by David Hewson
Romeo dragged his hood more tightly around his head and set off for the river side of the chapel. There had to be a way…
‘Sir…’ Halfway along the path Balthazar took hold of his arm. ‘This is madness. If we return to your palace and see your father then–’
Romeo put one hand on the hilt of his rapier and with the other pushed the young servant hard against the wall.
‘Either you help me now or go, Balthazar. I’ll take no defiance.’
‘This is not defiance! I wish to help…’
‘Upon your life I’m telling you. I don’t care what you see, or what you hear. Do not stand in my way.’ He pointed at the chapel wall, the tracery windows near their feet, too small to allow a grown man entry. ‘Somehow I’ll descend into this nest of death and see her. If…’ The fury rose in him, fired by the swift, cruel memory of her face. ‘If you return to pry on me by heaven I’ll tear you limb from limb and strew this hungry churchyard with your bones.’
The young man struggled in his grip, frightened, offended, appalled.
‘I do not deserve this fury, master. I’ve only tried to serve you. I…’
‘I’m no man’s master. Not fit for it. Tell my father I love him. And my mother, too. Here…’ He pulled out his purse and thrust it in the servant’s hands. ‘Take this for thanks.’
Balthazar shook his head. ‘I receive a wage already. Nothing more is needed.’
The heat came back. ‘I warn you! Don’t linger in this place. Or interfere with what I do now–’
‘No, no,’ the lad cut in with a bitter nod. ‘I heard the first time. I will remove myself from your presence. And wish you well in this sad venture.’
He waited for an answer. ‘Goodbye then.’
‘Just go…’
Romeo watched him trudge off through the rain. There was a tree with a long, thick branch overhanging the chapel’s low roof, close to a window set at the back, for a side room perhaps. Struggling for purchase against the slippery bark, he climbed the trunk and edged along towards the terracotta tiling, slick and wet with rain.
One glance back. No sign of Balthazar. He reached the roof and edged carefully on to the tiles, feeling them give beneath his weight.
With damp and uncertain fingers, Romeo reached out and found the window frame, tugging on the rotting wood. It shifted. He rolled towards the growing gap. From somewhere inside he heard noises…
Someone moving and a fractured, grieving voice mumbling, ‘My wife…’
* * *
Again Juliet tried to lift a finger, an eyelid, to raise the slightest sound in her dry and aching throat. Once more she failed. But in this dark place, eyes still blind, she knew something was stirring.
There were footsteps coming down the staircase, heavy and stumbling. Too ponderous for Romeo’s light tread.
Then she heard that voice again and for the first time since she’d swallowed the black liquid, felt her body make the slightest tremor, though it was only her frozen heart, leaping in fear.
A slurred Florentine voice croaked about her, ‘Oh, dear flower. My sweetest. With these lilies our bridal bed I strew…’
Paris. Full of wine, she guessed, from the self-pitying timbre of his words.
Something formed in her head. A single syllable. No. Her lips struggled to shape it, her throat to speak.
Then the sound of him came again, closer still, and she felt the faintest sensation in her face, a welcome one until she realised what it was.
‘These precious flowers fall on precious cold skin…’
He was dragging the shroud away, head to toe, exposing her entirely.
‘This is the greatest woe a man must have to shoulder. To see the loveliest creature in the world. To have her in his grip. Promised for his bed this very night. And then…’
Furious curses flew around the room. He wailed and ranted, cursed God and heaven. And – her heart leapt once more – Romeo more than any other.
‘That haughty banished villain! Who murdered my love’s cousin and drove her grieving to this dread deed.’
Oh, she thought. If only I could speak.
That was still beyond her. Yet there was a scent now, strong, sweet and familiar. Lilies. Then the gentlest rain of petals on her cheeks.
Her eyelids shunned her will to open. But she could feel them now, leaden, aching. Soon, she thought. Soon.
Something hot came to her ear. His breath, the stink of wine. And then a whisper.
‘Oh, woe! My darling Juliet. My beautiful child. The canopy of our marriage bed is nothing more than dust and stones.’
I am mine and only mine. Not yours. Not any man’s…
‘Nightly I’ll come to your tomb with flowers. With rosewater to sprinkle over your grave. But only…’
Closer now. She thought she gasped but wasn’t sure. And that he’d touched her, and she didn’t know where.
‘Just one single night… I crave it…’
Something hard and rough she felt, like sandpaper against her skin. It took a moment to realise what it was. Then a scream began, so loud inside it stilled her thoughts, yet silent to the world.
The beard. It was his prickly bristles on her face, her mouth, her lips, her neck.
Wake up. For pity’s sake… Wake up…
It hurt so much she’d have cried out if she could. But all her strength went into that single effort.
In one brief moment Juliet’s eyes opened, blinked. She glimpsed his drunken, licentious leer as he bent over her neck, slavering with his kisses.
He never saw, just whined, ‘This is a dream. A nightmare. And I will see it to the end.’
The panting returned, with it his feverish fingers and the dark.
Then another voice came through the darkness. Three short words.
‘Leave her, sir.’
The bristles vanished. Then her wakefulness.
* * *
By the light of a sputtering torch at the foot of the stairs Romeo halted and wondered at what he saw. Paris was there bent over her, a crumpled shroud at his feet. Half-covered by a flimsy shift Juliet’s still frame lay on a marble slab. Lily petals the colour of her skin were scattered across her sculpted neck, her slight and naked shoulders.
The count heard his words, looked back, face full of guilt and hatred. His eyes narrowed, his hand went to the hilt of his sword. The black bottle sat in Romeo’s jerkin pocket, neck exposed, the dark potion ready to be drunk. Perhaps there’d be no need of it at all.
He stepped out into the yellow light of the torch. The sight of her motionless by Paris, pale flesh exposed, stole the breath from him, and his reason.
‘Montague? Montague?’ Paris muttered as he pulled himself away from her. ‘What kind of creature are you? To disturb a place like this?’
He began to adopt the stiff and martial pose of one about to fight. Romeo came a step closer.
‘I might ask that of you. In the circumstances.’
‘She was mine!’ His furious bellow echoed round the crypt. Then, more quietly, ‘Promised. Paid for. My bride tonight. My bed. Mine for all her life. It was… ordained.’
‘By whom?’
The answer came in a cantankerous drunken slur. ‘By me. By her father. By God.’
Slowly Romeo edged between him and Juliet on the slab. The nobleman rushed forward and with a bunched fist punched him hard in the gut. Then, as he fought for breath, bent over, gasping, the count brought up a knee beneath his chin and sent him rolling back towards the steps.
‘This evil work of yours is done. The child is dead because you murdered her cousin.’
‘Not so,’ Romeo whispered, struggling for breath.
Paris wasn’t listening. ‘You think you can pursue this vengeance against her house further than the grave?’
Blood in his mouth, the salt taste of it on his tongue. Romeo got to his feet and said, ‘I merely wished to see her. Like you. Though from a true affection. Not–’
Paris struck again, a quick a
nd cowardly kick to his shins. ‘I’ll not take such insults from a foul villain. Banished from this town. Escalus can deal with you. I’ll bring you to him myself.’ The sword came out. His eyes shone with self-righteous fury. ‘Do as I say and leave with me now. Tonight you die. One way or another.’
‘Aye.’ Romeo nodded. ‘That’s right. Tonight I do.’
‘Come with me. Or encounter this–’
The weapon was a military blade, wider, longer, than a rapier. It cut through the musty air. Still Romeo stepped forward.
‘Death is why I’m here. So I beg of you… do not be so foolish as to tempt a desperate man. Be gone. I want no further blood on my account. There’s sufficient there already.’
The long sword waved at him. ‘Up those stairs, boy. It’s the scaffold for you.’
‘I am no boy. Not now. For God’s sake go. Live and tell those you find that a madman’s mercy urged you run away. Not meet this red–’
More swiftly than he’d expect of a drunken man, Paris flew at him, his aim quick and straight. The point nicked Romeo’s shoulder. Pain, then, and it was welcome, like the blood running in his mouth.
‘Throw down your child’s rapier and submit to me. Then I’ll take you to Escalus and put the noose around your scrawny neck myself.’
Not meet this red rage, Romeo meant to say.
He raised his weapon. Paris lurched at him. They parried. Three times.
The liquor gave the man courage but took away what speed and skill he possessed. A flurry of moves. A feint, a riposte, a remise.
Then with one hard and well-aimed lunge Romeo’s blade found Paris’s breast and entered there, as easily as a sharp butcher’s cleaver slicing meat.
* * *
The count’s shrieks carried through the tracery windows, out into the rainy night. The friars had returned to berate the guards once more, with Balthazar now by their side.
‘You hear those dreadful howls!’ Friar Laurence cried. ‘There’s light in the crypt.’
‘True,’ the big man said. ‘Our master. Like we told you. Bidding a sad farewell to his bride. It’s just him blubbing…’
Balthazar tried to push past. The men held him back.
‘Romeo must have found the count,’ the lad said. ‘When I left he was intent on getting inside. Some way around the back. Juliet was his love.’
The first guard shook his head. ‘No, no, son. You got that all wrong. She was betrothed to our master, Paris.’
Grim-faced, Laurence shook his head. ‘You’re the one who’s mistaken. She was Romeo’s wife. If the two of them should fight over her–’
‘We have our orders…’ the second said feebly.
There was another scream then, a terrible cry of pain and fear.
The first one looked worried. ‘I’m off to fetch Marshal Escalus. It’s his job to deal with felons like that murderous Montague. You’re not getting me in there with that bloody villain.’ He nodded at his mate. ‘You coming.’
‘Dead right I am. Not staying here with these nutters and…’
Laurence was past him, hurtling down the chapel path as fast his legs would take him.
‘Saint Francis be my speed,’ he whispered as he ran. ‘How often tonight do these old feet stumble at fresh graves?’
* * *
Waking once more she heard two voices, one familiar yet angry and full of violence. Then Paris, wheezing, pathetic, frightened. Still she couldn’t move, couldn’t speak.
‘Oh, I am slain!’
Slumped against the wall, the count clutched at his belly, the blade hilt up against his ribs.
‘That you are. I warned–’
‘Be merciful, man. Have them lay me in the tomb with my sweet Juliet.’
Romeo wanted to laugh. ‘If the lady could speak, sir, what do you think she’d say?’
‘She’d wish to be with her groom–’
‘For sure.’
Roughly, with one quick and violent pull, he dragged the rapier out and didn’t look to see what followed with it. Paris bawled in pain and fear, a terrible sound, and then the man was gone.
A short curved dagger with an Arabic ivory hilt gleamed on his bloody waist. This was a night for Queen Mab and the red rage. Not sly and easy poisons. Romeo reached down, took the weapon from the dead count’s belt and felt the sharpness of its edge. There were sounds outside. Men’s voices, yelling. Time was short and for that he was glad.
First, though, he would see her once more.
He fetched the torch from the wall then returned to the slight shape upon the slab. Her face was young and perfect, eyes closed, skin so pale, features fair and tranquil.
There were noises above. Men had entered the chapel. No seconds to waste. He placed the rising point of the dagger beneath his rib cage. The hilt he leant against the stone to give him purchase and take him out of the world in one swift thrust.
He looked down at her, reached out with his spare hand, touched her cheek. ‘I’ll stay with you, my love, and by your side depart this palace of grim death. Let worms be our chambermaids. Here our everlasting rest. One look.’ He leaned over to see her better. ‘One final embrace,’ His fingers ran fondly against her neck. ‘One last…’
The blade went in, cold and relentless. He stumbled against the slab. ‘And final… kiss…’
He tried to reach her. But the light was fading, with it his life.
A drop of blood fell from Romeo’s lips and stained the pale linen loose around her shoulders. Dying, stumbling, his knees began to give.
There were anxious voices in the crypt, a clatter of feet closing on him.
Then, as breath failed him, an ultimate cruel torture.
Fetched up against the stone he looked and wondered: was this real? Or the last act of Queen Mab’s cruel trickery?
As the cold began to creep on him and the light to dim, she seemed to turn her head and open her eyes so slowly, greeting the half-light above her with a shadow of a welcoming smile.
‘Dead Juliet,’ he gasped in the softest of whispers. ‘Dead Romeo greets you. But the hour’s late. And this our race is run…’
* * *
Awake.
Her throat was rough as sand, her eyes bleary, her mind racing.
The friar’s fractured voice came to her, full of shock and agony. ‘Oh, sweet Jesus, what blood stains this sepulchre? Why are these gory swords inside a place of peace?’
One hand she got to the cold stone and gripped it, coughing, trying to focus.
‘Laurence?’ Her voice was a croak, her head full of dreams and strange elusive images. ‘Where’s Romeo? I remember well what we agreed and I am where I should be. This…’
One arm moved. She managed to raise herself on a bare elbow. The shroud they’d put on her was gone. All she wore now was little more than a slip and that half off.
Two figures lay beside the slab, slumped and bloody on the clammy tiles. The brother’s arms swept round her, trying to hide the sight of them. There were more shapes now, pouring into the chamber, groaning, sighing at what they found there.
‘Romeo…’ she whispered, pushing the friar to one side.
Laurence took her cold arm and tried to pull her away. ‘I must get you out of this hellish place. A greater power than ours has entered here and ruined all our intentions.’
She shoved him to one side, rolled her legs off the marble, took a tentative step on the cold tiles. Then stood up, swaying, trying not to fall. ‘God’s too busy for little fools like us. This is our own doing. Where is–?’
The words vanished. She could see him now.
‘Your Romeo’s dead,’ Laurence said. ‘And Paris, too. This is a frightful vision, too grievous for you to see. Come! I’ll take you to a sisterhood of holy nuns. They’ll care for you. The watch will be here soon and who knows what they might think?’
With all the returning strength she possessed, Juliet broke free and fell to the floor, there to kneel beside him, hands running through his matted, swea
ty hair. Romeo had died slumped against a pillar, dagger in his guts, those calm and gentle eyes staring out at nothing, mouth open, dripping blood. She reached for the blade. Laurence was too quick. With a fearful cry he dragged the weapon clean out of Romeo’s flesh and threw it in the corner.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen you reach for a dagger once before. Not again. There’s death enough in this grim place. I’ll not allow more.’
She barely heard. Juliet stayed beside him, unable to take her eyes off this strange, unnatural sight. Just a handful of days had passed since that first night in the garden where she’d snatched the apple off the tree and kissed him, feeding its sweet flesh and juice between his parted lips. Now Romeo was gone and there was nothing in his place except this still, cold corpse. From life to death in such short order.
‘Give me the knife,’ Juliet muttered. ‘Or I swear I’ll find one somewhere…’
‘Come, child…’
His hand grasped her naked shoulder. Still she didn’t move.
On Romeo’s leather jerkin, above the slow-streaming blood, something glittered in the yellow waxy light of their brands. She reached for it and had the thing in her fingers before Laurence or any of the others now milling round could intervene.
A bottle. Black. Bigger than the one she’d stolen into her bedroom a day before. On the side in white paint was a skull, empty eyes staring straight at her.
‘I will have that…’ the friar declared and leapt to seize it.
Too late. She turned from him. The stopper was out, the thick and stinking liquid within rolling down her throat.
‘I die standing,’ Juliet whispered as she got one hand to Laurence’s leg and began to raise herself. ‘I die…’
Whatever lay in Romeo’s vial, it wasn’t the friar’s weak and cunning liquid. This potion had a strong, disgusting taste, of liquorice and metal. Before she was upright an icy venom was racing deep inside, freezing her blood as it ran furious through her veins.
I am me and only me and…
Laurence took hold of her, seized the bottle, stared at it, sniffed the neck, horror in his face.
‘Juliet…’
Her fingers trembled. She raised them, reaching for his cheek. They never found him. Instead came a rising roar, a grating of ancient stone.