Still Star-Crossed

by Melinda Taub

  Of Arragon.

  Before his battle-numbed brain could fully comprehend the miracle before him, the figures leading those blue-and-white saviors peeled off and came galloping toward him. “Hail, brother,” one of them said, raising his helmet. “How goes the day?”

  Escalus closed his gaping mouth and saluted his brother-in-law. “Hail, Don Pedro, and well met. The day went ill indeed until your heaven-sent appearance. How came you here?”

  “By luck only. Whilst on the road for Arragon, my princess Isabella and I met a man who hoped to enter my service. He was one of County Paris’s men by birth, and he told us the count was raising a great army and making for Verona.” He nodded to his forces. “I came here forthwith to offer what aid I could. My friends Sir Claudio of Messina and Sir Benedick of Padua have joined their forces to mine.” The two men at his side nodded.

  “How knew you that we needed your aid?”

  “I know something of traitorous kinsmen,” Don Pedro said drily. “Besides, your sister can be most persuasive.”

  Escalus would never chide Isabella’s unladylike yelling again. “Where is Isabella?”

  “Safe at Benedick’s estate in Padua. I have promised to send her word the moment Verona is saved.”

  Escalus grinned. Already, Don Pedro’s forces were pushing Paris’s army back from the wall. “We shall send for her ere nightfall.”

  “Well, Montague, your short reprieve is done.”

  Paris wore that faint smile again. Benvolio longed to wipe it off his face. He’d grown to so detest that look. But the two men in Paris’s livery had a firm grip on his arms. He hung nearly limp from their hold, his face toward the ground. Nearby, the sounds of battle could still be heard, but they were fainter than they’d been an hour ago. Here in this grove, there were only Paris, Benvolio, the men at his arms, and Paris’s captain. “Surrender, Paris,” Benvolio gritted out. “Your mercenaries are in flight. Your house’s men are slaughtered. The day is Verona’s. Throw yourself on your cousin’s mercy and he will spare your life.”

  Paris laughed. “Bold words from a man who’s spent his strength and fallen in the grip of the enemy. Half dead you are, and still a-snarling, like a dog with its entrails torn out that still bites. No wonder your family’s so hated. Your claws are never sheathed.”

  “My lord,” his captain said urgently at his elbow, “you’re needed on the field—”

  Paris waved a hand. “Take care of it. I must dispatch the Montague first. It will not wait. Go and marshal our forces.”

  “My lord, I must advise retreat—”

  “I said take care of it!” Paris yelled. “The day will be ours!”

  The captain looked as though he had more to say, but instead he closed his mouth, bowed, and withdrew. Paris drew his sword, advancing on Benvolio. “Not the first Montague I have put down, but the first whose death I may freely claim with pride,” he said. “Last words, Benvolio?”

  “Aye,” Benvolio panted. “A bit of advice. For Verona’s future sovereign, if so you shall be.”

  “Advice?” Paris looked amused. “Let us have it, then.”

  “There is more to being a prince than conquest. Escalus may have his faults as a ruler, but attention to his people is not one of them. He meets his subjects’ eyes. He knew the names of every Montague or Capulet slain, and no matter how we vexed him, he grieved for each senseless death as though it were the first.”

  “So your advice is …”

  “Learn your servants’ faces. Now!” he roared, and Lucio and Valentine released his arms, Lucio tossing him the sword he’d hidden beneath his livery. They’d taken their cloaks off some of Paris’s captured men, and the county had not given them a second glance.

  He did now, though, recovering from his shock with his usual feline grace. His own sword was up and dancing with Benvolio’s before he could blink. “Three against one, Montague?” he said. “I knew you were honorless.”

  Benvolio shook his head. His weariness and pain were rippling away from him like a discarded cloak. He knew it was just the elation of facing his enemy at last, that the respite would be short, but that was all he needed. One way or another. “My Capulet friends here are longing to let their blades taste your blood in repayment for yoking their family name to your treason, but they have kindly agreed to cede the field to me. They’ll not interfere with our sport. ’Tis you and I, Paris.”

  “Then let’s have at it.” And Paris lunged.

  Benvolio had known the night Paris slew Gramio with his sword how skilled a swordsman the murderer was. And that had been when he himself was uninjured and at his full strength. Now, as he and Paris whirled about the grove, their boots kicking up clods of mud with the speed of their passes, he feared his own skill with the blade was no longer enough. Paris was swift, and skilled, and strong. Benvolio reflected grimly that he’d once defeated five men at once, but it was quickly becoming clear that he was hardly a match for one Paris. Indeed, judging by the flashes of panicked faces he saw whenever he was able to spare a glance for Lucio and Valentine, he was no match for Paris at all.

  His only hope was to outthink him. Paris might be a natural with a sword, but as Lucio and Valentine had just proven, he did not deal terribly well with surprises. Benvolio would have to catch him off guard. To that aim, he began to talk.

  “Wherefore your betrayal?” he demanded when they drew apart briefly, circling each other. “Your cousin loved you. He might even have made you his heir.”

  Paris was scarcely out of breath. “He let Juliet die. That will not stand.”

  “All this for your sweet lost love, then?” Benvolio taunted. “She gave not a fig for you.”

  Paris’s face twisted with rage. “She would have, had you Montagues not warped her. Her parents had given her to me. I would have given her everything.” His features resumed their accustomed smoothness. “But no. Not just for her. I’ve a new love now. You Montagues may have confused her sweet young mind too, but I shall correct her. You shall not steal another wife from me, though I have to tear your house stone from stone to prevent it.”

  Benvolio had nearly forgotten Livia had somehow entangled herself with Paris. God, nothing in Verona was ever simple, was it? “She seemed not bewitched when she denounced you.”

  “She is misled. Henceforth she shall be led by me. Livia will be my wife.”

  The fanatic devotion that lit Paris’s mad face as he thought of his love was shudderingly familiar. Was this how Romeo had looked as he pined?

  No. That was not it. Subtract the mad sneer from Paris’s face, and you had his kinsman the prince, gazing at Rosaline before they rode off to war.

  He had been avoiding dwelling on what he’d seen in the prince’s tower. After the battle, he’d thought. After this bloody day was done, he could admit to himself what he’d seen, when he had leisure for his heart to break. But now his traitorous mind thrust the knowledge to the forefront. Rosaline, his Rosaline, was beloved of the prince.

  In the moment that Benvolio realized that his own love was lost to him, he had a sudden, wild thought of how he was going to defeat Paris: by depriving him of his.

  But then his foot, clumsied by exhaustion, caught on a root as he stepped back, and he stumbled. It was only a split second of weakness, but for a swordsman as skilled as his opponent, it might as well have been an hour. Paris’s eyes lit up and he drove forward, sword flashing so fast Benvolio could barely see it, let alone parry it.

  “Did you not hear, County?” he wheezed. “Your new love is lost to you too. Did you not see your friend Lady Capulet’s blade pierce her heart?”

  Paris’s eyes tightened. “ ’Tis a lie.”

  “ ’Tis none. Your treachery has killed her.”

  Paris faltered, his eyes wide, and Benvolio prayed with all his might. Half a minute of strength, Lord. ’Tis all I ask.

  It was enough. As the enraged Paris rushed at him, leaving himself open, Benvolio leapt like a coiled spring. The force of his body drove
Paris back, throwing him off balance, and then Paris was on the ground, Benvolio’s blade at his throat.

  For a moment they stayed frozen, Benvolio’s panting breaths his only movement. The red haze of fury had once more dropped over his eyes.

  “Kill him, Benvolio!” young Valentine called.

  “For Gramio!”

  For me, Truchio’s shade seemed to whisper.

  For House Montague. Romeo’s face was grim.

  For Verona. Mercutio’s grin was far more bloodthirsty than usual.

  Paris met his vanquisher’s eyes with a defiant snarl. “Well, whoreson cur? I’ll beg not for my life. No life is life if I be vanquished by such.”

  I thought you wished to end this cycle of death, Benvolio.

  The memory of Rosaline’s wide, pleading eyes was enough to drown out the maelstrom of voices in his head calling for revenge. He withdrew his blade a few inches. “Yield.”

  “Never.” Paris’s elegant features were twisted in a sneer. His hand darted to the ground, retrieving his fallen blade, and with a broken cry he threw himself at Benvolio.

  Forgive me, Rosaline.

  A glooming peace this morning with it brings.

  —Romeo and Juliet

  FRAIL LIVIA HAD WANDERED off alone.

  Rosaline closed her eyes in relief as her carriage came round the bend and she saw her sister sitting by the riverbank. Though two weeks had passed since Paris’s forces had been defeated, and Livia’s strength was beginning to return, she was still ill and weak. Rosaline had been frantic when she found her gone from her bed. With her sister’s death filling her nightmares, Rosaline could scarcely stand to allow Livia out of her sight, but she had managed to disappear the moment her back was turned. Luckily, one of their servants had seen her walking toward the east gate.

  Servants. Now that was a change indeed. House Capulet had suddenly granted their household a generous allowance. She could not say for certain, but she saw the prince’s hand in it. Now that Lady Capulet was imprisoned for life, the rest of the Capulet clan were eager to prove they were not traitors. Rosaline suspected that Escalus’s first suggestion was that they take better care of her and Livia. Their little cottage was growing more elegantly furnished by the day.

  “Shall we go and get her, my lady?” the coachman asked, but Rosaline shook her head.

  “Nay. Bide you here awhile, sirrah.” She stepped out of the carriage, a footman helping her down.

  She sighed at the sight before her. Her sister was seated on the riverbank in a gown of the pure black that she’d once so despised. Her complexion, even paler than usual thanks to her fortnight a-bed, was rendered ethereally white against the black of her mourning gown. Her lap held an armful of wildflowers, which she dropped one by one into the water. She did not look up when Rosaline approached, but when she was a few paces away, Livia smiled.

  “I thought ’twould take thee longer to seek me out.”

  “ ’Twas not hard to find thee, once I knew thou didst depart through the east gate.” Bending down at Livia’s side, she took one of Livia’s flowers and tucked it into her sister’s golden hair. “Thou shouldst be yet in bed.”

  Livia took the flower from behind her ear and dropped it in the water. “ ’Twas here Paris died.”

  “I know.” Rosaline focused on the flowers to banish the image of the grim young Montagues and Capulets bearing Paris’s slain body back to the palace. No face grimmer than Benvolio’s, though ’twas he whose blade had pierced the traitor’s heart. “I am sorry.”

  Livia laughed, a bitter sound, and Rosaline’s heart twisted in her chest. Her merry little scamp of a sister was gone forever, leaving behind a much sadder woman. “No, thou art not. No one is sorry for it. Except for me. And I killed him.”

  “Oh, dearest, no.”

  “Pray coddle me not.”

  “Thou didst but what thou must. Paris was a heartless wretch. Hadst thou not stopped him, God only knows what would have become of us all.”

  Livia shook her head. “Not heartless. For he loved me. I know he did.”

  Rosaline did not know what to say to that. So she just took her sister’s hand and squeezed.

  Livia’s gaze strayed to the carriage patiently waiting in the road. “Another fine gift from the prince?”

  Rosaline ducked her head, pretending to focus on the little flowers she was plucking to hide her blush. “He has been most generous. To our house and to Benvolio too, I hear.”

  “Generous.” Livia gave a snort.

  “He’s very grateful,” Rosaline said. “To thee above all. Hadst thou not warned him in time, Verona never would have prevailed against Paris’s forces. He would give anything in Verona to make thee happy.”

  “I fear nothing in Verona could.”

  “Livia—”

  “Hush. Pray do not try to comprehend. He whom thou lov’st yet lives.”

  Rosaline just stared out over the sun-dappled water.

  In the end, she was able to bundle her sister back into the carriage, though she suspected it was only because Livia was too fatigued to refuse.

  The next few weeks were busy ones for all, as the city in general, and Houses Montague and Capulet in particular, began repairing and rebuilding. The riots after the nurse’s death had left extensive damage, as had those of Paris’s men who had managed to fight past the city walls. The Duchess of Vitruvio was one of the lucky ones whose estates had been largely untouched by the rioting. She sent her servants to help the other Capulets rebuild, but she herself stayed mostly at home. Rosaline supposed that was only natural. Her daughter’s treason must have come as quite a shock. She had gone up to her great-aunt’s house to visit once or twice, but the old woman did not seem to welcome her company more than she ever had, so Rosaline left her to her solitude. She had an uncomfortable feeling that the duchess knew she and Benvolio had suspected her of the treachery that turned out to be her daughter’s.

  She saw none of Benvolio, who had been sent to nearby cities to do business on House Montague’s behalf. The prince was more often in her company. He had her to dine at the palace several times, officially to thank her for her service to the Crown, and when he walked through the city to observe the rebuilding efforts he often took her with him. He was sweet, and attentive, and generous, but they had not spoken of what had passed between them before he went into battle. She often caught him looking at her, though. Had his feelings changed? She could not bring herself to ask.

  But he continued to shower them with gifts, although Livia seemed entirely indifferent, and Rosaline herself protested mightily. At least his gratitude helped distract her from the little hurt she was nursing about Benvolio’s silence. Busy though he might be, he could at least write to her and let her know he was all right.

  After a few weeks, Livia’s health had improved greatly, though her spirits were no higher. Rosaline’s relief at her recovery gave way to disquiet. Verona gossip told her that Benvolio had returned several days prior. But she’d had no word from him—and, after all, what right had she to expect any? They had worked together to end their betrothal. Well, it was ended, and while Houses Capulet and Montague were not exactly the best of friends, they had agreed to a chilly peace that seemed likely to hold. Perhaps he was content now to be free of her company.

  Perhaps his kiss had meant nothing.

  Then one day there was a clatter of horses outside. When Rosaline opened the door, several servants in the yellow and white livery of the prince’s men stood on the threshold of the cottage. With cursory glances at Rosaline, they took up positions by her door. A third stopped on the new carpet and, after a self-important pause, spoke.

  “His Grace the Prince and Her Grace the Princess of Arragon wish to speak to Lady Rosaline of House Tirimo,” the man said.

  Rosaline stared. “Both of them? Here? Isabella is returned?”

  The man looked pained, and Rosaline gave herself a mental shake. “Please, I’d be honored. Let them in.”

  T
he next moment her old friend was striding through the door, her smile as merry as ever. “No turnips today, I am afraid,” said Isabella. Rosaline had scarcely given her a curtsy before she found herself engulfed in Isabella’s embrace.

  “Your Grace, well met. I did not know you were back in Verona.” She returned her friend’s hug.

  Isabella pulled back and gave a good-natured groan. “I’d have been here sooner, but my husband is overcautious, and he bade me stay away until he was sure there was no one else in this conspiracy, lying in wait for impetuous princesses.”

  “He is wise. You missed Verona’s worst hours.”

  “I always seem to.”

  Rosaline curtsied to Escalus, who nodded in return, but remained back by the doorway. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” she asked.

  Isabella said, “Oh, I’m not here for thee. Where is thy sister?”

  Rosaline blinked. “Livia? What—” She stopped herself. “Livia,” she called over her shoulder. “We’ve visitors. Wilt thou come?”

  “By and by,” her sister’s weary voice floated down.

  “Ah, nay, now, an it please thee …”

  After a few moments Livia appeared at the top of the stairs, clinging to the banister. Her eyes widened when she saw their guests, and she sank into a curtsy. “Your Grace. Your Grace.”

  “Hello,” said Isabella.

  Escalus nodded. “Livia. Thou look’st much better.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.” She shot a puzzled glance at Rosaline, who shrugged. “Why are you here?”

  Rosaline smiled as it was the prince’s turn to look flustered. At least Livia had lost none of her accustomed directness. But it was Isabella who answered. “I’ve a quarrel to that sister of thine, Livia. Rosaline promised me two Verona ladies to go back to Arragon with me, but gave me none. I’ve come to collect on the debt, in part at least.”

  Livia’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “My lady … you mean …”

  “I mean I need a lady-in-waiting,” Isabella said. “Wilt thou come with me to Arragon, Livia?”

  Livia went very still, her eyes wide. “Arragon.”