The count, playing his part, informed the apothecary that his request for a consultation had been a ruse. “In truth,” he told him, “I would know of the health of the Capulet girl.”
The apothecary at first declined to provide any information, for he was intent on maintaining the illusion of propriety he had so carefully crafted. “It would not be right to speak of such matters, my lord,” he told the count.
Count Paris’s coin-purse became a little easier to bear, but still the apothecary was reluctant to pierce another’s privacy. The coin-purse then strangely disappeared entirely from the count’s possession, and the apothecary found himself moved by such loss to placate my master with tales of positive news from around the city.
“I have heard,” said he, “that the daughter of Lord and Lady Capulet is said to be in excellent health. And still a maiden, though that is neither here nor there and should not be the concern of anyone outside the Capulet household.”
“Indeed,” Count Paris said. “It is my understanding that Lady Juliet’s welfare is the primary role of her nurse. A good woman, she? Trustworthy and vigilant?”
“I believe so, my lord. Unimpeachable. As one would expect.”
“And Lord Capulet himself... Is he well? I ask because upon our last encounter it seemed to me that he was of sallow complexion and had shed a number of pounds.”
The apothecary simply nodded at this, but remained silent, and so the count turned to me. “More wine for my guest. Bring the finest.”
Much as the application of lamp-oil will free a rusted hinge and allow an intruder unhindered passage, a good wine – in sufficient quantities – will enable words to more easily pass through hitherto locked lips. The apothecary stayed long into the night, and he and Count Paris relaxed into the conversation to the point where simile and metaphor were almost entirely set aside in favour of directness.
“Capulet has the plague,” the apothecary said. “There are some who – for reasons known only to God – will suffer the blackness but not dispense it to others, and for that we must thank the Lord, else we would all be stricken. Capulet is shuffling toward the grave as we speak. He is a vile man who deserves no less, but his coin flows like water and so I would not be quick to see his end. I have been administering potions to keep the sickness at bay and sustain his life, but the plague fights like a cornered dog and soon the cost of potions will outstrip Capulet’s wealth.”
“I would have his daughter,” Count Paris said. “But he loves her more than life itself.”
“A beautiful sentiment, my lord. Would that it were so. In truth, I suspect that Capulet would gladly exchange his daughter and his wife for one more year of life.”
“But a businessman such as yourself would prefer coin as payment, not women.”
“That is so, my lord. Coin will fill a purse, where women would empty one.”
And so it was that some days later I accompanied my master to House Capulet.
With the knowledge that Capulet was skirting the edge of poverty, I looked upon his home with different eyes. The servants seemed downcast, the tapestries faded, the food and drink almost vapid. Were it not for his departing hair, sunken eyes and loose, wrinkled jowls, Capulet himself would have seemed a boy wearing his father’s clothes, so thin had he become.
Lady Capulet, as ever, presented herself as though she were wrapped in the finest corsets from ankle to throat. Always a striking woman, though demure and content to observe rather than participate, it seemed to me that she was now stepping out from her husband’s shrinking shadow. She greeted Count Paris in proper terms, with all accordant courtesy and curtsies, but it was plain to those who were aware that her rich perfume was inadequate to mask a certain anxiety for the future: if her husband passed before Juliet were wed, control of the Capulet estate would likely move to her nephew, Tybalt.
Lady Juliet was presented in due course, and my lord Count Paris excelled himself in his restraint as he greeted her. “My lady... A pleasure. As always, you are a balm for the eyes and a tonic for the soul.”
“You are too kind, my lord,” Juliet said, and it seemed to me that she was taken by him. In truth, my master was considered handsome and kind, and his presence brought a certain fluster to many women, young or old, wed or unwed.
With the greetings done, the women were dismissed and Capulet took Paris into the smallest of the reception rooms. Much later, I discovered that this was because the other reception rooms had been stripped of their fittings: for now, Lord Capulet was maintaining his illusion of comfort.
I stood by the door as Capulet’s servant Potpan served bread and wine, then he was dismissed and I was, apparently, forgotten.
“Count Paris, please do me the favour of thanking your uncle for his decision regarding the altercation between my servants and those of House Montague.”
My master seemed bemused at this. “I was of the understanding that the Prince threatened that further occurrences would be met with execution?”
“And so he did, wisely. Fear of death has put an end to their squabbling.” Capulet reached for his cup and sipped at his wine. “It is always a pleasure, Paris, to accommodate you, but I am curious as to the purpose of your welcome but unexpected visit this day.”
“I will have your daughter, on the provision that her maidenhead remains inviolate.”
Such directness sparked the expected feint of indignant surprise from Lord Capulet, but the count immediately dismissed it. “Set your theatrics aside, Capulet. You are dying, scarcely able to pay your apothecary’s bills. The fates conspire that you are damned to lose either your life or your wealth – you may no longer have both. Which is it to be?”
If eyes could spit fire, Count Paris would have roasted. “What truly brings you to my door, Paris? If it is to gloat, then by God’s bread I will see you –”
“There will be an accord between us. I will have Juliet but I seek no dowry – which I know you can ill afford. In fact, I will give you enough coin to pay your debts a score over.”
Capulet’s bluster was washed away, replaced by a trembling gratitude, but he said, “Count Paris, Juliet is but thirteen. While I appreciate your offer, I must insist that you wait for her hand. Two years, at least.”
Paris considered that, and countered with, “Two years at most.”
“Is that so long to wait?”
“It is more time than you have at your disposal, Lord Capulet.” Paris looked around the small room. “I should commit the paintings and ornaments to memory, for I am sure they will be gone long before I set foot in this house anon.”
“Two years, Paris,” Lord Capulet said, his resolve briefly turning to steel. “Anything less would not be proper. And, yes, by that time I will likely have departed this mortal coil. Unless...”
“Unless I help you to settle your debts in the meanwhile.”
Capulet nodded at that, and, after a moment’s silence, the two men shook hands and struck a monstrous deal that sealed both their fates.
In celebration of his new wealth – and to assuage any suspicions among his peers regarding his finances – Capulet decided that a ball should be held, and everyone of import would be invited. The sole notable exception was the Montagues, for their rivalry with House Capulet had deep and strong roots that would not easily be snapped.
As a page to such an important man as Count Paris, I was known to the servants of all the great Houses and as such well-placed to learn from Potpan and Gregory that when Lord Capulet told his wife of Paris’s intent to take Juliet as his bride, Lady Capulet had been almost overwhelmed with joy and relief, and she’d set about the planning of the ball with great enthusiasm.
At the ball, my master again encountered Lady Juliet. He took her aside, and told her, “You will be mine. It has been agreed.”
“I have not agreed, Count Paris!” she spat back at him. “You will not have me, not while I have breath left in my body!”
This vexed him considerably, for on their last meeting
the young lady had seemed enamoured of him. Every woman is in possession of her own mind – and its accompanying thoughts and emotions – but Count Paris had never known any woman to so clearly reject him.
I have come to suspect, in the years hence, that Lady Juliet must have been eavesdropping on my master’s conversation with her father.
They parted on poor terms, both returning to the ball where they masked their feelings and made play that all was well.
It was that same ball that young Romeo attended in the hope of meeting his beloved Rosaline. Being of House Montague and thus an enemy of the Capulets, Romeo had not received an invitation to the ball, but a young man of considerable cunning and burning loins will always find a path to the object of his desire.
All thoughts of Rosaline vanished forever when Romeo chanced upon Juliet. That meeting was the pebble that triggered the avalanche, for Juliet’s cousin Tybalt discovered the interloping Romeo, and set about him with a fury.
It was Lord Capulet himself who stopped Tybalt from killing Romeo, for it is considered an omen of great ill-fortune for a guest – invited or otherwise – to be killed at a celebration, and Capulet was already embroiled in his own battle with the fates.
But the spark between Juliet and Romeo had ignited a flame that could not be extinguished, not by any number of years of animosity between their families. They met in secret, and their love blossomed instantly and ferociously.
With the aid of Juliet’s nurse they approached Friar Laurence – a man who had long bemoaned the Montague and Capulet rivalry and wished for it to be over – and begged for him to wed them. The deluded Friar agreed. Had he not, had he dismissed them as mere infatuated children and sent them on their way, perhaps all would have been different.
My lord Paris knew none of this. Nor did I, at the time. The count was slowly but steadily parting with portions of his land, and other possessions, in order to raise enough coin to honour his deal with Lord Capulet.
His obsession with Juliet grew, as did his fears that her blood might be tainted before she could be his.
I took this to mean that she must remain intact and that Paris wished to be the first to breach her womanly defences, but later I learned that I was mistaken. An understandable error, I think, for I did not then know the extent of my master’s plan.
I did, however, know that certain of Count Paris’s skills lay beyond those of mortal training. It was said that he could charm the stars from the sky, the fish from the sea, and persuade any man to do his bidding, but those who said such things did so in jest, in casual banter that only served to highlight their admiration for him.
They did not comprehend what he could truly do. On an excursion to Castagnaro I witnessed my master persuade a young peasant boy to cut off his own thumb, all because that boy had not bowed as we passed.
I once saw him whisper to two comely young mothers, who then abandoned their infants and followed the count into the woods. He emerged hours later, unkempt and eager to move on. I have learned that the women were never seen again.
The truly strong of will can resist his urges – as he experienced with Juliet – but if a man has the slightest leaning in a particular direction, Count Paris is a master of the words that will encourage him to take that path.
It was this skill that my master employed when he encountered Tybalt of House Capulet shortly after that fateful ball. The count had already learned of Juliet’s liaisons with Romeo, though he did not yet know they had been secretly wed. Rather, my master feared that their passion was such that Juliet might soon surrender her maidenhead to the Montague boy.
He spoke to Tybalt, and did so with that calm, measured tone that I knew to mean he was employing his skills. “Romeo has insulted House Capulet. Your house, Tybalt. He has captured Juliet’s eye, and, more, her heart... But Juliet is promised to me, and when we wed, I shall ensure your rightful place in the family. Can the same be said of Romeo, your enemy, should he be the one to take Juliet as his bride? I think not. He has stolen your beloved cousin and with her your future. What is to become of you now?”
Tybalt said, “You jest, Count Paris. I know Juliet’s mind – she would not be swayed by a Montague.”
“If your certainty on that matter is as a rock against the tide, then I shall say no more and bid you farewell, Lord Tybalt. But... if there is doubt? That Juliet is possessed of a strong will is without dispute, but she is young, and the young are fickle with their affections.”
Tybalt began to respond, but my master was not yet done.
“Juliet has been wronged, Tybalt. You know this to be true. Montague has bedazzled her with his youth and charm, and in so doing he has destroyed House Capulet, forever.” My master rested one hand on Tybalt’s shoulder. “You will soon be cast out, and that saddens me. Stripped of your social standing, you will be forced to leave Verona, for who would take in a stray from a dishonoured family? This is likely the last time we will speak as equals, friend Tybalt. Once Romeo is accepted into your family, the gap between us will be insurmountable.”
“I understand, Count Paris,” Tybalt said, “and by all accounts my uncle should have let me end Romeo at the ball. But it was not to be.”
My master handed Tybalt his sword, a jewel-handled blade of exquisite workmanship. “A parting gift, then. Perhaps you will wish to sell it, or exchange it for food and lodgings. Or put it to its intended use.” He leaned closer to Tybalt, fixed his gaze on the young man’s eyes. “Romeo is but a boy. A boy who has wronged you greatly. And you have unfinished business with him. A man who does not defend his honour and title against a sworn enemy is hardly a man at all.”
Tybalt began to swing the blade, slashing at the grasses at their feet. “I am a man.”
“It is not I that you need to persuade,” Count Paris said. “Go now. Do what you will. Honour your family, and cast aside any fear of consequence. Lord and Lady Capulet do not wish for their daughter to be wed to a Montague. And...” here, the count’s voice dropped to a whisper, “should there be witnesses, you must remember that my uncle is the prince, and I have his ear.”
It was – like so many of my master’s plans – almost without the possibility of failure, regardless of the outcome.
Tybalt confronted Romeo, and challenged him. But Romeo – beset with honour and likely with unfounded hope for the future of their Houses – refused to duel.
I am told that Tybalt, his ire fuelled by Count Paris’s words, would not relent and he assaulted Romeo and House Montague with a barrage of insults. Still, Romeo refused to fight, but his friend Mercutio could take no more of Tybalt’s discourtesy, and rushed to action.
It was a duel that ended badly, but then so few end well. Mercutio died, and – enraged beyond all measure of control – Romeo struck out at Tybalt, killing him.
I was with Count Paris and Prince Escalus when Montague came to plead for mercy on his son’s behalf. “Tybalt was slain, but not murdered, by Romeo, your highness,” Montague said. “It was not his choice to fight, and he had seen his closest friend struck down by Lord Tybalt. He reacted as would any honourable man.”
My master leaned close to Prince Escalus, and whispered, “Uncle... You have already decreed that fighting between Capulets and Montagues would be punishable by death. I do not wish for that, but a leader must be seen to be consistent. Would that it were otherwise, but it seems you have no choice but to put the boy to the sword.”
The Prince turned to him, “Mercutio was my cousin. My blood.”
“As he was mine, your highness. Were it my hands scribing the laws, I would pardon Romeo without hesitation. But the burden of law rests on shoulders greater than mine, and its roots are stronger than blood.”
Count Paris stepped back, and allowed his words to echo through his uncle’s mind.
The others spoke. Romeo’s cousin Benvolio related the encounter in considerable detail and without, it seemed to me, any true bias. Lady Capulet spoke for her beloved nephew, and pleaded for the prince to
take the sword to Romeo.
But my master’s skills of persuasion were not quite strong enough to influence Prince Escalus to adhere to his earlier proclamation. Romeo would be spared... but exiled.
It was a small victory, but enough. With Tybalt dead and Romeo banished, Juliet’s blood would more likely remain pure long enough for Capulet’s two-year condition to pass... If her blood was not already tainted.
Later, my master again called for the apothecary. This time, there was little need for lubricating wine to ensure the steady flow of conversation.
My master said, “It is likely that Montague and Juliet lay as husband and wife.”
“Very likely, yes,” the apothecary agreed, “it was such base urges that first drew them together. Does this cause upset to your plans?”
“Only if she is already with child.”
The apothecary pursed his lips. “Hmm... Such a situation, if it is so, cannot be determined at this early stage. It will be months before her belly begins to swell.”
“Is there no other method available to you? Be mindful that cost is not to be considered.”
“Cost is irrelevant, your lordship. There is nothing that can detect the presence of new life so early... but there are methods that will end a new life should it already be flourishing.”
“That is of no use to me, apothecary. If life is there, my plans are for naught. It seems my only path is to allow time – and, with it, girth – to be the messenger.”
“Perhaps if I knew what your plans were, my lord, I would be able to help?”
That was not the right thing to say: my master could countenance such impudence up to a point, and the apothecary had now clearly taken a step beyond that point. By asking to become more involved, he had inspired the count to reconsider their already clandestine relationship.
Count Paris leaned closer to the apothecary, and said, “You and I are not friends. We have a business arrangement, that is all. You will supply me with what I need, as you would with any other customer, but our relationship goes no further.”
Shakespeare Vs Cthulhu Page 5