Still Star-Crossed

by Melinda Taub

  One of the other young men raised his sword. “Say another word, Montague, and I’ll make you eat it!” he shouted at Orlino, the threat rather undermined by the way his voice cracked.

  Orlino dipped his sword toward the woman on the ground. “I’ll make her eat it.”

  The Capulet youth leapt forward with a cry of rage, and Orlino met him without hesitation. Steel rang against steel over the woman’s flinching body, and Benvolio stepped forward. That was quite enough.

  “Hold!” he roared. “What is the meaning of this?”

  The pack of young swordsmen froze as they realized there was a newcomer. “Benvolio!” Truchio said. “These Capulet scoundrels call us liars. We aim to correct them.”

  “As if you could,” one of the young Capulets yelled, his voice shaking with anger. “We know full well you are liars and villains. Who but a whoreson Montague would so befoul our kinswoman’s memory?”

  Benvolio followed his gaze to the statue of Juliet, Romeo’s five-day bride. He drew in a sharp breath. The Capulet had cause for his wrath—someone had scrawled HARLOT across her pretty face in black paint.

  There was a shout behind him. While his back was turned, one of the Capulet lads had attacked. Instantly, the air rang with the disharmonious music of sword against sword as all the young men joined the fray. Young Truchio, the smaller of the Montague lads, faltered under the assault of one of the Capulets, who feinted under his arm and nicked him, a spot of blood appearing on his doublet. Orlino leapt to his aid, and the prostrate girl gave a ragged cry as Orlino trod right over her.

  “I said hold!”

  Wrath sang through Benvolio’s blood as he roared the command, so potent he was almost glad the fighters ignored him. His own sword was out and raised in an instant. Finally, a channel for the lonely, bottomless fury that had him stalking Verona’s streets all night. He cared for neither Capulet nor Montague. These fools all needed to be taught a lesson, and Benvolio was the man to do it.

  He laid about him right and left, striking Montague and Capulet boys alike with the flat of his blade. His blood thundered in his veins and he felt a fierce grin spreading across his face. For the first moment since his friends had died, he felt like himself. Mercutio had been their clown, and Romeo their leader, but it was Benvolio who was the true swordsman. Whatever else had happened, his sword still fought true.

  Despite his skill and the others’ youth, five on one was a challenge. He would have to disarm them quickly. He turned on his kinsmen first. Benvolio slammed his hilt down on Truchio’s sword hand, sending his rapier falling from his grip. Before it had hit the ground, Benvolio had sent Marius’s sword to join it with a flick of his wrist. Orlino, seeing his older cousin’s wrath, lowered his sword and drew back. At least one of Benvolio’s kinsmen had sense.

  The two Capulet lads, seeing their enemies disarmed and not caring by whom, pressed forward in triumph. But Benvolio was far from finished. He turned to face them.

  “Poor Benvolio,” one of the Capulets mocked. “So mired in grief for his sweet slain cousin that he cannot tell friend from foe.”

  “Fear not,” said the other. “We’ll teach you to remember.”

  Benvolio huffed a breath, flicking his sweaty hair back. “How kind. But you will find me slow of study.” And he was upon them. Unlike his kinsmen, they were ready for him, and they pushed him back steadily till his back was pressed against Romeo’s statue.

  But they were unused to fighting as a pair. One boy got tangled in his fellow’s feet and fell, and before he could right himself Benvolio had kicked his sword away. After that the other was quickly dispatched, and Benvolio stood panting over the groaning, disarmed youths of both houses.

  Catching his breath, he pointed his sword toward the statue of Romeo that rose above them, gazing with eternal longing at his Juliet. “My cousin married a Capulet,” he told the pack of them. “Thus you are all my kinsmen now. ’Tis the only reason no man”—he snorted and corrected himself—“no boy among you felt more than the flat of my blade this night. Go home, all of you. Next time I’ll not be so kind, kin or no, and neither will the prince’s men should they find you.”

  Truchio struggled to his feet. “Cousin, they—”

  “GO!”

  They went. Sullen, sore, but they went, Marius and Truchio down toward the square, the Capulets east to the hills, and Benvolio breathed out a sigh of relief. No one would die this night.

  Wait. Where was the lady?

  Benvolio whipped around just in time to spot Orlino dragging a struggling female form behind a vault.

  Heaven above. Would it never end?

  The Montague held Rosaline’s arm fast.

  Rosaline struggled to free herself from his hold. He was older than the other Montagues, with the size and strength of a man, if not the sense of one. When this Benvolio had appeared, she’d thought she was saved, and she’d tried to slip away during the fighting. But this villain had followed her. One of his hands gripped her arm so hard she was sure he’d leave a bruise.

  If she survived, that was.

  “Do not do this,” she begged, fear stealing her voice. “The prince hath commanded—”

  “Hang the prince.”

  “But you will be exiled, killed—there is peace between our families now, you know there is—”

  His hand cracked across her cheek. “I need no lesson in law from a Capulet jade.” Rosaline clutched her cheek, willing the tears from her eyes. Her captor looked her over, his young face twisted with hate. He shoved her to the ground.

  “We never defiled your thrice-damned Juliet’s statue,” he said.

  Despite the circumstances, Rosaline let out a laugh. “Who but the Montagues would do that to poor Jule?”

  The Montague boy’s jaw clenched. “Think you so? I’ll make your lies true and one better. Aye, I’ll carve harlot on the face of a Capulet—one who can still weep for her lost beauty.” With that, he advanced on her, sword held high. Rosaline’s stomach roiled as she realized his intent. She tried to scramble backward, but he lunged for her, grabbing her by the hair. His other hand brought his blade closer, and closer, the tip gleaming in the torchlight as it drew near to Rosaline’s face. She shut her eyes tight. The cold steel kissed her cheek and she prepared herself to feel the agony of the blade.

  It never came.

  Her attacker gave a yell and Rosaline felt his sword drop away. She opened her eyes to find him locked in a struggle with the man who had joined the fight before.

  The two swordsmen separated and stood, facing each other, blades raised.

  “The Capulets spoke aright, Benvolio,” her attacker said. “The loss of thy playfellows has made a weak, womanish fool of thee. Thou shouldst join me in teaching this canker-blossom a lesson.”

  The other man just lifted his sword higher and growled, “Not another word out of thy craven mouth, Orlino.”

  Then they were upon each other, and Rosaline gasped, her heart pounding as their swords slashed the air faster than her eye could follow.

  The fight was short but brutal. Rosaline could see that the two Montagues knew each other’s swordsmanship—they targeted each other’s weaknesses with terrifying accuracy. The younger man had the first touch, nicking Benvolio’s arm, and Rosaline cried out, certain her defender was defeated, but he ignored the slash on his sleeve and somehow twisted his foot with his opponent’s, and suddenly Rosaline’s foe was sprawled in the dust, his sword lay six feet away, and her savior had the point of his blade at the man’s throat.

  “Yield.”

  “Benvolio, ’twas just a bit of—”

  “Yield.”

  “Very well.” He raised his hands sullenly. “Now will you let me rise, cousin?”

  The other man stood frozen, as though he had not heard him.

  “Cousin? Benvolio? What—”

  Benvolio’s sword flashed, and then Rosaline’s assailant was crying out, hands clutched to his face. He pulled his hands away to stare at the red
that coated them. Benvolio had given Orlino a long slash across his right cheek.

  “How dare you!” Orlino snarled as he struggled to his feet.

  Benvolio stepped back, lowering his sword at last. “I’d dare much worse against any man who raised his sword against a lady, no matter her name. Get thee gone, Orlino, and never touch her again.”

  Orlino glared at them both. His breath was coming in pained hisses. Blood was streaming down his cheek, coating his neck and staining his doublet, but his injuries did not prevent his face from twisting with anger. Rosaline’s sweaty hands clutched her gown. Had she really thought him a boy? No child’s face could hold such hate.

  “You’ll hear more from Orlino anon,” he promised. “Both of you.” Then he stumbled out into the darkness and was gone.

  “Are you well, lady?” The victorious Montague turned and knelt before Rosaline, and finally she saw her savior plain.

  He was young—not so young as her assailants, nor as the Capulet cousins they’d brawled with, but younger than she would have thought for such a skilled swordsman. No more than eighteen. But something in how he held himself made him seem much older.

  Even had he not named himself a Montague, Rosaline would have known him for one. Pale skin, proud features, dark hair that must have many times been the despair of a nurse’s comb—aye, here was one of the handsome, dark, devilish Montagues her mother had warned her of when she was a child. He looked familiar, but she did not think they’d ever met. She’d seen most of the young Montagues from a distance, at feasts and in the market, but Romeo was the only one she had ever spoken to at any length. Montagues and Capulets did not mix.

  “I am well,” she said, running shaky hands over her muddy gown. It took her a moment to be sure it was true. A bit bruised by Montague and Capulet feet, for she’d walked into this brawl before she knew what had happened, and her own kin were more interested in crossing swords with Montagues than helping her to escape. She would be black and blue tomorrow, but only her pride was seriously hurt.

  He extended a hand, and when she flinched, he laughed at her a little. “Come, lady,” he said. “They have all gone, leaving only me, who neither threatened you nor trod upon you.”

  The crooked smile flared and disappeared from his face in an instant, but Rosaline was surprised to find it warmed away some of the icy fear in her breast. “ ’Tis true. Mine own cousins, well-meaning though they were, could not say the same, as you can see from the boot prints on my gown. Good sir, I thank you.” She extended her hand, allowing him to pull her to her feet.

  He sketched a bow. “Your servant, lady.” As he bent over, she spotted a flash of red under his torn sleeve. Rosaline rushed forward.

  “You’re hurt!”

  “ ’Tis nothing,” he protested, but Rosaline had already gone to soak her clean handkerchief in water from a nearby fountain. She was greatly in this man’s debt; she must at least try to repay it. She returned and sat him down on the steps of a convenient tomb so she could wash the dirt from his wound.

  “Nothing it may be for one so stalwart as you,” she said, “but since we of the weaker sex are known to swoon at the sight of blood, if you are a courteous gentleman you will let me clean it for you.”

  She stood over him and carefully peeled his sleeve away. He bit back a hiss as she began to dab the blood away from his wound. It wasn’t a grave injury—less likely to scar than the cut he’d given his cousin. He looked up at her as she worked. Rosaline could see the ruddy torchlight reflected in his eyes. “A lady of your beauty is right welcome to swoon into my arms whene’er you wish.”

  Rosaline pressed her lips together and bent her head closer to her task, so that her hair shadowed her face. Gentlemen of the court offered such flirtatious compliments to ladies as a matter of course. If there was a blush staining her cheeks, it was no doubt due to the excitement of the night.

  “You seem not like a lady given much to swooning, anyway, from what I’ve seen,” he said.

  “Not much, sir. Swooning stains one’s gown with earth.”

  “But not if one is there to catch you, lady.”

  “ ’Tis true. But men can’t be relied upon to follow me about with outstretched arms, and so I think it best to stay upright.” Rosaline wrapped her handkerchief around his arm as a makeshift bandage.

  “Your pardon, lady, for what my kinsmen did,” he said. “They never should have offered such discourtesy to any lady, Capulet or no—ow!”

  Rosaline had tightened his bandage. “ ‘Capulet or no’?”

  He flinched away from her ministrations. “I mean your kinsmen ought not to have provoked them.”

  “Provoked them? Saw you not what your kinsmen did to our poor Juliet’s statue?” To Rosaline’s horror, her voice had started to shake. “Has she not suffered enough, but must be slandered from past the grave as well?”

  “They made no slander, lady. For your kin had no right to presume that it was they. No kin of mine would so defile the dead.”

  “Nay, only one that lives. Your wound is sound, sir. Good e’en.” Rosaline tied off his bandage and rose to leave the churlish Montague.

  “Lady, wait.” He caught her hand, and she turned to find him looking sheepish. “I am sorry.”

  Rosaline sighed. “A thousand times have I cursed this grudge between our houses,” she said. “Yet I no sooner meet a Montague than I have mounted a new battle. ’Tis I who must beg your pardon, sir.”

  He gave her that crooked smile again and bent over her hand in a florid bow, as though they’d just been introduced at a ball. “We’ll start again, then. Benvolio, at your service, lady.”

  She returned his smile and swept him the prettiest curtsy ever made by a mud-covered girl in a graveyard. “Good e’en, sir. They call me Rosaline.”

  He dropped her hand like it had burnt him.

  “Rosaline,” he repeated. “Rosaline is thy name?” He sat down on the steps of the tomb and barked a laugh, running a hand across his forehead.

  “Do I amuse you, sir?”

  “Oh yes, lady,” he said. “An excellent jest, to find myself bowing and begging for pardon from the very cause of my family’s misfortunes.”

  “Cause of your misfortunes?” she said. “When have I ever given a Montague a moment’s care? Except—”

  “Aye. Except.” Benvolio surged to his feet, all traces of mirth gone from his face. “Except that you, in your pride, your prudishness—you brought this plague of death down on both our houses.”

  Rosaline met him glare for glare, refusing to back down in the face of his fury. But her heart sank. Benvolio. She had been too frightened during the fight to remember why his face was familiar, but she knew him now. He was not just any Montague—the bloody youth clutching his sword before her had been Romeo’s best friend. So she knew what was coming. Few in Verona knew of Romeo’s brief passion for her, but Benvolio was certainly one of them. “If you refer to my friendship with Romeo—”

  “By God! Say not his name.” Benvolio grabbed her by the arm. She tried to pull away but his grip was firm as he hauled her toward a fresh grave. “Mercutio,” he read from the tombstone. Before she’d had a chance to reply or even catch her breath he’d hauled her away to another recently opened crypt. “Paris.” Another. “Tybalt.” His grip was as tight as Orlino’s had been. When they arrived at the entrance to the cemetery, he spun her around, holding her shoulders from behind. “Look,” he said behind her. Rosaline felt her back stiffen. He was a solid wall of fury behind her, his angry breaths hot against her ear. “Look upon thy handiwork.”

  She didn’t want to. She wanted to close her eyes—didn’t want to look on the face of her erstwhile suitor, now immortalized in stone. But she would not show such weakness, so she took a deep breath and looked on Romeo’s lifeless golden visage.

  “He loved thee,” said Benvolio, giving her shoulders a little shake. “He spoke of nothing but thy wit, thy beauty, thy kindness”—his fingers dug into her arms—“and
thou—thou didst spurn him.”

  Rosaline finally shook him off. “And after what hath passed, you dare tell me ’twas imprudent?” she said, whirling to face him. “I would not hear Romeo’s suit because I wished not to add fuel to the troubles that have consumed our families so long. ’Tis not my fault that he straightaway lighted on an even worse choice of bride, nor that poor Jule succumbed to his advances. Think you Romeo would have fared well had he married a niece of Capulet, rather than a daughter?”

  Benvolio’s breath hissed through his teeth. “Would he have fared well? No. Would he live? Aye. My friends would live still, and so would Juliet, hadst thou the wit to accept the love of a man a thousand times thy better. Or for that matter, had ‘poor Jule’ the wit to keep her legs closed.”

  Rosaline’s hand flashed out and she slapped him hard across the face. “Speak so of Juliet again and I swear I’ll cut thy throat!”

  The chiming of the nine o’clock bell broke the spell of their vicious grief. Rosaline tore her gaze from his furious face and stepped back. “I go,” she said. “For repelling your brutish kin, you’ve my thanks. I shall show my gratitude by troubling you no longer. Good night, sir.”

  She searched for her black shawl, lost in the earlier scuffle. Finally spying it, she shook the grass away and wrapped it over her hair, then headed for the gate.

  Benvolio followed. “ ’Tis not a safe night for a lady alone. I’ll go with you.” He did not sound as though he relished the prospect.

  Rosaline shoved away his proffered arm with as much rudeness as she could. He may have saved her life, but after calling her an idiot and her cousin a whore, did he really expect her to be grateful for his grudging show of courtesy? “Your kinsmen have taught me well how dangerous this night is. But I’d rather let the villains hack me to bits than go one step with you.”

  She set out for the cemetery gate. He strode after her, grabbing her arm again. “You brainless girl. I am trying to do you a kindness.”

  “Montague kindness is of the sort that gets one killed. I’ve no wish for it. Let me be, Benvolio.”