.
The color was bright in her cheeks for another reason, at the end—true pleasure, I thought, and I was glad to see it, because I’d not had such a challenging and entertaining game in some time. I rose from the chair as she tipped her king, and took her hand in mine. She rose, suddenly awkward again, and the blush deepened as I bent over her knuckles and brushed my lips lightly over the skin. I kept my gaze on her as I did it, and saw the response in her. It frightened her, I saw; she might never have felt such a thing before.
All in all, not as much of a disaster as it might have been, and when the lady and her daughter took their leave, my mother turned to me with a radiant, completely delighted smile. “My son, you conquered her heart completely! I had no idea you could be so charming.”
I shrugged. “The girl’s clever,” I said. “Far cleverer than she looks, or than her mother wishes her to be.”
“I know such things appeal to you,” my mother said. “But, Benvolio, remember one thing: A clever wife can be an asset or a burden. She’ll require close watching, that one.”
“I thought you wished me married, Mother!”
“As I do, my son.” She touched my hair gently, and kissed my cheek with paper-dry lips. “I also wish you happy. That is a selfish failing, but I cannot help it. Do you wish me to offer for her hand?”
I closed my eyes and sighed. Giuliana’s baby-fat face, lit with a shy smile, appeared before me, but beside it was another face, older and leaner, framed by falling waves of night-dark hair.
Another clever girl, one whose spell I could not break no matter how much logic argued I must. When I shut my eyes I saw her glimmering in candlelight, her body a delicious shadow beneath the nightgown, her full lips rapt and parted as she read her poetry.
I opened my eyes then, and said, “Not as yet. But I do not say no outright.”
My mother, in that moment, looked as transcendently happy as I could ever imagine. She gripped my shoulders and kissed me effusively—both cheeks, then the mouth. She framed my face with her thin hands and gazed on me with true joy.
“I am so glad you are seeing sense,” she said. “This would be a good match, Benvolio. The girl comes with a good dowry, and her family has ties to the pope himself, as well as several dukes. I could not hope for better.”
Neither could I, I thought. There were certain things that would remain beyond my reach, and one of them, always, would be Rosaline Capulet. Best I resign myself to that now, and find what joy I might. Giuliana was, as yet, no great beauty, but she had a sweetness of spirit and a sharpness of wit that would do well enough to complement me.
But I felt a sense of loss, of failure, so great that I could not bear to be in the glare of my mother’s happiness. I took my leave quickly, pleading affairs to conclude, but I had no refuge back in my own rooms; Mercutio was there, waiting for an account of my gruesome failure, and to admit some partial success in my marriage hunt would be unsettling and humiliating. I did not know how I felt. I did not want to explain it to him, for fear he might suss out the grief I felt at losing a girl I’d never had.
Instead, I went to see Master Silvio, the blademaster.
He was at work with one of the distant cousins—Pietro, this one, up from the country and fumble-footed. I leaned against the wall of the large, empty room and watched as Master Silvio—dressed as always in a doublet, hose, street shoes, and half cape—drove the boy back at sword’s point out of the marked square. “No,” he said, and lowered his point as the boy struggled to find his balance again. “No, this won’t do, my boy. You wield that blade as if you plan to reap wheat with it. Elegance, young master. Precision. These are the foundations of the art of the sword— Ah. Young master Benvolio. Did we have a lesson today?”
“No,” I said. “I need a bout to cool my blood.”
Silvio’s thin eyebrows arched. He was a tall man, spidery, with long graying hair that was always queued back t
o prevent it from obscuring his vision. His eyes were a startling cool gray, and according to the talk of the streets, Master Silvio had been responsible for the deaths of at least a dozen men in his life of dueling, if not more. He had not a visible scar on him.
Dueling with the master was something few wanted to do for recreation.
Young Pietro passed me and whispered, “Thank you,” as he collapsed on a stool in the corner, breathing hard. His clothes were soaked with sweat. I chose a rapier and dagger from the collection neatly hung on the whitewashed wall, and turned to Master Silvio.
“You’re wearing your finest,” he said. “Perhaps it might be wise to—”
I attacked in a leaping lunge, and he glided out of the way of the blade in a fade so graceful he might as well have been a ghost. He had none of the brawler’s technique so valuable in a street fight, but in a noble duel, there was no one better. He was right: I ought to have at least removed the hanging, annoying sleeves, but I had a black fire burning, and I needed to put it out.
“You always tell us to be ready to fight in what we wear,” I said. “An enemy may not wait for me to remove my finery.”
He smiled. It was a meaningless expression with Master Silvio, merely a polite movement of the lips that affected the eyes not at all. “I do say that,” he said. “Very well, Benvolio. Have at me.”
I did, using all my concentration—I had a good reach, a sound balance, near-flawless control of my blade. It did me no good at all. Master Silvio, fighting at his true level, disarmed me in ten exchanges, swirling his blade up mine to corkscrew it out of my grip and into the air. I dropped, rolled like a tumbler, and came up to grab it before it hit the ground, but that left me fighting in an awkward crouch, unable to fully rise. “Not bad,” he told me, as he threatened me with a slow and agonizing death at the point of his blade in my guts. “But not quite fast enough. You should never try that unless you can make it to your feet again before your opponent can reach you.”