by David Hewson
‘I think they mostly look within, your Grace. Verona’s a fractious city. There are families that loathe one another far more than they hate a distant foe. Perhaps plague’s around the corner, too. Escalus wishes to keep the public order and awaits his turn to fight the Turks if they come.’
‘A sound observation,’ she declared. ‘A sound policy on the marshal’s part. And what do they say of my husband out on your streets?’
Romeo was puzzled by that one. ‘I’ve never heard ill spoken of him. He was a friend of Venice. He’s now a friend of Rome. In all honesty what gossip we have in Verona tends to local matters. If–’
‘My husband’s in the Vatican, bedding that poisonous and poisoning harlot Lucrezia Borgia. My sister-in-law for God’s sake. The bitch. They say her father’s lain with her along with all the rest. You heard that, did you?’
There were so many stories running round about Alexander the Sixth, the man once called Rodrigo Borgia: that he ravished his own children and the infants of others; tales of sorcery and the summoning of demons inside the holy chambers of Saint Peter’s; even that a pact with seven devils sent by Satan had secured him the papacy in the first place. More plausible accounts ranged, too, of how anything from a cardinal’s hat in Rome to a bishopric in distant England might be bought with an adequate gift of gold, a promise of soldiery or simply an offer of soft and supple flesh.
‘No, Madam. I’m not one for tittle-tattle. I’ve been distracted of late.’
Her response was long in coming.
‘I see you’re lovelorn,’ Isabella d’Este said eventually. ‘You wear the symptoms about your person. They’re as obvious as the weals and blisters of a man about to die of pox.’
He felt older. As if a single day had aged him years. ‘I have personal matters to attend to. My business. None so weighty they should trouble a great lady such as you.’
‘The heart,’ she sighed. ‘They say it breaks. Does it? Can one die of love? Or only the physical consequences of it? The jealous rages. The self-inflicted pain. The violence that stems from abandonment or simply being spurned.’
‘I’m a student of poetry, not a man of medicine.’
‘And verse gives you no lessons?’
No good ones. That he’d learned from Juliet. All the men of letters he’d adored were enthralled by love’s rejection, not its fond acceptance.
‘I believe poetry exists to ask us questions. Not furnish answers. In this respect perhaps it wonders… if a man cannot love another, how can he love himself? And if a man cannot love himself then what lies in his future but rage and hate?’
And death, he nearly said.
‘It’s not just men. That whore in Rome…’
She pointed to a drawing on the wall. A portrait, side-on, a clever tactic since it disguised the plumpness of Isabella d’Este’s face. ‘They claim Lucrezia’s the most beautiful woman in Italy. Why? Because her devil of a father is Pope and they daren’t say otherwise. Yet how many paintings of her have you seen? And by whom?’
None, he admitted. But Verona belonged to Venice and it was unlikely pictures of a Roman pontiff’s offspring would be welcomed there.
‘And how many portraits do you see of me? They’re everywhere. I mix with artists, with intellectuals. They’re my equal and I theirs. That drawing is by my great friend Leonardo, here a few weeks ago on his way to Venice. Da Vinci is the spirit of our age. A man who dares and stops at nothing. A genius who draws as well as he paints and sculpts. And looks inside these bodies of ours. You should see his deft anatomies.’ She held out her arm and flexed her chubby fingers. ‘He detects the way we work. How God made us. How we follow in his image. This new world before us belongs to men like my Leonardo. And women like me.’
It was a conversation that would have sparked some interest in Juliet. The very thought depressed him.
‘If you die in my service, Montague, I’ll hand him your corpse. He can carve you open and see if that heart of yours is truly broken.’
‘It isn’t, Madam. Not yet. Not quite. I am in your service?’
She made the kind of disappointed noise his mother affected when she found him exasperating. The monkey squeaked once, angrily, then threw the pear core into the fireplace.
‘You do speak Greek?’
It occurred to him that Mantua must be a curious place. It was the second time he’d faced that question in a matter of hours.
‘Not a word. My father said there was no point in filling a child’s head with a dead language that had no place in commerce.’
‘Commerce!’ she cried. ‘You think there’s nothing to this world but commerce?’
‘My father’s choice–’
‘Your father’s wrong. And you’re the one who’ll pay for it. I have no room in my household for any who cannot speak the language of Homer. Save for the Africans who are innocent savages too unworldly for academic matters. Oh, and the jester. The last one was a rogue we sent to the scaffold.’ A thought amused her. ‘That position comes with a fine house outside the castle and free costumes. But the fool’s hat is made for the short and hideous. While you have the foolish words you are far too tall and fetching to behold.’
She pulled a tiny white handkerchief from her sleeve and waved it at him. ‘Adieu. Find your place in the world. It may be in Mantua but not my service. If you kill a man in my city I’ll hang you without a hearing. Then summon Leonardo to fetch his scalpel and look for whatever black and ugly thing lurks beneath your ribs. Adieu.’ She waved more frantically. ‘Adieu.’
‘Madam, adieu,’ he said and left the room.
* * *
The windows were open in Luca Capulet’s study, the heat relentless. He sat in his grand leather chair waving a peacock fan to no great effect, sipping water mixed with wine.
An hour his wife had waited, then she’d persuaded Juliet out of her room. The girl now occupied a stool in front of him, like a felon before a judge, her mother as an advocate by her side. The nurse had argued her way into the conversation, promising Bianca Capulet her support. She stood at the door, leaning on the frame, fat arms folded, face flushed and sweating.
Juliet listened to her father dictate the list of proceedings for the following day. The time she would be visited by women to prepare her. The hour she’d leave the house. How Father Cesare would begin the wedding ceremony in Sant’Anastasia.
‘Tomorrow will be a long and complicated day. It’s important you follow my directions.’
She waited for him to finish before she said, ‘There will be no wedding.’
Capulet closed his eyes and muttered something. When he opened them he tried a forced smile. ‘I’m aware this is unusual. That your tears for your cousin Tybalt are not yet dry–’
‘Send me to Mantua. I’ll dry them on the man who murdered him.’
He scoffed at that and told her not to be ridiculous. Then set a sour eye on his wife. ‘I give you a life of ease and luxury. All I ask in return is that you instil some small sense of obedience in this child…’
‘I have tried, Luca!’ Bianca Capulet cried. ‘God above, I’ve tried.’
Juliet agreed. ‘She has. The answer’s still no.’
Her mother gave her a savage look. ‘Sweet Jesus. There are moments I wish you were in that coffin we put in the ground this morning. Not that vile cousin of yours–’
‘Thank you.’
‘At least he made a show of fidelity towards this family!’
‘Indeed, mother. And killed men for it. A greater devotion I can scarcely imagine.’
‘Stop this,’ Capulet ordered. ‘Both of you.’
‘The girl is beyond us, Luca. Admit it.’
‘I admit no such thing. Juliet. Let me make sure you understand this. I have arranged a match with Count Paris. A rich and honest nobleman from an aristocratic line that goes back centuries. He adores you and will provide for you and love you all his days. Are you not grateful? Aren’t you in the least proud to be the object of such a man�
��s devotion? Or that tomorrow you may call yourself a countess?’
She laughed. ‘Oh, I’m grateful you think so much of me. Call me a countess if you like. But I will still be the same. As to pride… Paris is a stranger!’
He swigged back some of his drink. ‘This ingratitude I can do without. You’ll marry him tomorrow. If I have to drag you there tied to a bloody cart.’
‘All I ask is a little time. If you’ll listen to me–’
His face turned red. He banged the cup hard on the desk. ‘I’ve listened enough! Long and hard. Get out of my sight and prepare yourself. Or else leave this house forever, you disobedient wretch.’
Juliet rose. ‘A few months. Weeks even–’
‘Do as I demand or take yourself off to a nunnery or a whorehouse… I don’t care which so long as I never see your impudent face again.’
Tears were starting in her eyes. ‘If only–’
‘Enough! I’ve spoken.’
‘Husband,’ Bianca Capulet cut in.
‘I should have beaten some civility and respect into this child when she was an infant, and spared us all this pain.’ He shook his fist at Juliet. ‘You think it’s too late now?’
‘I do,’ she answered. ‘But if it gives you satisfaction to try…’
‘Out! Out! Not another word. Before I fetch my whip.’
‘You are too cruel,’ Nurse cried.
‘Ha! Lady Wisdom speaks, does she? This little bitch was in your hands all these years. You think you did a good job, woman?’
‘Do not call her such dreadful names, sir! Juliet’s a decent, steadfast girl. I’d stake my life on it. A brighter child I never–’
He flourished his fist again, face a brilliant red, temper lost entirely. ‘Be quiet, you wittering fool. Save your bleating for your peasant peers. By God, you make me mad, the lot of you. Day and night, every hour the Lord gives, I’ve worked to make a wedding for her. Now I find the child a gentleman of the noblest parentage, this whining little marionette of mine says…’
His voice turned loud and cruel. He put his hands to his cheeks to mock her. ‘I cannot wed, Father, since I do not love this man you’ve found. And further more I’m young. And would rather sit in my room and sew and read and like every wastrel woman alive do nothing of moment all the long hours the day provides.’
Capulet struggled to his feet and approached her, his fists clenched so tightly she could see the whites of his knuckles. ‘If you won’t wed tomorrow then find yourself a gutter to live in. You won’t stay in this house, eating my food and drinking my drink. Go and hang, beg, starve, die in the street for all I care. And when they put your corpse in a pauper’s grave I won’t acknowledge you there either. Nothing of mine – not all this money and finery I’ve slaved to bring you – will do you good henceforth. Think on it, daughter. Marry or be damned. You choose. This is the last time we speak of it, I swear. Now…’
He swept the table, glass, papers, books and all, sending them flying to the tiled floor. ‘Two children the Lord blessed me with and took the wrong one early.’ Wild-eyed he raised his fist to the ceiling. ‘What did I do that you should rob me of a loyal, obedient son?’
The three women stood in silent shock. There’d been storms aplenty in the palazzo. But none so fierce.
‘To hell with this. And wives. And daughters,’ he roared, then stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him.
Juliet turned to her mother, voice fragile for once, mind in turmoil. ‘Is there no pity anywhere in your hearts? In you at least, Mother? Can’t you see how I hurt?’
‘Juliet–’
‘A month’s delay. A week even. Why the hurry?’
‘Because Paris will not wait! He’s as exasperated by your dithering as the rest of us.’
‘One day’s notice I am to be married? This is dithering? Do not abandon me. I beg you. Father attacks us both in this…’
‘With some reason! I’m an obedient wife and should have given him a daughter much the same.’
‘He hits you! I hear it!’
‘Never you, though. And look at us now. Your father’s right. This decision is yours. You dare ask me to choose between my husband and my daughter? We are women. We obey…’
‘Then make room for me next to Tybalt in the tomb. My bridal bed can be in that grim monument–’
‘Oh, child,’ Nurse begged. ‘Don’t say such things lest the spirits hear…’
Bianca waved at her to be quiet. ‘These histrionics must cease! Do your duty, Juliet!’ Then came a sudden and unexpected vehemence to her voice. ‘Or do you think you’re different from the rest of us? Better than every wife and daughter who went before? All of whom have made these sacrifices.’
‘So because you suffered I must too?’ For a moment she thought that might earn her a slap. But no. ‘All I wish… is to marry the man I love.’
‘Then learn to love him! After you’re wed. You’re not the first and you won’t be the last. Nurse! Take this child to her Franciscan friar. Tell him to find a drug that brings the girl back to her senses. Otherwise…’
She started to pick up the things her husband had swept to the tiled floor.
‘Otherwise?’ Juliet asked in tears.
The look she got was little short of hatred. ‘Otherwise? A wife, a nun, a maid, a beggar, a whore… You’ve made it clear. Your life belongs to you alone. You choose. I care no longer.’
* * *
Gone Juliet was, in short order. Together with the nurse she walked out of the palazzo, head bowed, down to the river, to sit on the bank beneath the shade of a hazel tree watching the wildfowl on the busy water. Laurence’s cloisters were a few minutes away. She’d no wish to disobey her parents’ demand when it came to visiting him. Though she did not share the intention they so fervently wished upon her.
The nurse stayed silent all the way. When they were seated Juliet turned to her. ‘Donata. Talk to me.’
‘Oh, lord.’ The woman folded her arms. ‘If I’m being called by my name it must be serious.’
‘Donata. Donata Perotti. You’ve looked after me since I was a baby. I suckled at your breast.’ She sighed at that. ‘As you so often remind me.’
‘Funny, isn’t it? I get closer to you than your own mother in some ways. But I’m still a servant. I don’t have a name really. Don’t worry, Juliet. I’m happy like this. I know my place. We all should. Hard to get through the day if you don’t.’
There was a message there, and not a subtle one.
‘How can I prevent this? I have a husband. You know. Comfort me. Counsel me.’
A pair of ducks swam past, the mallard chasing the hen, squawking, struggling to climb on the bird’s back. Still the nurse stayed silent.
‘Please talk to me. I’ve heard your voice every day of my life. The world doesn’t feel right without it.’
The nurse took a deep breath. Juliet knew from the look in her eyes what was coming. ‘You want the truth? Really?’
‘Of course.’
‘Here it is then. Your Romeo’s banished, and nothing in the world’s going to bring him back. If he tries, he’s dead. If he doesn’t, he’s gone. To another. He’s a fine-looking lad. His eye will wander before long…’
‘No, never. We swore–’
‘They all swear, darling! Until they get what they want. Then they find another to swear to.’
‘Not Romeo… You don’t understand. I led him into this.’
Her old hands tightened on Juliet’s young fingers. ‘He didn’t do anything he didn’t want to. Your Romeo’s just a man. Not a saint or a god. I think it best you marry this count. Your father’s right. He’s a lovely gentleman. As far as prospects go, Romeo’s nothing next to a chap with a dynasty like that. Paris is an eagle, girl, and that young fancy lad of yours a handsome, skittish sparrow, flown off for good. A few months down the road you’ll remember last night fondly and realise it was never going to be anything but that. One sweet moment of love with a boy you’ll never see agai
n. Paris is here, he’s willing, he’s rich and he’ll make you happy. This… husband. Well… you’ve got no witnesses, nothing but a piece of paper your father would rip to shreds in an instant if he found it. No one but me knows he’s even been in your bed, and a servant’s no use in court. As far as this city’s concerned, you’re not married at all. Romeo’s dead…’
‘But he isn’t.’
‘As good as. You live here. He’s God knows where. Neither of you any use to the other. Nor ever will be.’
The mallard was on the hen, savagely biting her brown neck as she squawked in pain. The cock bird’s tail was pumping hard. Then it was done. The two parted, the male flying off across the river in search of other company.
‘I know it’s not what you want to hear. But you asked for the truth and you got it.’
I am alone, Juliet thought. And always was. Just too dim to notice.
‘Well?’ Nurse asked. ‘Want to shout at me? Go ahead. I don’t mind.’
Juliet kissed her on the cheek. ‘I asked. You answered. Go home now–’
‘I will see you to the friar.’
‘No. Tell my mother I’ll go there as she demands. I will ask him for a… potion to cure these ills. And confession, too. For all my impudence and disrespect.’
The nurse stared at her. ‘You changed your mind? You’re saying you’ll marry Paris now? Tomorrow?’
‘Tell them what I said. I’ll talk to them when I return. Help yourself to whatever you want from my jewellery box. I promised that. Best not let my mother see you.’
‘No, I won’t.’ She clapped her hands just as she had when she was singing the ribald wedding song the day before. ‘Oh, love! I knew you’d see sense in the end. We all of us fight battles. But not losing ones. Young Romeo’s just that. He always will be. Tomorrow you get a proper wedding. Rich man. Lots of prospects. I wonder if he’ll be needing a woman servant for that new household of yours…’
‘I’ll ask him.’
‘So kind. So kind…’