by Melinda Taub
The stars’ unchanging gleam mocked him tonight.
Escalus held the palace balcony in a white-knuckled grip as he stared up at the Verona sky, as he had often done before. Usually it soothed him, but there was no comfort to be found in the stars this night; their stately progress across the sky only served to highlight how little of such serenity could be found here on earth of late.
There was a cough behind him. “The streets are clearing, my lord,” Penlet said. “As you ordered, Benvolio’s capture has been announced. On learning of his coming execution, the Capulets and their allies have ceased their sallies and returned home. They pledge to be at the judgment place at dawn. The Montagues have withdrawn to mourn. All is calm.”
“For the moment.” The prince smiled mirthlessly. “My thanks, good Penlet. That is all.”
Penlet nodded, and with a bow and a cough, he retreated, leaving Escalus alone with the stars.
What would his father think of him now, to see Verona citizens slaughtering each other in the streets like animals? To see him forced to draw arms against his own subjects? Such shame he’d brought upon the crown!
Not he alone, of course. Those damnable Montagues and Capulets had given him generous aid in rendering Verona’s gray streets incarnadine.
Escalus let his head fall. Sometimes he was tempted to let them slaughter each other. Any essay he made to soothe their struggles only worsened things; any man of them he thought he could trust would only betray him. At least he still had Paris at his side. He shuddered to think where he would be without his cousin now.
I’ faith, how could he have been so wrong about Benvolio? True, he’d been a close friend of Romeo and Mercutio, hotheads both—but Escalus had truly thought him a wiser man than they. One who could be worthy of Rosaline’s hand, unwillingly given though it was. The stab of pain that went through him at that thought took his breath away. He’d thrown Benvolio and Rosaline together, forced them into one another’s company.
And thus, he’d unwittingly sentenced the lady he loved to hell at the hands of a villain.
Where was she? What had Benvolio done to her? Something horrible enough that she’d lost her wits, according to his cousin. Sickening images flooded his mind and he gritted his teeth. It nearly made him want to throw himself off the balcony to imagine such things happening to her. Why had Benvolio done it? Why abduct her, ravish her, only to throw her away? Even at their worst, neither family had ever targeted a maiden so. For a moment Escalus’s mind returned to Benvolio’s wild tale of an army waiting to attack the city. There could not be any truth to it, could there?
But no. It was as Paris said—Benvolio was a liar. Why trust a man whose sword was found buried in a young Capulet’s heart—whom Livia had seen making off with her sister—over his own flesh and blood? And he had also claimed that Rosaline fled with him willingly—why would she do that, after what had passed between herself and Escalus? No. Paris was his kinsman. Escalus was certain he would not betray him so. While Benvolio betrayed as easily as he breathed. Escalus’s momentary whim to believe Benvolio’s wild tale stemmed from one thing—if he spoke the truth, it meant Rosaline might still be unharmed. But though his heart longed to believe it, his reason knew better.
The Prince of Verona laughed, burying his head in his hands. The woman he loved was destroyed, and he would probably never see her again. There was naught he could do to help her. Except to make certain that her offender never saw another sunset.
Benvolio’s sleep was ended by a kick.
He groaned, jerking away from the guard’s prodding foot. “Up, villain,” the man said. “Thy judgment is at hand.”
Benvolio scrambled to his feet, but not quickly enough for his companion, who gave him another vicious kick to the ribs. “There’s one would see thee, ere thou meet’st thy maker.”
Benvolio craned his neck eagerly beyond the guard. “Rosaline? Is she returned?”
“No, nephew.” Lord Montague stepped through the door. He nodded to the guard. “Leave us.”
The guard gave a reluctant bow and withdrew, closing the tent behind him. With a sigh, Benvolio’s uncle turned to face him. Though he was facing his own death, Benvolio felt a twinge of pity for him—the lord of the Montagues had grown even older in the days since Benvolio had last seen him.
“Uncle.” Benvolio bowed to him; with palsied hands, his uncle drew him to stand once more. Benvolio steadied his shaking hands with his own, wondering as he did so whether it could be long before his uncle joined his wife and son in the grave. “Good day, sir.” He opened his mouth again, then shut it. What else was there to say, when one was minutes from death?
“Oh, Benvolio. My poor child. What we are fallen to.” His uncle shook his head.
“Listen well, Uncle. I am innocent of all that they claim, do you hear? ’Tis Lady Capulet and Paris who are the authors of all.”
“ ’Tis no use. I have pled with the prince for mercy these three hours, begged him to sweeten thy sentence from death to banishment, but he is steadfast. I did remind him of your rank, of the suffering you have endured at the Capulets’ hands, but ’tis no use. He says you shall die this morn.”
Benvolio grew cold as he listened to his uncle’s words. “My rank? My suffering? Why did you move him thus to pity me, and not beg for an innocent man?” And then it dawned on him, and he felt sick. “You believe I am guilty.”
“I believe thou hast cause for whatever thou hast done.”
“Think you I would slay young Gramio? Would hurt a woman? When Lady Rosaline comes home—”
“Paris believes she is dead. He says she wandered raving into the woods, there to fall prey to wild beasts, or drowned in the river.”
“She lives.” Benvolio shook his head. “She lives, she must. Uncle, listen well. Do not trust County Paris, nor Lady Capulet. Friar Laurence knows of their guilt. I saw it written with his own hand.” His uncle’s watery eyes were filled with pity. Benvolio looked to the heavens in frustration. Paris’s army would be here long before anyone could send for Friar Laurence. “Soon, very soon, Verona shall have need of you and Capulet both, you must prepare House Montague to repel Paris’s invasion—”
But Lord Montague shook his head, his watery old eyes fixed sadly on his nephew. “I have done all I can. ’Tis the hour to pray. Unburden thy soul of whatever weighs upon it.”
Benvolio glared at his uncle. His heart was beating fast, his hand twitching at his side for his sword. But his blade was gone; there was nothing to fight. So he did as his uncle asked, and fell to one knee, hands clasped.
God in heaven, he thought, I pray thee now in my darkest hour, deliver me. Bring the truth to light. Let me not die today.
And if ’tis thy will I should die upon these false accusations, I pray that thou wilt watch over my family. Save my house and my city from destruction.
And, Lord, watch over my Rosaline.
Rosaline was close to passing out.
Silvius carried her on through the night, the rocking of his gait lulling her exhausted body to sleep. Twice she nodded off and managed to jerk awake just in time to keep herself from tumbling off his back.
She knew she needed rest, but she’d allowed them only an hour—enough for Silvius to eat and recover, that was all. She could die of exhaustion later, if it kept Benvolio from the executioner’s blade and kept Escalus’s rule safe. Though they rode swiftly, she had to keep to the back roads to avoid Paris’s search parties, which delayed them for most of a day, and the delay terrified her.
And so she forced her fingers to keep their aching grip on the reins, kept her eyes on the road stretching toward the two men she cared for above all others, and prayed.
She was perhaps four leagues from Verona’s walls when she crested a hill and pulled Silvius up short. There they were beneath her: Paris’s army. She supposed he had left them encamped here while he diverted Escalus’s attention. Now they stood between her and Verona. She thought quickly. There was another path that would
take her home, but it meandered through the hills. Could she make it in time? She looked to the east. The sun was beginning to stain the sky. It soon would be dawn.
The morning breeze blew back Benvolio’s hair.
He closed his eyes, letting it wash over him one last time as the guards at his elbows hauled him up Executioner’s Hill. His hands were not tied—a small mercy, or maybe they thought that in his current state he posed no threat. He tried to focus on the cool air caressing his face, ignoring the bruising grip on his arms and the sickly pounding of his heart and the crescendo of the crowd as he was dragged before them.
Behind him thundered the river, swollen with the recent rains. His blood would slake Verona’s thirst tonight, he thought grimly.
The sight that greeted his eyes when he opened them was enough to make him fight for control of his features. Though the day was young, nine tenths of Verona’s nobility and great families had made the trek outside the city walls, all shouting and jeering and straining to catch a glimpse of him.
“Murderer!”
“Knave!”
“Montague cur, you’ll burn for what you’ve done!”
Such a prominent execution would usually be held in the town square. But perhaps the prince had decided to keep the spectacle where its audience could not spill over onto Verona’s streets. It was easy to see why. At Benvolio’s appearance dozens of harsh Capulet snarls had broken the air, shouting insults. The Montagues roared back, the two sides kept apart by the prince’s guards. Had they not been surrounded by the prince’s men, it could have easily become a riot.
As for Benvolio himself, an odd peace stole over him. The voices raised in strife by friend and foe seemed to fade to a distant, wordless sea that he floated on as the guards hauled him by the elbows to a raised stone platform at the top of the hill. He was surrounded by the sycamore trees where he and Romeo used to play as children. Where he had seen Romeo, just days before his death, wandering before dawn. Pining, he remembered, for Rosaline. A smile touched his lips. Fate did like its little jests.
I come, cousin, he thought. There was nothing else to be done. His pleas of innocence had fallen on deaf ears. His family’s influence had no power to sway this case. The one woman who could save him was gone.
The platform held but two occupants: the prince, and a masked man holding an axe. His executioner. As the guards led Benvolio up onto it, he caught sight of faces in the crowd: his uncle, looking bereft; Lady Capulet on her husband’s arm, a soft smile on her graceful features; Paris, mounted at the rear of the crowd, regarding him stone-faced; his young cousins, lost and unsure. Though he would not for all the world desire her to see this, he could not help but wish to behold Rosaline’s fair face once more.
As Benvolio was thrust onto the platform, the prince raised his arms, calling for quiet, and the courtyard grew still.
“Benvolio of House Montague,” the prince said, “for thy crimes against our Crown and our people, including the murder of Master Gramio of House Capulet and”—the prince’s jaw clenched—“the abduction and ravishment of a good lady of Verona, we sentence you hereby to death. Have you anything to say before you leave this world?”
Benvolio drew a deep breath. “I am innocent of these crimes, Your Grace, but was ever your honest and true servant. If I must die, I pray that my death may at least bring peace to my family and to the city I have always tried faithfully to serve, for no justice shall be done in slaying me. Heed my dying warning: Treachery is afoot, and all men of Verona, no matter their houses, must be prepared to defend their sovereign with their lives.”
He turned to face the crowd. He sought out his uncle’s face, and his young cousins’. “Someday it shall be clear that I was slandered,” he called past the lump in his throat. “When that day comes, I pray, do not venge yourselves upon House Capulet, but only ensure that those who wrought my death meet the Crown’s true justice.”
Against his will, his eyes sought out Lady Capulet’s face in the back of the crowd. Her soft, satisfied smile did not alter. “For those whose cunning hath ensured I die for their crimes, my death shall fall heavy on you, in this world or the next.”
With that, he fell silent. The prince’s hand fell on his shoulder. “On your knees,” he said.
Benvolio sank down before the chopping block. The prince raised his arms. “See, Verona!” he called. “Thus your grudges must end.”
A firm hand pushed Benvolio’s head down on the block. The courtyard grew deathly quiet, the only sound the gentle rush of the morning breeze. Benvolio closed his eyes.
“Halt!”
Instead of the swift agony of the blade, Benvolio felt a soft body hurl itself atop his. Struggling upright, his eyes went wide at what he saw.
“Rosaline?”
The proper, modest maid she was when last he saw her had been replaced with an entirely new Rosaline, from the wild look in her eyes to the mannish style of her hair to— He shook his head and blinked. Was she wearing his clothes?
Hang all that. She was alive. Alive, and whole, and there had never been a more welcome sight in his life.
“Hear me, Verona!” she shouted. “Benvolio of Montague is innocent!”
The prince’s air of solemn majesty was broken. “Rosaline?” he cried, pulling her away from Benvolio. “Oh, my lady. What has befallen thee? Why art thou so wildly attired? Art thou unhurt?” His hands trailed over her hair and shoulders. Benvolio clenched his jaw. “You must remove from this place. ’Tis no sight for thee.”
“ ’Tis no sight for any honest soul,” Rosaline returned, stilling his hands with her own. “My lord, upon my honor, Benvolio is belied.”
The prince sighed, pulling her gently to her feet. “Sweet, ’tis he who hath made assault ’gainst that honor you swear by, and left your brain in this confusion.”
“I am not mad!” Rosaline said. “My madness and Benvolio’s wickedness are both inventions of they that truly committed these crimes.” She pointed toward the rear of the courtyard. “Paris and Lady Capulet.”
The thundering in her ears was deafening.
Rosaline had felt as though her heart would burst when she saw the executioner’s axe raised. She had not even thought before hurling her body over Benvolio’s.
If they wanted to kill an innocent today, they would have to kill two of them.
Now, though her voice was strong, her stomach fluttered in fear. The clamor of her heartbeat was soon joined by the roar of the crowd as she made her accusation. She was shaking, near to swooning with exhaustion, but a look at Benvolio’s bloodied face was enough to give her strength.
“Benvolio never offered me the slightest discourtesy,” she called. “I left Verona in his company of mine own free will.” She ignored the flash of surprise and hurt that crossed Escalus’s face at that. “We journeyed to see Friar Laurence, who we believed had some intelligence regarding the latest mischief between our houses.” She exchanged glances with Benvolio. “And he did.”
Reaching into her bag, she pulled out Friar Laurence’s book. “Behold the good friar’s diary,” she said to Escalus. “Listen to what he says.” The crowd grew quieter, straining to hear her voice. She opened the book to the page she’d marked and began to read.
“ ‘I have had a confession today from one I shall call A. She is a servant of long standing of the house of C, and furthermore, she and I shared the burden of the terrible events this summer. The good soul is troubled in her heart, for her mistress L, believed by all Verona to be felled by grief, instead channels her sorrow in a shocking direction. I can scarce write these words: P lives still. He is recovering under the roof of C, though L’s lord has no notion of his unexpected guest.’ ” She heard her uncle Capulet huff at that.
Lady Capulet raised an eyebrow and called in that silken voice, “All Verona knows I did succor him. How is this proof of your accusations, child?”
Rosaline flipped forward several pages to the day of the friar’s departure from Verona and read, �
� ‘Even as I quit Verona, its bloody tendrils still reached out once more to ensnare me. If P’s return from the dead filled me with joy, these new tidings give me nothing but sorrow. Three more youths of Verona lie dead, two this night alone, and I know their killer. For early this morn, just as I was about to depart, A came to confession. She tells me that she came upon P’s chamber empty this morn—just at the early hour when Truchio was killed. What is more, she found a bloody raiment P had hidden. Sweet A, though deeply troubled, will not see the thing I fear must be true: ’Tis P who slew them. And at Lady C’s direction. Verona has receded down the road behind me, and I pray my troubled heart shall at last know peace when I reach the abbey. But I fear it never shall, for I cannot tell a soul what these murderers have done, and I am sure that their thirst for blood will not be satisfied with these few deaths.’ ”
“Lady of C? Sir P?” Lady Capulet gave a rueful laugh. She had threaded through the crowd, and now she approached the prince, sweeping him an elegant curtsy. “Your Grace, I apologize for my niece’s addled babblings, and the indecent state in which she comes before you. ’Tis plain Paris speaks true—Benvolio’s abuse hath robbed her of her wits. Let us take her home.” She put an arm around Rosaline. “My poor sweet.” Her grip was like iron.
Rosaline shook her off and looked toward the prince, whose face was set into a deep frown. “This is Friar Laurence’s diary,” she insisted. “You must believe me. Verona is in danger. Paris’s army is fast approaching. I have seen it with mine own eyes!”
“Eyes addled by madness,” Lady Capulet snapped, losing her grip on her motherly tone. “Your Grace has no need to attend to fairy stories. Besides, ’tis not Orlino’s death we are here to avenge today.” She turned to her husband, who still stood out among the crowd. “My lord, you were to marry Paris to your daughter. Tell the prince he is no traitor.”