by Melinda Taub
Benvolio grinned around a split lip. “What lady?”
The captain’s face reddened. To his men, he said, “Take him before my lord.”
Accordingly, Benvolio was hauled into the great tent at the center of camp. Paris, looking less genteel now, was pacing, his hair mussed as though he’d been running his hands through it. When he saw Benvolio he glared. “Where is she?”
Benvolio’s only reply was to spit a mouthful of blood at his feet.
Paris’s fist caught him across the face. Stars flashed in Benvolio’s eyes. He would have fallen to the ground had his captors not held him up. “You should have run when you had the chance,” Paris said. “You’ll die for this.”
“A pity. I hoped you would make me your lord chamberlain.”
“Send men out to capture her,” Paris snapped to the captain. “The rest of you, break camp. We’ll make haste for Verona in the morn.” To Benvolio he said, “Tell me where she’s gone and perhaps I will spare your life.”
“She is somewhere you will never find her,” Benvolio said, and hoped it was true.
Rosaline was flying down the road.
Silvius’s hooves clattered frantically across the stones, and no matter how she hauled at the reins he would not heed her. He was so panicked that all she could do was cling to his neck and try not to fall. A few endless minutes passed before he even began to slow. When she finally coaxed him down to a walk, she realized she had no idea where she was.
She found herself on a dirt road threading between groves of trees. Off in the distance, she could see the gleam of a light or two—perhaps farms. But where she was now, there was nothing but forest. Somewhere in the darkness, an animal screamed. Rosaline shivered and drew her cloak closer about her. Had they gone north or south when they left camp? She did not know—she had counted on Benvolio to lead her.
What could she do? Go to one of the farmhouses for help? A lady alone took a grievous risk in throwing herself on the mercy of strangers. Press on until she found an inn? That had already led to disaster, and in any case ladies certainly did not do that. She shuddered to think of what might befall her if she appeared in an inn on her own.
A thundering of hooves behind her interrupted her whirling thoughts. Rosaline tensed. Paris’s men would be searching for her. Slipping swiftly from Silvius’s back, she tugged at his reins. He tossed his head and whinnied, as though to ask who this strange, weak little creature was and what she had done with his master.
“I know,” she muttered. “ ’Tis his own fault. Come on.”
Silvius deigned at last to be led off the road and into the trees. Luckily his coat was dark; he’d be nearly impossible to see. Still, Rosaline held her breath as the riders drew near. Silvius stayed blessedly still too, and Paris’s men rode by without stopping. And then Rosaline and Silvius were alone once more in the darkness.
A wave of fear rose up and nearly choked her. Curse that Montague! How could he have abandoned her so? If Paris’s men did not find her, highwaymen or wolves were sure to do so. There were a million dangers between her and Verona, all of whom would see a young noblewoman alone as easy prey. And they would be quite right—she was defenseless. She laid a trembling hand against Silvius’s warm side for comfort, and found that he still wore Benvolio’s saddlebags. Apparently Paris’s men had not bothered to remove them. Eager for a distraction from her despair, she fumbled them open, taking an inventory. There was little of use. A bit of bread and cheese. A few small coins. An apple for Silvius. And, neatly folded, Benvolio’s spare doublet and hose.
Tears sprang to Rosaline’s eyes and she pressed her face against the fabric of the doublet. It was laced with his scent, leather and spice and something that was just him, and she had to shove a hand to her mouth to hold back a cry of despair. Benvolio was on the way to his death. For her. And since he’d left her on her own, she was probably doomed anyway. His sacrifice would count for naught.
Then make it count, a cool little voice said inside her.
Stop crying.
Look around. You are not defenseless, daughter of Tirimo. You still have your wits.
Rosaline’s hands clutched the fabric of Benvolio’s doublet. Yes.
Before she could stop to doubt the wisdom of such an outlandish idea, she grabbed the hem of her dress and yanked it over her head. Her shift soon followed, and Rosaline shivered, naked, in the darkness. She tore several long strips from the hem of her shift, tying them about her chest before pulling on Benvolio’s doublet and hose. She felt no less naked when she was dressed, for the men’s clothes were strangely loose and permissive. One more strip of shift served as a hair tie, binding her curls at the nape of her neck. Benvolio’s clothing was much too large on her, but young men of modest means often wore their elder brothers’ cast offs. She belted his doublet as tightly as she could and hung his dagger at her waist. One final step was necessary—with a sharp yank, she ripped the crest sewn onto the shoulder of the doublet, the sign of Montague following her female trappings into the darkness. She kept only a handkerchief she’d embroidered with a rose, after her name, which she tucked into her sleeve—all that remained of Lady Rosaline. Then, with a deep breath, she mounted Silvius and turned him toward what she hoped was east.
As the sun rose, a slender youth rode into the inn yard in a small village just outside the forest. He rode a fine horse, but his clothes were shabby, and he had a grim face for one so young. Few took note of him except the innkeeper, who took a shilling for a bit of porridge and directions for the young man, who called himself Niccolo, to Montenova Abbey.
Livia’s patience, never great, was frayed.
If one more well-meaning Capulet cousin came to her chattering about how sorry they were that her sister had been sullied by a Montague, she was going to pitch the lot of them down the well. None of them cared a bit for Rosaline, only for the Capulet honor. Her uncle had been on the verge of letting everyone return to their homes yesterday, when the discovery of the nurse’s body had thrown the city into an even greater uproar than before. No one had seen which Montague had been cowardly enough to murder a poor servant woman, but her family was ready to slay every last man among them. Livia could not find it in herself to object to such a plan. The sight of the dear nurse’s broken body had left her crying all night. Lady Capulet had sat with her for a time and stroked her hair, even as her own tears fell. Livia admired her aunt’s strength. Somehow she found time to speak with all the furious young Capulets, even though her own grief must be greater than anyone’s.
But with the great families and their allies now making open war in the city’s streets and the city consumed by riots, Livia could not so much as set foot beyond House Capulet’s walls, and she thought she might go mad. What had become of Paris? Had he found Rosaline in time? Had that bastard Benvolio hurt either of them? She had to know.
So when the gates of House Capulet opened to admit Verona’s prince, Livia did not intend to withdraw with the other young maidens to Juliet’s nursery as she’d been told to do. Instead, she watched from an upper window as her aunt and uncle greeted Prince Escalus in the courtyard. When she heard her uncle say, “Let’s in to my study, my lord,” she flew on swift and silent feet to the heavy oak door and slipped inside before they were in sight.
Her uncle’s study, though rich, was not large—it contained a few bookcases, an ostentatiously ponderous desk, and some leather chairs. Nowhere for a stealthy maid to conceal herself. She had the momentary wild notion of hiding under the desk as they had as children, but she suspected that she was too tall now to fold herself beneath it without being noticed. Her uncle’s heavy tread was coming up the stair. Any moment now they would open the door and discover her, and her chance would be gone. She looked around again. Ah!
Livia threw herself behind heavy, floor-to-ceiling drapes that covered the windows, managing to still their telltale fluttering just as the door creaked open.
“These are joyous tidings you bring us, Your Grace,” her
uncle’s voice said. She heard him huff his way around to his desk, then the dual sighs of his breath and his chair as he settled his bulk in it. “Please, be seated. You say Benvolio is captured?”
Livia pressed a hand to her mouth to suppress a gasp. Thank God! Did that mean Rosaline was safe?
“Yes,” came the prince’s reply. “These news are not for any ears but yours, for I’ve no wish to start a riot, but I’ve word from County Paris. He says he and his men have captured the scoundrel and they will bring him back to Verona for execution.”
“Ah,” said Lady Capulet, her voice filled with more satisfaction than Livia had ever heard. “Justice at last.”
“Aye. He requests that I ope the gates of the city, so that all Verona may come to Executioner’s Hill and see justice done.”
“An excellent suggestion,” Lady Capulet said. “Young Paris is wise. Will you be guided by your kinsman in this?”
“Perhaps. I am sure, Lady Capulet, that thou hast had ample time to gain respect for my cousin’s wisdom in the weeks you kept him hidden from me,” the prince said drily. “But I confess I still do not understand why such a thing was deemed necessary.”
“Forgive me my womanish fears,” Lady Capulet said sweetly. “I should have had more faith in Your Grace’s ability to protect him even in these treacherous times. Although our nurse’s recent death suggests your forces are, perhaps, overtaxed.”
“I am sorry for her death,” the prince said with a sigh. “And whatever your motives, I am grateful to those who restored my cousin to health, and I will certainly attend his counsel.”
“ ’Twas our honor to restore him to Your Grace,” she said humbly.
To hell with all this chatter about gratitude and honor. Now that Livia knew that Paris was safe, she had but one remaining care: what had become of her sister? Livia scowled, and suppressed the urge to scream that there was a maid in danger out there while they played their hideous adult game of politeness.
It seemed her uncle, at least, shared a bit of her concern. “In any case, what of the girl? That niece of mine. Rosalind. Ruined, I suppose?”
“Rosaline, mean you? I—” A queer tension had entered the prince’s voice. Livia bit her lip. “I know not. Paris spoke not of her in his message. I have writ to him to see. It is my dearest hope that she is safe in his care.”
“You know not if she be with him?” Lady Capulet demanded.
“Believe me, no one cares more for Rosaline’s safety than I!” the prince roared.
A shocked silence followed. Verona’s sovereign was known for his even temper. Livia had never heard him speak so. “Forgive me,” he said after a moment. “Your niece and I …” He trailed off. “That’s for another day. Capulet, I intend to put Benvolio to death with all haste, before the eyes of the city entire. But in return, I expect you to rein in your house. We’ll have no more warfare on Verona’s streets. I have not forgotten that two young Montagues are dead as well, and their killers not yet discovered. From this minute forward, the life of any Capulet who so much as brushes his hand across his hilt is forfeit.”
Lady Capulet’s smooth voice cut in again. “I am sure that all young men of our house will be more than glad to withdraw in peace when they see justice wreaked on Benvolio’s body.”
“They will withdraw now,” the prince said. “Do not make me say it again.”
A pause. Then: “Forgive my wife. She speaks out of turn. I’ll see the lot of our hotheads kenneled within the hour.”
“Then,” said the prince, “justice they shall see. And right soon. I expect Paris is but two days’ ride from the city. And when he arrives, Benvolio shall not see another sunset.”
Young “Niccolo” liked riding as a man.
Rosaline had never been the most ladylike of riders, taking more risks and going faster than maids were strictly supposed to. She even borrowed the duchess’s finest stallion without permission on occasion. Livia liked to tease her that it was her one vice. But she had never realized how much she’d been constrained by decorum and petticoats until she could throw her tunic-clad self into the saddle, shout “Hyah!” and let Silvius fly. Luckily, Silvius was built for endless speed, and with such a small rider on his back, they ate up the miles.
They met a few travelers on their way; though Rosaline was nearly screaming inside with urgency, she made a point of stopping to pass the time of day with them. One old matron expressed concern that “such a little fellow as thee” should be traveling alone, but none saw through her disguise. Rosaline was tall and thin for a woman, and in Benvolio’s doublet, she looked very much like a youth on the cusp of manhood. Niccolo’s secret, it seemed, was safe.
Thanks to the storm and the delay it had caused them, Rosaline was only a few hours from the abbey. Soon, Montenova Abbey rose before her once again. Rosaline raised her hood. Now came the difficult part.
After a brief internal debate, she decided not to knock at the front door and claim sanctuary as Benvolio had. Her goal was not to gain an audience with Friar Laurence—quite the opposite, since he would take one look at “Niccolo” and recognize the maid whose ankle he had mended—but merely to insinuate herself into the abbey until she could find the journal Benvolio had spoken of. She prayed it contained the proof of his innocence that they needed.
She had considered riding straight for Verona, but with Paris’s army between her and home, there seemed little point. She was sure his men were still combing the countryside for her, but they would be seeking a Verona-bound maid, not a youth riding east. Besides, now that she knew the extent of Paris’s betrayal, it was more important than ever that Escalus learn the truth. She now realized that L was not Lucullus, but Lavinia, her aunt Capulet’s given name. It was so rarely used that it had slipped her mind entirely. If the friar had been more explicit elsewhere in his diary, his unwilling evidence and Rosaline’s own testimony might be enough to save Benvolio’s life—and perhaps Escalus’s own. If only she had been able to purloin that mask Paris had waved in her face! She would just have to hope that the diary was enough.
Rosaline’s steps slowed as she reached the door at the rear of the abbey, where servants and tradesmen were to knock. It was a great deal of hope to place on one little book of monk-scribbles. She prayed it would suffice, and that she could find some way to take it.
She drew a deep breath. No time to think of that. Escalus, Benvolio, herself—she would have to be man enough for all three of them. Squaring her shoulders, planting her feet, and hoping she looked manly, she pounded on the door.
“By and by I come.” A monk in a food-spotted brown robe opened the door, looking startled to see her there. “Who might you be, then, my son? Are you the gentleman of Verona who sheltered here? I’m not to readmit you. They say you struck good Brother Laurence.”
Rosaline put on her best look of blank male incomprehension. She found thinking of Lucio and Valentine helped. “Verona? Nay, Father, Niccolo’s my name and from Padua come I, seeking a place as a page in Milan. Might your holy brotherhood have a bit of honest work for a man such as I, in exchange for a night’s shelter?”
“A man such as you is no man at all, but a half-grown brat,” said the friar. “Home to your mother and father with you.”
“They’re dead, Father.” True enough. One less century in purgatory for lying to a man of God.
The monk’s face softened. “An orphan, are you?”
“Yes, with nothing in the world but the clothes on my back and Si-Sirius here. But I’m a fair hand in the kitchen, and with horses. I pray you, let me be of use.”
He considered her. “Very well, you may help old Tuft in the stables for the day.”
Praise be. For one who had once thought to be a nun, Rosaline was deceiving and defying a great many of His servants these days. She sent up a quick, silent prayer of apology, made the monk the best bow she could, and headed for the stables, where she found the aforementioned Tuft, who proved to be a gnarled old horseman who walked with a stoo
p but led Silvius with strong, capable hands. “A fine piece of horseflesh,” he said. “Have I seen him before? I think the young Verona fellow had a horse of such a color, and such a height.”
She gave him the stupid look again. “I hail from Padua. Sirius has been mine since he was a colt.” Silvius, bless him, chose that moment to give her an affectionate butt with his head, just as though she really were a lifelong friend and not an interloper who’d stolen him from his master. Rosaline stroked his neck and together they turned looks of great innocence to Master Tuft.
Tuft shrugged and lost interest. “Well, I suppose there’s gray horses enough in the world.” He handed her a shovel. “The cart horses’ stalls want mucking.”
He gave her a homespun shirt and trousers, which she changed into in an empty corner, out of his sight. She spent the rest of the afternoon shoveling manure. She could not hide her disgust, but she did not suppose that would hurt her disguise—a young gentleman, even one who had come down in the world, would not have spent much more time pitching manure than she had. At least these were not Benvolio’s clothes. He would probably have had to burn them.
The thought of Benvolio sent a shot of panic spiraling through her stomach. She set her jaw, forcing her eyes to her task, though it was all she could do not to throw down the shovel and bolt into Friar Laurence’s chamber to demand the book that would be his salvation. It galled her to wait here idly when every moment she waited brought Benvolio closer to his doom. What if she waited too long? What if Paris had already killed him? Worse yet, what if Escalus had? She did not think it was possible that they could be back in Verona—it was about a day and a half of hard riding from where she’d left them, and at least a day longer for an army such as Paris’s, which could not move as swiftly as two riders alone. Still, the thought was enough to make bile rise in her throat, and she pressed her arm hard over her mouth.