by Melinda Taub
“Come in,” he called at her knock, and Rosaline opened the door to find him bare to the waist, wet-haired, dressing after his own bath.
Rosaline gasped, clapping a hand over her eyes. At the sound, Benvolio whipped around. “Rosaline!”
“Pray pardon me—”
“No, no, the fault is mine, I thought you were the groom—”
Rosaline turned, fumbling toward the door without opening her eyes. She knocked something from his dresser and it landed on the floor with a crash. Trying to retrieve it, she smacked her head on the dresser.
“Peace, lady.” Benvolio’s hand was at her shoulder. “Thou may’st safely ope thine eyes.”
She did and found him now fully clothed, retrieving his belt from the floor, looking bemused at her sudden clumsiness. One kiss seemed to have turned her into an idiot.
Enough. She had always been the cooler head between them; now was no time for that to change. She drew a deep breath, but before she could speak, he said quickly, “Lady, last night on the path—I must press upon thee how sorry I am—”
“Thou art sorry for it?”
“I—that is—” His mouth opened and closed. “I know not what to say.”
“Nor I.”
They stared at each other. Rosaline swallowed. His gaze had once more fallen to her mouth.
There was a clatter of hooves out in the courtyard. Rosaline tensed, eyes flying to the window—that many horsemen were unlikely to be good news. Sure enough, a deep male voice began to roar outside.
“We seek the murderer Benvolio of Montague! In the name of His Grace the Prince of Verona, if the villain or the maid he hath stolen be within your walls, produce them!”
Benvolio cursed under his breath. Rosaline crept to the window, peering carefully out; there were perhaps three dozen liveried men. Curiously, none wore the uniform of the prince’s guard; some appeared to be mercenaries and the rest wore green and yellow livery, and a crest she recognized but could not place. As she watched, the innkeeper emerged and spoke with the man who had shouted. She saw the innkeeper nod and point up toward their rooms. Looking at Benvolio, she mouthed, “They come.”
His mouth was set in a thin line. He nodded shortly, buckling on his sword. Taking her hand, he jerked his head toward the back stairs. Turning the knob carefully, he opened the door a crack, and they slipped out into the corridor. But they were too late. Rosaline’s heart squeezed painfully in her chest as she heard boots pounding up the back stairs. Benvolio’s grip on her hand felt as though he might break her fingers as he tugged her toward a vacant guest room. He pulled the door shut behind them just as the guardsmen arrived in the corridor.
“ ’Tis here the young man slept, gentles,” the old innkeeper said. “The young lady was across the hall. They gave not their names, but they did say they were bound for Verona.” Rosaline gave a soundless gasp. Benvolio shook his head at her fiercely. They listened silently as their rooms were searched. Rosaline looked around. The room they were in had a window, but they were far too high to jump—they’d break their legs at best. There was no other way out, except past the men searching for them. She leaned up to whisper into Benvolio’s ear, “What are we to do?”
“Perhaps they’ll think we are fled and leave,” he breathed.
It would be unlikely, except that mercenaries were not exactly known for their intelligence. Indeed, after their rooms were found bare, she heard their seekers have a muffled conference in the corridor, then their boots began to tramp back down the front stairs. She was about to breathe a sigh of relief when one last lone set of footsteps paused outside the door of the chamber where they were hidden. Before she knew what was happening, Benvolio had yanked her into the closet, pulling the door shut.
Just in time, for the guardsman opened the door to the vacant chamber, his footsteps slowly sounding across the floorboards. Rosaline’s heart thundered in her ears. The small closet was scarcely large enough for the two of them. Benvolio was pressed tightly against her, so that she could feel every tense rise and fall of his chest. He had one hand braced on the wall behind her and the other covering her mouth to smother any sound. The footsteps came back toward the door. Then, by the closet, they paused.
In the near-darkness, Rosaline’s eyes found Benvolio’s. As his hand shifted to his sword, they held a silent communion, and Rosaline found that though they spoke not a word, she knew exactly what to do. The handle of the door began to turn, but without waiting for the door to open, they burst out of the closet as one. The startled guardsman gave a shout, but Rosaline had already stepped back and to the side, giving Benvolio space to draw his sword and send the fellow sprawling. “Run!” he roared at her. She dashed into the corridor. The other guardsmen, hearing the commotion, were returning, but Benvolio was in front of her, blade at the ready, as they retreated toward the rear stairs.
Luckily the corridor was narrow, and the back stairs more so, and Benvolio was able to keep them at bay. Rosaline knew they had a minute at best, so despite the terror each clang of steel sent through her, she did not look back to see Benvolio’s fate. Instead she flew down the stairs three at a time, scrambling across the yard behind the inn and back to the stables. Silvius nickered anxiously as she threw his stall open and thanked God he was already saddled. Leaping onto his back, she raced to the door and yelled, “Benvolio, hither!”
He came pelting out the door, guardsmen at his heels, and vaulted onto Silvius’s back behind her. He had scarce landed before she threw Silvius into a gallop, and Benvolio’s arms squeezed her waist as Silvius’s surging muscles gathered themselves and he leapt over the stone wall behind the inn, landing with a bone-jarring thump.
“Do not stop!” he shouted in her ear. “They still pursue us.” Rosaline hazarded a glance back and saw that he was right. A handful of men had managed to get a-horse and were in pursuit, but their mounts were nowhere near as fast as Silvius and their roars of frustration soon died away behind them. After a few minutes, they reached the edge of the forest once more, and Rosaline gave a sigh of relief, drawing Silvius down to a canter. “I think we’ve lost them,” she said, and Benvolio nodded—
Which was when two dozen figures in green and yellow came pouring out of the trees from all sides, swords in hand.
“Drop your weapons!”
“Unhand the lady!”
“Surrender, Montague!”
Benvolio raised his sword as Rosaline wheeled Silvius, searching for some weak spot, some hope of escape, however small, but with a sinking heart she realized their luck had run out. Benvolio kept a tense, protective arm around her waist that tightened as their captors drew near. Their nearest assailant, a blond man of thirty or so who appeared to be the captain, pointed a sword at him. “Unhand her, sir, or ’twill be the worse for you.”
Rosaline swallowed. It was clear these men, whoever they might be, would not hesitate to hurt him. “Good sirs, he means me no harm, let us explain—”
“Silence.” The man jerked his head toward the ground. “Down. Both of you.”
She could feel Benvolio’s muscles coiling, readying to attack, however suicidal that might be. But she squeezed the hand at her waist and whispered, “Please, Benvolio,” until his grip reluctantly loosened.
The moment they slid to the ground, dozens of hands were upon them, pulling them apart, stripping Benvolio of his sword. Rosaline fought toward him as he was forced to his knees, his hands bound behind his back. “In the name of the prince, stop! You know not what you do!”
The next moment her protests died on her lips in shock when she too was forced down, her hands jerked behind her and tied. Benvolio threw himself toward her with a roar. Though his hands were bound, he managed to get past two of his captors before they were able to wrestle him into submission. The captain slammed him across the face with the butt of his sword, stunning him enough for three of the guardsmen to throw him facedown on the dirt. Rosaline screamed as the captain grimly raised his sword over Benvolio’s neck.
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“Stop,” a voice said sharply.
The captain froze, withdrawing his sword. Rosaline drew in gulps of air. She turned to find Benvolio’s savior, and saw a ghost. Her eyes widened in shock.
“Paris?”
County Paris looked well for a dead man. His gaze was cool and calm as he took in the desperate tableau before him, his long fair hair tied back with a bit of leather, his pearl-gray doublet pinned with a little green and yellow crest. That, Rosal ine realized, was where she’d seen the colors before: these men wore the livery of Paris’s ancestral house.
“My lord,” she gasped. “What in the name of heaven …”
But he ignored her, nodding to the captain. “Take them back to camp,” he said.
The nurse knew not if she should hold her tongue.
She frowned as she considered the Capulet courtyard. Her rooms were near the back, but she had a small window through which she could see a sliver of Verona. Most of the servants were quartered in the cellar, but not she. She was no ordinary servant, Angelica was not. Had she not her own manservant, Peter? Had not her lady Juliet loved her as a mother? Was she not by her dear lamb’s side every day—yea, even unto her last?
So she knew she must sort out what she’d seen with more wit and delicacy than the average credible chambermaid or footman. No more would she keep secrets from the lady of the house.
But what was she to do, then?
She simply did not know how to tell her mistress that she suspected Paris was deceiving them. Angelica was sure that restoring Paris to health was the only thing that had saved the lady of the house from dying of grief. She was so glad, her sweet lady was, to have snatched at least one young life from the bloody summer that stole her daughter away.
And then there was Lady Livia. It was as plain as day she was in love with him.
Angelica wanted to believe that Paris was as good and noble as they thought he was. Pretty little Livia deserved to have a romance that went right, for once in this family, and Angelica would die before she added to her mistress’s grief. But then why, the night Orlino was slain, had she found Paris gone from his room, and nowhere to be found? At the time she’d thought he was merely restless, wandering somewhere in the empty wing of House Capulet. But he had vanished again the night Gramio and Truchio fell. And that night she found a black shirt hidden beneath his mattress, still damp with blood.
It was not possible that the man they’d sheltered was involved in these attacks, was it? That was nonsense. The blood was probably Paris’s own—perhaps his wound had reopened. Everyone knew it was the villain Benvolio who had killed the young Capulet, who had stolen away dear Rosaline to God knew where. Perhaps she ought to simply remain silent.
She’d told these things to no one but her holy confessor. Perhaps it was time that changed.
With a sigh, she rose, a hand soothing the twinge at her back as she set out through House Capulet’s halls to begin her day. She could not keep anything else from her mistress—but what would Lady Capulet say if the nurse made vague aspersions against the man she’d saved?
Enough dithering. Lady Capulet would be stirring. Now that Paris had gone, she’d retaken her place as lady of the house at last. The nurse would confide her misgivings before dressing her and let her sort it out.
But her mistress’s chamber was empty, her bed cold. And the door leading from it to the locked wing was open a crack. Frowning, the nurse went through and felt her way into the dark, dusty corridor beyond. Lady Capulet had used this entrance from her own room to visit Paris without being seen, but why had she used it today?
Light spilled into the hall from Paris’s old room. The nurse could hear movement within. “My lady?” she called. “I must speak to you. I—”
She pushed the door open and clutched her heart. Lady Capulet stood bent over a wash basin, scrubbing a black doublet the nurse recognized. It was the one she’d found beneath the mattress—the one she’d hastily shoved back into its hiding place, so her mistress would not see it. The sodden garment had streaked her mistress’s hands and arms with blood. Hanging over the chair beside her lay a black mask.
Rosaline was shocked by Paris’s camp.
She had expected to see a small encampment near the main road, such as messengers of the Crown often used. Instead, she and a still-dazed Benvolio had been thrown over the backs of the men’s mounts and conveyed up a winding track back through the hills. By her estimation, they were now just a day’s ride from Verona, but deep in the wilderness where travelers rarely ventured. And then they crested a hill, and she drew her breath in sharply. The valley in front of them was filled from north to south with tents, horses, and campfires.
Paris, for reasons she could not fathom, was gathering an army.
Feeling her wide-eyed gaze on him, he turned back from the head of their convoy to offer her a polite smile.
“What is this?” she demanded.
“Our rebirth,” he answered, his handsome face lit with calm joy.
“What? Whose?”
He nodded to the captain. “Lock the Montague away. I will dine with Lady Rosaline.” Benvolio groaned softly as Paris’s men hauled him none too gently off his horse. Rosaline stifled a cry as they bore him away. His head was still bleeding and he had not completely woken since they’d struck him. Paris watched the proceedings, head cocked.
“Good Sir Paris,” she said, “I pray you do not hurt him. Upon my honor, whatever Verona told you of him is a lie. There are traitors about—”
“Pray do not unbind my lady until she is safe in my tent,” Paris said to the captain. “I fear her sojourn in the clutches of that villain has addled her wits.”
The two men who seized her arms and pulled her from her horse were gentler than those who’d borne Benvolio away, but their grip was still iron, and did not give way when she struggled. Eventually she gave up, allowing herself to be marched toward a large tent at the center of the camp. Once there, Paris nodded to her captors, who withdrew, closing the tent flap behind them.
“Do not take their absence as an invitation to run,” he told her, a teasing glint in his eyes, for all the world as though he was admonishing her for treading on his toes at one of the prince’s feasts. “They stand guard just outside.”
Rosaline shook her head. “I know well ’tis folly to flee straight into a strange army that could be friends or foes.”
“Friends, dear lady, friends.” Gently, he took her hands in his, then drew a little dagger from his belt and cut her bonds. “I mean thee no harm.”
She pulled her hands from his grasp. “Then let us go.”
He sounded genuinely regretful when he said, “Would that I could.” Two manservants entered bearing steaming trays, and Paris, with a nod, directed them to lay out the repast on the table. Rosaline’s stomach, after days of travel rations and nunnery gruel, betrayed her with a growl, and Paris gave a polite wave. “Please, eat. A poor repast compared to what we might enjoy in Verona, I am afraid, but thou art welcome to it, good Rosaline.”
Why not? If these last days had taught her anything, it was not to count on her next meal. She took a plate and began piling it high. “Why are you so familiar, sir? In Verona we scarcely knew each other.”
He gave her that gentle, inscrutable smile again. “No, but ’twas thy sister’s faithful care saved my life, so she and hers are as dear to me as kin.”
Rosaline nearly dropped the plate. “Livia?” she whispered. “How is my sister a part of this?”
“Sit thee down peacefully and I shall tell thee all.”
“Naught can be peaceful between us so long as Benvolio is in danger.”
Paris gave an indulgent sigh. “Thou hast my word, the scoundrel’s person shall be safe at least for the length of the meal thou and I share.”
In the face of this frighteningly paltry promise, Rosaline sat. “How is it that you live?” she demanded. “What confederacy have you bound up Livia in? What do you want with me and Benvolio? I promise
you, he is as innocent as—”
Paris held up a hand. “My tale is long, as I imagine thine is. Prithee, hold thy peace awhile, and then may’st thou explain how thou cam’st to wander so with that Montague. Let me start with my death.” He dipped his head with a smile, acknowledging the absurdity of this. “The night my love Juliet died, I believed, as did we all, that she was already in heaven. While I kept vigil at her tomb, another mourner appeared.” Finally, a shadow crossed his face, marring at last that strange, charming calm he had developed.
She knew who he meant. All Verona knew. “Romeo,” she said.
“Aye.” Paris’s hand drifted to his ribs. “Had I not been so weakened by grief, so Juliet-mad—but I was, and the fellow ran me through. And then I lay there, and I bled. By and by there were others come—the friar, my cousin Prince Escalus, Montagues, Capulets—some stepped over my very feet, others stopped to minister to me, but I was so near death they thought my soul was fled indeed. But I lived. I could feel everything.”
His gaze was distant and unseeing, and Rosaline shivered. She could imagine no horror worse than to spend endless minutes and hours painfully bleeding one’s life away, drop by drop. It was enough to make one run mad.
“How were you saved?” she asked.
That smile again. “I met an angel,” he said.
The nurse could not believe the sight she saw.
“My lady?” she asked.
Lady Capulet looked up sharply. “Nurse? Thou shouldst not be here.”
The nurse’s heart pounded in her ears. Her lady was right. She ought to turn around this instant and wipe the scene before her from her mind. Whatever strange doings went on betwixt Verona’s nobles, they were not for the likes of her. But her feet carried her into the room of their own accord. No more secrets. “My lady, is that County Paris’s doublet?”
Lady Capulet snatched the doublet and the mask, whipping them out of sight into a sack. “ ’Tis no concern of thine.”
“They say ’twas one in such a mask who slew young Gramio,” she said. “And the young Montague men too.”