by Melinda Taub
He needn’t have worried. The bay mare he brought her was instantly smitten with her, and she had a good, confident seat. They’d ridden slowly through the darkened city, hoping to avoid attention, but as soon as they’d crept past the city gates, Rosaline leaned forward, raised her face to the eastern wind, and urged her horse into a gallop.
With a laugh of surprise, Benvolio nipped his heels in, sending an eager Silvius in pursuit. He found her waiting for him over the next hill, windblown, rosy-cheeked, and looking lighter than he’d ever seen her.
“Free of Verona at last,” she said.
“By heaven, lady,” he said, reining back on Silvius, who would have preferred to keep running to the horizon. “Who taught thee to ride so well?”
“My father. We rode often. Tirimos are noted horsemen, and as he’d had no son, he took me instead.” She gazed out over the countryside. The rolling hills were tinged with pink from the rising sun. “Since he died, running a household leaves me little time for it, nor the money to keep a proper stables—but oh! It’s lovely, is it not?”
“I think I remember thy father. Everyone envied that white mare of his. How did he die?”
Her eyes met his swiftly before she urged her Hecate into a walk. “You do not know? ’Tis not a tale that will make us better friends.”
Ah. “A Montague slew him.”
“Several Montagues.” A bitter smile twisted her lips. “No one has ever thought the entire tale fit for my ears, but from what I have gathered, ’twas thine uncle Signor Valentio, and Signor Martino. Marry, ’twas no unjust fight. There were at least three other Capulets in it too.”
He cursed himself for asking. “I am sorry, lady.”
“Oh, be not so,” she sighed. Again, that mirthless smile. “My kinsmen saw to it that several Montague babes were left fatherless too, so what have I to complain of?”
Sooth, ’twas no wonder she so longed to escape Verona. He began to think she was right to do so. “It seems mine own father was quite inconsiderate to die of the ague when I was two,” he told her. “There was no one to kill in his name.”
He was rewarded with a laugh. They rode on, and as dawn turned to day, Benvolio told her what he knew of Gramio’s death at the hands of the masked man.
“And thou hast no idea who he could be?” Rosaline asked.
“He was masked. His voice seemed familiar, but—ah, by my sword, I know not. He was a fearsome swordsman, though,” Benvolio said. “ ’Tis no surprise if ’twas he who overcame young Truchio, and even Orlino. An inch closer to my heart and he’d have killed me too.”
Rosaline drew to a halt. “Aye, I had forgot thine injury. How is it?”
“Well enough.” He tapped a hand on his chest, then could not suppress a groan.
Rosaline shook her head. “Faith, Benvolio, I know not how you’ve managed to keep all your limbs attached to your body. Come, dismount.”
They let their horses graze as she washed her handkerchief in the stream. Benvolio doffed his doublet and she cleaned the shallow cut the killer had left across his chest. He winced as she dabbed the dried blood away.
“Ay!”
“Be still,” she ordered. “Unless you wish to take blood sickness.”
“I hope you’re as good a physician as you are a rider.”
“I am, though my sister Livia’s a better. She tended to our mother when she was dying of the fever, and the physicians taught her much,” said Rosaline absently as she rebound his bandage as best she could. He wondered how many of her handkerchiefs he was destined to ruin with his Montague blood. “How didst thou get our mounts and your new sword, by the way?”
He struggled to be brave under her capable but not especially gentle touch. “I stole a groom’s cloak and slipped into the Montague stables. The servants may have seen me, but they’d not give me up.”
“At least Montague loyalty is good for something.” She drew his shirt back over his bandage. “There. The monks will be able to do better for thee, I hope, when we reach the monastery.”
“I am well enough. If Friar Laurence can guide us to the villain we seek, I shall ask no more of him.” Rosaline started to rise, but Benvolio caught her arm. “I would speak one more word with thee ere we go.”
“Yes?”
“Orlino was a scoundrel,” Benvolio said. “For his death, I grieve only that he died before I could chastise him myself. But Truchio—he was little more than a child.”
Rosaline turned away. “Man enough to draw his sword against an unarmed lady.”
“I know, and much did I upbraid him for it. But he was under Orlino’s sway when he attacked thee. He’d never have offered thee an unkind word, else.” He got to his feet. “And, lady, I give thee fair warning—when we find the culprit, whether he be Montague or Capulet, my kinsmen’s death shall fall heavy on him.”
“You will not give the culprit over to the prince’s justice?” Rosaline demanded. “I know he slew your kin, but if a Montague flouts the law yet again to slay an enemy, ’twill be no aid to the peace we seek. And the prince is like to turn the weight of his law upon you in turn. I thought you wished to end this cycle of death, Benvolio.”
Benvolio narrowed his eyes. “Why speak’st thou so fawningly of the prince’s justice? Thou wast no great admirer of his before. Has he bought thy allegiance with thy house?”
She gave him a glare that seemed fiercer than the question warranted. “Speak not so of our sovereign.”
Benvolio sighed. “To oblige thee, lady,” he said, “I will yield the villain or villains up to the prince. But if he puts them not to death, I will.”
This concession did not appear to win him back into her good graces. Jaw set, Rosaline went back to Hecate and remounted. “I suppose that is the least amount of violence I can expect from one of our bloody-minded families. The hour grows long, let’s away.” And without waiting for him, she rode on.
“Rosaline, tarry—Rosaline!”
But she did not look back.
Prince Escalus was staring at a ghost.
He had seen County Paris’s blood-covered corpse with his own eyes. Yet now his cousin stood before him on the rug in his study, thinner and paler than he had been, but very much alive. He was dressed in a dark gray velvet doublet, its elegance understated but clear. His stance was relaxed, giving no hint that a few weeks before he’d been wounded almost to death.
“You have been at House Capulet?” Escalus asked again. “Why on Earth? Why sent you no word? Every palace physician would have attended you.”
Paris gave him a slight smile. “I was not only injured, but sick at heart as well. Had your beloved slain herself for love of another, would you have wished to expose yourself to Verona society?”
“I suppose not, but still—” Escalus cut himself off with a laugh. “Why stand I babbling about that? Paris, you live!” He leapt from behind his desk to clap his cousin in his arms. “Ah! ’Tis the only happy piece of news I have had this season.”
Paris put out a hand to push him gently away. “Right glad I am to cheer you so, but I fear ’tis not only glad tidings I bring. Benvolio has abducted Lady Rosaline from House Capulet.”
A chill washed over Escalus. He knew he should not have left her alone in that den of vipers. “What? How came this to pass?” he demanded.
“He climbed to Juliet’s window and stole her away in the hours before dawn.”
Oh God, Rosaline. If this cursed feud took her from him, woe to both houses. “Why would he so?”
“I know not. But Livia saw him take her, not three hours ago. Her cousins have since searched the streets. They’re nowhere to be found. Could he have taken her to House Montague?”
Escalus shook his head. “My men searched the house at dawn.”
Paris looked grim. “Then I believe he’s taken her without the city walls. Your Grace, I beg your leave to go and search for them.”
“You, Paris? Wherefore?” He shook his head. His hands were trembling with rage. “No. I’ll go and seek
them myself.”
“What? Your Grace, you know you cannot.”
“I’ll not let him escape with her.”
“Leave that to me.” His cousin clapped a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “But this is a dark hour for Verona. Your city needs you here, Your Grace.”
With effort, Escalus pushed the image of his hands wrapped around Benvolio’s throat from his head. “Why wish you to go?”
“Rosaline’s aunt, Lady Capulet, has sheltered me these few weeks. In saving her kinswoman I hope to repay the boon.” He hesitated, then continued, “Rosaline’s sister nursed me with great care too. Poor Livia’s quite distraught. I—I would not have her come to any grief.”
It looked as though fair Livia had healed his heartsickness as well. At least some good had come of this horrible passage. “Very well, cousin. I shall send you with a company of my best men.”
But Paris shook his head. “I am sure you know there’s a traitor abroad in Verona,” he said. “Benvolio may not have acted alone. I cannot risk having such a villain hidden among my company. I’ll take but a few men of my house, loyal guards I’ve known since boyhood.”
“Aye, that may be best. I know not who to trust of late.” He gave his cousin a nod. “Very well, tell Penlet to outfit you with any supplies you and your company require. And I pray you, make all haste.”
Paris made him a quick, crisp bow. “As you say. I’ll away within the hour. The villain’s lead is already too long.”
“Good man. Pray bring them home. And, cousin—”
“Yes?”
“I should like to have Benvolio alive so that he may face the Crown’s justice. But the safety of the lady is paramount. He that brings her home safely will deserve much of me.”
Paris gave his cousin a long, searching look. But he said nothing, merely gave him a short nod, then turned and left.
Livia nearly did not say goodbye.
When Paris left House Capulet to go to the prince, she had wanted to go with him, but Lady Capulet forbade it. “ ’Tis not safe without our walls for a young lady of our house,” she said.
“Nor within them either,” Livia pointed out, but her aunt raised one delicate eyebrow, and Livia subsided, grumbling.
Only until her aunt turned her back, of course. They might have grown closer these last few weeks, but that did not make her aunt her mother.
When word reached House Capulet that the county was to leave immediately to seek Rosaline and Benvolio, Livia donned a dark cloak and slipped from the house through the servants’ entrance. None saw her leave, and she sped through the streets unhindered to the city’s east gate. Paris was half hidden deep in the shadows of its arched stone walls. The walls were fifteen feet thick, but as usual the gate stood open during the day, guarded by the prince’s men. Paris stood with one hand on the reins of his horse. With him was Lady Capulet. They were deep in conversation, voices low.
“ ’Tis good to see you by daylight,” Livia called.
Paris and her aunt started, leaping apart. “I told you to stay at home,” Lady Capulet said crossly.
Livia’s eyes met Paris’s. “I could not let my sister’s savior take his leave without offering him my thanks.”
“Thou foolhardy child—”
“My lady,” Paris cut Lady Capulet off, eyes never leaving Livia, “might I speak to your niece alone for a moment?”
Lady Capulet’s eyes narrowed, but she bowed her head in assent. Paris took Livia by the hand, leading her just outside the city walls. The eastern road stretched out before them, a dusty ribbon among rolling green hills. Paris looked out over it, his face brooding.
“Truly, torchlight did not do you justice,” she said. “Thou art twice as handsome in the sun.”
Normally her flirtations made him laugh or blush. Now he looked at her solemnly. “Livia, I will do all in my power to wrest thy poor sister from Benvolio’s clutches. Whatever has befallen her, her honor shall be avenged. But thou must needs prepare thyself for what I may find.”
“Thou wilt find her safe and well when thou sav’st her from captivity,” Livia said firmly.
He ducked his head with a mirthless smile. “Thine innocent faith in me is perhaps mislaid.”
“Innocence has nothing to do with it.” Raising on tiptoes, she leaned forward and brushed a soft, brief kiss against his lips. “Go forth, my champion, and take this token with thee.”
Paris stared at her in shock, a hand to his lips. For a split second, Livia regretted her forwardness. She could practically hear Rosaline’s tsk of disapproval.
But Rosaline was not here. These were strange times, the future uncertain, and Livia was tired of secrets.
She placed her hands on Paris’s shoulders, giving him a gentle push. “Go,” she said. “Find my sister. Please. She’s all I have.”
Paris stroked her hair back off her face. “Not all.”
Livia cupped his hand against her cheek for a moment before he drew away, mounted his horse, and set off down the road. Her aunt came to her side, and together they watched until he was out of sight.
Rosaline avoided him till dark.
When Silvius galloped, Hecate walked; when Benvolio slowed his pace to return to her side, she declared Hecate anxious and bade her run. She knew she was being childish, but the fear he’d stirred in her breast left her unsure what to say.
The prince did not look kindly on those who took the law into their own hands. He’d exiled Romeo for slaying Tybalt, though the entire street had seen Tybalt kill Mercutio. Even if they came riding back to Verona with ironclad proof of Benvolio’s innocence, Escalus might still punish him if he did not yield up the true killer to the prince’s justice.
And what would she be in Escalus’s eyes?
And then again and again, her mind flew back to those stolen moments in her uncle’s study, and she felt as though the ground was sliding away beneath her.
Finally, she resolved to think of it no further. Her prince was miles away, and growing farther by the minute. Prove Benvolio’s innocence. Find the true killer. All else could wait.
The sun was setting when she mounted a hill to find Benvolio waiting for her. “We’ll camp here,” he declared.
“Why? It cannot be more than a few hours farther.”
“There are bandits on these roads. And since your ladyship objects to me drawing my sword on any man, no matter how villainous, I would fain avoid them.”
Rosaline rolled her eyes at his snide tone. “Very well, if thou art afear’d of bandits. By all means let us stay here, an ’twill set thy fluttering heart at rest.”
“Call’st thou me a coward, lady?” Glaring, he unbuckled his scabbard, throwing it at her feet. “If thou be so stout of heart, perhaps ’tis thee who should defend us.”
“Be not a fool. Thou art like to a sullen child, determined to take every word spake to thee as an excuse to begin wailing again.” She tried to lift his sword to throw it back at him, but the weight made her stumble. Benvolio gave a cruel laugh.
They made camp in angry silence, Rosaline grooming the horses as Benvolio lit a fire. They had no blankets, so Benvolio lay out their cloaks to sleep upon. Rosaline sighed when she turned to find he’d laid both cloaks out by her pack for her.
“Take one for yourself,” she insisted.
He left his cloak where it lay. “The nights are cold in the hills, lady.”
“And ’tis you whose chest gapes open to the air. Take a cloak or you’ll catch your death.”
He sulked away from her, sitting on a log near the fire. “Murderous Montague I may be, but I’ll not deprive a lady.”
Shaking her head, Rosaline plucked up his cloak and laid it about his shoulders. When she felt how he trembled beneath her touch, she knew his injury had weakened him more than he would admit. But still, he’d planned to pass the night on the damp ground for her.
Idiot.
“Montague though thou art,” she said, still fussing with the hem of his cloak as she sett
led it about his shoulders, “murderer thou art none.”
He looked up at her. The sun had set, and the firelight played over his face, hooding his dark eyes and throwing sharp shadows across his face. “Are you certain?” he asked. “For all others in Verona, save you alone, believe me a cold-blooded killer.”
And she’d acted all the day as though she shared that opinion. She was not sure the Montagues would so quickly condemn him, but after the way the city had turned on him, he had earned a bit of self-pity. “Thy pardon,” she murmured. “I am oft told my scorn is roused too easily.”
He smirked. “Why, who has slandered my lady’s sweet and gentle tongue so?”
She laughed. “One who spoke naught but truth. But, Benvolio, if I gave thee cross words this morn, ’twas because thy words struck cold fear into my breast.”
Benvolio frowned. “Fear? Of what?”
She settled on the ground beside him, gazing into the fire. “After my father died, the Capulets nearly disowned us,” she said. “Livia and I had no more money, so they ignored us. That little cottage was all any of them did, and we would not have got so much had the prince not given his aid. Livia cried, but I was glad. I wanted no more to do with them. I never again wanted to see someone dear to me bleed his life away on the streets.” She could feel his gaze on her, but she stared at the fire, refusing to meet his eyes. “This feud of ours—’tis like to a savage beast. Its thirst for blood is never slaked. And if thou dost feed it, I fear thine own life will be the next sacrifice it demands.”
Benvolio’s hesitant hand came to rest between her shoulder blades. “I would never wish to cause thee grief, sweet friend,” he said softly.
Rosaline rubbed angrily at her eyes. “The grief of wives and sisters and daughters is always forgot when these brawls arrive, though, is it not?”
“Perhaps.”
She turned to look at him. His eyes were solemn, his handsome face less boyish in the ruddy light. “Thou art the best of them, Benvolio,” she told him. “Wise and strong and slow to anger. I pray to God to keep thee so.”
Benvolio ducked his head, and Rosaline was amused to note that his ears had blushed bright red. “We’d best sleep,” he said.