by David Hewson
His head went down. She patted his soft brown hair.
‘Whatever you do, don’t say sorry! And please don’t pout.’
She got to her feet and reached into the branches above her. These apple trees were old. They had been there when she was little and surely would prosper long after she was gone. An ancient variety, the gardener said. Pink-striped fruit, sweet and crisp. This summer had begun early and stayed hot. They were ripe already. She picked the plumpest, a firm and perfect specimen.
‘What–?’ he began.
Her finger rose to his lips to shush him. ‘Stand up, please.’
Juliet sank her teeth into the fruit: a forceful, decisive bite. Mouth full, she stood on tiptoes to kiss him, forcing the flesh and the juice into Romeo’s mouth with her lips and tongue. Her mind went somewhere it had never been before, and so did his. A wild place full of nameless joy and a promise that no other soul alive could see. She dropped the apple, which rolled across the grass and she laughed, pulling back just a little from his tight arms and roaming fingers.
‘That is my breast your fingers close upon,’ she whispered in his ear.
‘It’s your heart I seek.’
Don’t stop, she thought. Don’t stop. Don’t…
In this sudden, frantic passion her foot caught on his ankle and she tripped, holding on to him so close, so tightly that he fell, too. Both of them rolled on to the warm lush grass of the Capulet garden beneath the watching moon. On the lawn he kissed her again and this was so much better. His inquisitive fingers found a line of buttons behind her back, worked through, beneath the chemise, touched soft skin, the gentle curve and hollow of her spine. Then further…
‘No, no.’ She pulled away, stood up, smoothed down the dress as best she could. Leaves and blades of grass fell from her. ‘Too far, too fast.’
He struggled to his feet.
‘The moon is full,’ she said. ‘And we are mad.’
‘God keep us that way.’
‘I am to wed, Romeo. A stranger. No one can save me.’
He fell to his knees. ‘You will marry me.’
She blinked once, then twice. Then, without thinking, burst into laughter so loud she had to put a hand to her mouth to quieten herself.
‘You will marry me,’ he repeated.
Stifling her giggles she sat down on the bench believing this the sweetest, strangest night she’d ever spent.
‘But how?’
‘You will…’ he began again.
‘I heard you the first time. For a would-be poet your use of language is quite shameful.’
‘What–?’
‘The order of one’s words matters. Listen to me now. The way it should be spoken.’ She composed herself then stared him straight in the eye. ‘Will you marry me? Will you marry me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes what?’
‘I’ll marry you! That’s done then…’ He took her hands again.
Shaking, laughing, she pushed him back to the grass. He lay there. Juliet, not knowing how this came into her head, lifted her dress to her knees and straddled him, like a victor over a vanquished enemy.
Their eyes were silver with the moonlight. Their fingers roamed, playing fondly with skin, with hair, with lips, with teeth.
‘I would marry you…’ she whispered. ‘If it were possible. Honestly. You could carry me away on a white charger like Saint George rescuing a damsel in distress.’
‘I wouldn’t wish to remain a saint long after if that’s all right with you.’
His hands were beneath the silk, on her bare ankles, gently rising.
She giggled. A dog barked somewhere. Then there were rapid footsteps and a coarse voice broke the night.
‘Bloody hell fire! What in the name of our dear sweet Lord is this I see before me?’
Romeo’s hands shot out from underneath her dress. Juliet scrambled to her knees, turned and saw a large round form silhouetted against the starry sky.
‘A… a… game. That’s it, Nurse. A game.’
The woman let loose a deep and scurrilous chortle. ‘Aye. And I’ve heard all the many names that game possesses.’ She reached down and patted Juliet’s head. ‘Best you get inside now. Your mother’s looking for you and given the racket you two have been making it can’t be long before she finds her way out here.’
The girl swore quietly then pushed herself to her feet. Romeo rolled to one side and did the same.
‘I know you,’ Nurse said. ‘You’re Montague’s lad. Are you soft in the head? That young monster Tybalt will have your guts for garters just for sticking your nose through the door. Let alone trying to tup the master’s daughter in his garden.’
‘It was a game!’ Juliet cried. Then, more quietly, ‘Just… that.’
The woman guffawed. ‘And there’s a gentleman in there thought himself betrothed to you tonight. I’ve seen some tricks of yours over the years but this one surely takes the biscuit. Look, lad…’ She grabbed Romeo’s arm and pointed into the trees. ‘There’s a side door over there. By the vegetable patch. That fool gardener never remembers to lock it. So you pop out the back. I’ll sneak my little girl inside without her father spotting. If I can.’
He didn’t move.
‘You’re either daft or rash or both,’ she added. ‘Which it is I care not. But for your own sake and that of the miss here be off with you.’
With that Juliet rushed forward and kissed him quickly on the lips. He held her until the woman made more squawking noises, then bowed awkwardly and started for the trees. Nurse watched and as he passed slapped him hard on the backside with the flat of her hand.
Juliet put her hand to her mouth, giggling.
‘Goodnight, my love,’ he said. ‘I will not fail you. And lady…’
‘Goodnight!’ Nurse bellowed.
‘My love…’ Juliet added with a wave of her fingers.
One backward glance and then he was gone.
‘Nice bottom on him. I’ll say that for your young man.’
‘You were too familiar, Nurse.’
‘Too familiar? Really? Me? How far did that game of yours go? If you don’t me asking.’
‘Not far enough,’ she said, without a second thought.
A big broad grin broke on Nurse’s face. ‘Patience, my little duck. One way or another I doubt you’ve got to long to wait.’ She clapped her fat hands. ‘So. Shall we try to get you in the house and safely up to bed? With no more skirmishes along the way?’
* * *
A little while later Romeo found his friends in the street outside the palazzo. Then, full of wine, Mercutio led them to the old Roman arena, a sprawling pile not far from his own quarters in the Cangrande castle. Romeo had never liked the ancient stadium. They told too many tales about it. Of how the pagans had ushered Christians and beasts out of cages to their slaughter in front of cheering crowds. Then, later, Christians led pagans and yet more animals for just the same.
During the day it remained a stage for performance, for concerts, gymnastics and the occasional showy execution. When darkness fell the ancient stones became the lair of whores and cut-throats. Somewhere sane men avoided.
Benvolio had passed the evening listening to the singers and players, chatting to them when they were free. A fresh way of notating music was being developed in Venice. With it, and the rise of the printing press, came the prospect that new kinds of song and instrumental works would spread throughout Italy and beyond.
‘It’s all terribly exciting,’ he declared, seated on a stone bench by the arena’s edge, after giving them a brief explanation of what he’d heard from the Capulets’ hired band.
‘I can hardly contain myself,’ Mercutio declared. ‘Where would I be without that knowledge?’ His speech was distinctly slurred. ‘Oh, I know. With my lovely Anna.’ He clutched his arms about his chest, as if in an embrace. ‘Oh, sweet Anna! Darling of my dreams! Kiss me, kiss me now.’
Then he stopped and elbowed Romeo. ‘You can imagine that
with your lovely Rosaline, can’t you? She of the y-shaped coffin–’
‘Oh, do be quiet! That’s all done with.’
‘Found another then? I thought I saw you eyeing someone else? Me? I’m a one girl man. Well, not even that if I’m honest.’ He spat on the grimy cobbles. ‘I did my best with plain little Anna. But frankly…’
‘Asking her if she wanted to go outside for a tumble probably wasn’t the cleverest idea,’ Benvolio suggested.
‘I thought you were talking to them musicians, genius. It’s rude to eavesdrop.’
‘You were bellowing so loud it was hard not to.’
‘’Cos of your flaming music! Yes! And besides… what I actually invited the young lady to join me for was a fumble. Not a tumble. Fumble. I am a gentleman, believe it or not. I’d never suggest such a thing to a girl first time out. Wouldn’t be proper. Second time’s different–’
‘Tumble,’ Benvolio insisted. ‘It was tumble.’
‘Be that as it may… the point is…’ He scratched his head and looked round. ‘I forget. Where are we? How did we get here? There’s ladies of the night hang round these stones. And worse.’
Romeo sighed. ‘We followed you.’
‘Well, who’s the fool then?’ He winked. ‘Got that lover’s look in your eye, you have. Queen Mab’s been whispering in your ear, hasn’t she? I can tell. Queen Mab. Queen Mab…’
Benvolio grabbed Mercutio by the arm. ‘I’m taking this one home. It’s bedtime for you, friend.’
‘Ah, to bed. To sleep. To dream. Look at this one’s face. I swear he’s blushing in the moonlight. Who is it now, Romeo? Not one of Capulet’s relatives, I hope, or you’ll have that grim bugger Tybalt jabbing his rapier up your bum.’ He flapped at Benvolio. ‘Hands off, will you?’
Benvolio kicked him in the pants and got a laugh and a curse in return. Then he looked at Romeo. ‘You’ll be all right? This one’s coming with me whether he likes it or not.’
‘Not…’ Mercutio complained.
Benvolio grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. ‘Don’t hang around here on your own, Romeo, please. We got out of Capulet’s place alive. Two miracles don’t happen the same night.’
He walked with them a little of the way, Mercutio still babbling on and on about Queen Mab. Then, at the line of houses on the city side of the arena, they headed towards the Cangrande castle. The Montague palazzo was much like the Capulets’: another small fortress, this time set against the river to the west. Ten minutes on foot, no more.
‘Take care,’ Benvolio cried.
‘And don’t you listen to Queen Mab,’ Mercutio added. ‘That little lady’ll just get you into even more trouble.’
Even more?
Romeo laughed in spite of himself. The night had been so… strange. He’d no need of a tiny fairy in his ear making promises, for good or bad.
He wondered at their friendship sometimes. It was real and affectionate. Escalus’s nephew could be funny, sincere, kind. And irritatingly outspoken, often voicing thoughts Romeo shared but kept unsaid. It was as if Mercutio, though older than the rest of them, had never felt a single hurt in his life. Or that he’d built a shell around himself to make sure he never suffered pain. Instead he’d blunder through the day wondering where cruel Queen Mab might take him. There was something to be said for that safe form of cowardice. It made for temporary torments, fleeting passions swiftly abandoned.
The sky was clear and full of stars, the moon so bright it made every brick and stone, wall and parapet, swallow-tail merlon and high fancy tower as clear and real as could be. She was no dream. Juliet was the one he’d longed for all his life and never known till now. He was not going home at all.
Soon he was by the river. The low and elegant shape of the Roman bridge stood to his left, its ancient lines shining in the moonlight. The long wall by its side belonged to the Capulets. Behind lay the lawn where they’d kissed and she had straddled him. Triumphant. Willing. His to save. She’d wanted that even if she didn’t say as much out loud. And his to love.
The gate, the nurse said, was left open by the idle gardener night after night. On subtle tiptoes he stole along the river bank. Creatures moved around him, ducks and cormorants, rats and voles.
He heard voices then. One so sweet and full of promise he strained to hear her every angry word.
* * *
An explanation. That was what her father wanted. Though he was too angry to demand it in person, so instead Juliet was forced to wait the best part of an hour to face her mother after she’d dealt with the kitchen and the staff. Nurse looked on, silent, amused, conspiratorial.
‘I felt giddy,’ Juliet said, when finally Bianca Capulet arrived.
They were by the open garden windows in the empty banqueting hall, the servants clearing away the remains of the food, the dirty plates and glasses, and sweeping litter from the stone floor.
‘Giddy?’
‘Yes. I needed some fresh air. So I went and sat in the garden. You could have found me if you’d looked.’ She smiled, as sweetly as she could. It was hard to stop thinking about Romeo and how far matters might have travelled had Nurse not interrupted them. ‘I’m feeling better now. A lot better you’ll be pleased to hear.’
‘Oh, Juliet.’
She’d had seen that pained look too often. The one that said: I know your games. I’ve witnessed them so many times. Please don’t try to fool me with these lies again.
‘I’m sorry. It was thoughtless of me. How did your party go?’
‘Our party. It was for your benefit. Did you eat a thing? Talk to a single soul?’
Juliet’s eyes caught Nurse’s then. The woman coughed into her fist but stayed quiet.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t feel well. I’m sorry father’s upset with me again. It was best Count Paris didn’t see me like that, anyway, wasn’t it? He wouldn’t want to marry a sickly girl. I imagine. If–’
Her mother’s hand stretched out, soft fingers held her bare arm. She thought of the way Romeo had touched her. It was with just this same tentative reluctance. Love – and her mother did love her, she never doubted that – came with a reticence that seemed to border on fear. Perhaps that was part of the adventure. The secret stab of excitement that came as one stepped away from the safe and familiar and entered the shadows where all manner of unseen, unknown things might lurk.
‘You can’t run away from this, you know. All young women head for the altar. Either as a bride or a nun and we know the latter’s not for you.’
‘Very true,’ Nurse agreed. ‘On both counts, Madam.’
‘Perhaps Paris isn’t for me either. Have you considered that?’
She remembered when her mother’s hair was fair, almost as blonde as hers. Of late it had started to thin and turn grey. There were lines on her cheeks, crow’s feet around her eyes that had never been there before. Age or strain or both. It hurt Juliet to think that perhaps some of those marks were caused by her.
‘I’ll tell your father you didn’t feel well and thought it best the count didn’t see you that way. That tomorrow you’ll feel better. You can meet him here in the morning.’
‘Tomorrow I could be dead,’ she snapped, and wondered immediately what odd impulse had made her form those words.
Her mother looked ready to weep. Or scream. ‘Please, child. Not again. Don’t say those things. Even in jest.’
‘In jest?’
‘I mean–’
‘I’m tired. Good night. I hope I didn’t ruin your evening. Truly.’
With that Juliet set off for the stairs.
The two women watched. The back of her blue dress was stained with the green of the garden grass, her hair was dishevelled, brown leaves falling from it as she climbed the broad stone steps to her rooms.
Her mother stared, wide-eyed.
‘She fell over when I went to fetch her,’ Nurse said quickly. ‘Clumsy little thing sometimes. Bright ones often are.’
Bianca Capulet said not a word.
>
‘But you’re her mother. I suppose you know that.’
‘If there’s something going on…’
‘You’d be the first to hear, my lady.‘
‘Be sure of that, Nurse. Better me than my husband.’
‘Aye,’ the woman said. ‘I know.’
* * *
In jest.
She didn’t joke about the grave. How could you? And how could her mother be so surprised that anyone born in Verona didn’t feel its cold, dark presence on every street, in the churches, the government halls, the countless piazzas?
Death was a stalker in the shadows, ever-present, always watching. A year before, as a treat supposedly, they’d gone to San Zeno, a vast church outside the walls, so tall it hurt to look at the wooden ceiling that sat like an upturned boat high above the congregation. Her father disliked the place. Showy, he said, and always asking for money.
But this was May the twenty-first, the anniversary of the translation of Saint Zeno’s remains to the basilica that bore his name. Most of Verona would be there. Perhaps afterwards they’d talk business.
Juliet had visited the place rarely and with good reason. It was beautiful but it also stank of death. The man was Verona’s first bishop, laid in the grave, martyred some thought, a millennium before. He was an African and a statue near the high altar depicted him with a round black face, a friendly smile upon it. In his right hand sat a fishing rod, a silver dace dangling from the line. He enjoyed throwing his hook and line into the Adige the stories said, just as a good bishop liked to fish for men.
In the crypt below, lit by smoky yellow candles, lay Zeno’s body encased in a glass coffin. He wore a smart red robe, too clean to be a thousand years old. A gold mitre sat on his head. A silver mask covered a skull that had crept into her imagination and haunted her for weeks after. Above the crypt, out in the nave, Zeno stood before them in wood, almost lifelike, smiling with his fishing rod. In the chamber beneath the stones he was nothing more than bare bones and leathery dried flesh, all clothed in the grand scarlet gown of a bishop because this strange spectacle was something the church deemed ‘holy’.
That shocking contrast seemed to escape most everyone else in the congregation. It was all Juliet could think of. So instead she looked at the altar, at the paintings of saints and martyrs, a crucifixion, raising her head as the hymns and chants and sermons seemed to continue forever. Above those still and serious figures, high in the vaulted ceiling, someone had painted a perfect blue night sky dotted with golden stars. That was pretty. That was a place she’d like to be.