O, Juliet

by Robin Maxwell

  “You have a sour look about you, signor,” I said very quietly, so no one else could hear. “I hope you are not ill.”

  He fumed, refusing to answer, so I shrugged my shoulders and welcomed Romeo back to his chair.

  Another round of wine was drunk as we nibbled at cheese and olives.

  “Well,” Papa said after a time, “it pains me to say so, but we must start back to town sooner than later.”

  There were cries of objection all around.

  “Next time, the Monticecco will come to the Capelletti’s house,” Mama announced, and everyone loudly chimed their approval.

  Slowly and reluctantly we began to gather our things. Jacopo had said his good-byes with the barest acceptable show of politeness, and stomped away toward the pasture. But as the two families walked slowly toward our carriage, upon which the three olive saplings had been tied, a figure came raging out of the dark at us.

  “My horse has thrown a shoe,” Jacopo huffed.

  “Oh my dear,” Mama said, sincerely concerned.

  “Our stable hands are gone on the Sabbath,” Roberto said. “I’m afraid I’m not adept at shoeing.”

  “I am,” Marco offered. “It won’t take long.”

  As he and Jacopo headed for the stable, our fathers fell into conversation and our mothers hurried into the villa, happy for the respite and a few more moments of each other’s company.

  Romeo grasped my hand and walked me quickly into the shadows at the side of the house.

  “Was that your doing?” I whispered in the dark.“The thrown shoe?”

  “His horse complied nicely,” he said.

  “And Marco?”

  “Our new friend . . .”

  Abruptly Romeo turned and pulled me to him.

  I gasped, but my arms flew around him. Then his mouth was on mine, his lips and tongue still sweet with wine and warm, gentle but probing. I do not know how I knew to kiss, but my natural hunger drove me till I was lost, drowning. I felt a hand on the smooth skin of my breast. I took that hand and pushed it deep within my bodice, crying out when his fingers found the nipple. His other hand covered my mouth. I bit his palm hard and with a cry of delight he buried his face in my neck, covering it with kisses. Pressed tight as we were, I felt his urgent hardness and ground my hips to his. Now a hand on the flesh of my thigh.

  “No!” I whispered.

  “No?” he whispered back.

  “Yes,” I sighed, and his throaty laugh mingled with mine as his fingers found my sweetest spot, now wet and soft and yielding.

  Voices and footsteps! Jacopo’s. Marco’s. They were leading a horse.

  We pulled apart, aggrieved at our separation. I pushed down my skirt. Romeo surveyed the moonlit yard beyond the shadows.

  “Are you composed?” he asked breathlessly.

  “Hardly,” I said.

  “And I am hard.”

  I laughed. “What a pair.”

  “We must make haste or they will suspect. Come, straighten yourself. Out into the moonlight walking side by side. Talking loudly. Arguing.”

  We did as he said, stepping away from the shadow of the house.

  “But that is not his meaning,” I said with feigned impatience. “When he says, ‘Truly, she grieves so that whoever were to see her would die of pity,’ he does not speak of Beatrice. It is the other gracious lady of whom he writes.”

  We had come into the sight of our parents, Marco, and Jacopo, who now stood at the carriage.

  Romeo smiled broadly at my father. “Your daughter’s scholarship exceeds mine, signor,” he said with mock disdain.

  Papa smiled indulgently.

  “Too much education ruins a woman,” Jacopo insisted, altogether serious, causing everyone to stare at him.

  Mama looked alarmed, then said in a kindly voice to Jacopo, “Ruined? Not your Juliet.”

  This seemed to calm him, that I was still his in my mother’s eyes.

  “Of course not,” he assured her.

  Jacopo took up my hand and kissed it. I was forced to smile despite my loathing. He took to his horse and sat waiting for our departure, already impatient.

  I was last into the carriage, Romeo helping me in. My private scent, I thought, is on the hand that steadies me now.

  “Good night, Romeo,” I said, hoping he heard my love in those simple words.

  The passion of his gaze told me he did.

  But I was not the only one who had observed that gaze.

  Jacopo was staring at us with a look I can describe only as wonder, as though he had grasped an impossibility—that the daughter of a silk merchant and a young man of no standing whatsoever in Florentine society might defy all convention, ignore his pronouncements and vile threats, and dare to love each other.

  This made him, I thought with a shudder, a very dangerous man.

  Chapter Thirteen

  If ound myself after that extraordinary Sunday in a state of Limbo, a strange purgatory of obsession and desire for Romeo that churned my senses and left me weak, and of loathing for Jacopo that, strangely, made me strong. But that which gnawed at me most relentlessly was the question I had asked Romeo. The one he had never answered.

  Would it satisfy you to merely become my courtly lover?

  For all the fine words and passionate intimacies we had shared, I realized with alarm, we had never once spoken of marriage. When Jacopo threatened him with death or castration if he laid more than a chaste lover’s hand on me, or a head gently on my knee, Romeo had remained silent. I had wished at the time for him to lash out at the insulting supposition that he and I would be content with that common arrangement. So many of the great ladies of Florence boasted courtly lovers, young men, unashamed of the passion they bore for their beloved—the unattainable personification of womanhood—who publicly and sometimes mawkishly proclaimed that love with verse and song under their ladies’ loggias.

  Would Romeo be thus content? Why had he never answered my question?

  Of course I had provided my own explanations for this compulsive worrying. I believed with all my heart that Romeo loved me, desired me, but that he had thought it unwise to reveal our plans to Jacopo, better to allow him to think our intentions were in no way serious. Romeo’s answer to my question had been interrupted by Marco climbing down from the olive tree. And of course Romeo would never had striven so passionately to make peace between our families had he not been intent on marrying me himself.

  But truly these arguments did little to satisfy me. I realized that my dream of a marriage for love with Romeo had, to this moment, been nothing but an assumption on my part, and never his promise. His sincere adoration of me could be preserved intact with me as Jacopo Strozzi’s wife, and Romeo as my courtly lover. And the truth was that Romeo had desired peace between the Capelletti and Monticecco before he and I had met.

  These unsettling ruminations were made infinitely more unbearable by a long silence between us. For three weeks as summer bled into fall, he had made no attempt to see me, either publicly or in the privacy of my garden balcony. Neither did letters arrive with assurances that he was, even now, carving the path to our future.

  And for the first time ever, I found myself at a loss for words. The inked quill in my hand was stilled, stymied by the chaos of my thoughts, paralyzed by this crisis of confidence in my lover.

  Mama had asked me please to stop at the factory on the way to confession with Lucrezia and the other girls of my brigata, and bring a stew to Papa. I agreed, calling for the litter a bit earlier than planned. I had always enjoyed spending time with my father at the silk works.The men were friendly as I nosed around the weaving and dyeing rooms, and Papa delighted in showing me the newest pieces and letting me choose my favorites to take home for my gowns.

  But this day I was in a foul mood, having lain awake half the night, my worries like gnomes crouched around my bed whispering their bedevilments till I thought I would scream.

  I went to kiss Mama good-bye, but she was distracted b
y the problems of the kitchen maid, Viola, just that morning found to be pregnant. My mother handed me the covered iron pot wrapped in a small rug, cautioning me not to burn myself, as though I were a six-year-old, then turned back to the weeping girl, who was terrified at the prospect of losing her place in our household. I knew Mama had too soft a heart for that, though she would surely make the girl suffer some agonies of worry—as the price of her profligacy.

  The first nip of autumn chafed my cheeks as I climbed into the litter, glad I had the pot upon which to warm my hands.

  At the factory I alighted and the bearer handed me the pot in the rug, now barely warm, but smelling richly of beef and rosemary and beans. Below the old sign proclaiming CAPELLETTI SILKS I saw a trio of Maestro Donatello’s artisans sketching out a new one that would surely include Jacopo Strozzi’s name.

  The arched stone doorway, grand enough for a palace, belied the rough industry of weaving and dyeing behind it. The cavern of a room into which I stepped deafened with its clacking looms and toothed warping machines manned by hard-backed weavers, who all stopped to nod at me and smile. The reek of woad and saffron and weld wafted in from the dyeing chambers beyond, where every man—clean as his person might be—wore a pair of dark-stained hands at the ends of his wrists. In cubicles were throwers, twisters, and winders of the silkworms’ thread. Here were clean hands and delicate fingers at work. And out of my sight completely was the warehouse that stored the bulk of Papa’s goods.

  I headed with his midday meal through my favorite room of all. It was quiet and unmanned, and bolts of finished silks stood upright like soldiers in strict array by color, pattern, and weave. Vermilion, indigo, yellow, green. Figured silks, repeating patterns of rondelles, birds, and trees. Floral designs of pomegranates and artichokes, rich brocades, and velvets with silver-gilt welts.

  And on the table upon which the fabric would be spread for viewing lay a pair of scissors nearly two feet long, from tip to handles. I had always, as a little girl, found the shears fascinating. They were far too heavy for me to hold, and I loved to watch my father wield them with easy grace. But now I just wished to be done with my errand and be off to the meeting with my friends, the only true comfort of my life.

  Papa’s office was ahead, its door open. There were voices. Two of them. I heard my name spoken aloud. I stopped where I was, then moved with stealth to one side of the door. I listened . . . eavesdropping again.

  “She is eighteen, Capello, more than ripe for marriage.” Jacopo Strozzi spoke these words. “Do you deny it?”

  “I will not deny it,” my father said, but his voice was strained.

  “Then let us make this betrothal. The sooner, the better.”

  “You try me, Jacopo.” I heard the soreness in Papa’s tone. “We are beset with serious problems in the dyeing chambers, and all you can think of is the marriage bed.”

  “I have told you why suddenly our vats produce nothing but dull browns and moldy greens. You refuse to believe me.”

  “I do refuse to believe it is sabotage. Roberto Monticecco would never dare to take such actions now.”

  “Now?” Jacopo said. I could just imagine the sneer on his lips. “Now that you are ‘friends’? Do you really believe a man with so deep-seated a grudge has forgiven you the ruination and death of a sister and a nephew?”

  My father’s silence worried me. Argue with him, Papa, I silently cried. Tell him the breaking of bread and the sharing of wine and good cheer between our families were sincere. Tell him!

  “What if I were to bring you proof?” Jacopo said.

  “If you have proof, why have you not brought it forward before?”

  “I did not wish to stir the pot. Capello, our partnership papers are not yet signed. . . .” A whine came into Jacopo’s voice. “Everything is so fragile. I worry, I worry. . . .”

  “No, no. No need to worry. We are strong together. My silk. Your wool. No one will sell more fine cloth than Capelletti and Strozzi.”

  I heard the sound of a hand clapping a back.

  “And our families shall be joined as well,” Papa added. “Sooner than later.”

  “Ah, my friend!” Jacopo exclaimed.

  No, not your friend, I silently cried, and not my husband!

  I knelt and set the pot on the floor outside the door, turned on my heels, and fled through the silk room, into the racket of clacking looms, and out the arched door.

  “Take me home,” I said to the footman.

  I fumed inside the litter amid the cushions, the pace of the bearers suddenly slow and aggravating. My temper flared and I pounded on the floor. “Hurry!” I called. “I am ill!”

  I was ill. Sick at the thought that Papa would give his blessing to this despicable creature—one who so maligned Romeo’s innocent family. One who would happily marry me, imprison me in his wretched mother’s house, take mistresses himself, and permit me an impotent courtly lover. Damn Jacopo Strozzi! Damn him to the Eighth Circle of Hell, where, with all other “fraudulent counselors,” he would be clothed in flames that charred his flesh.

  Damn him!

  Chapter Fourteen

  Romeo Love,

  Something must be done, and done quickly. Jacopo Strozzi presses Papa for my hand, and our betrothal may be soon announced.You and I have never spoken aloud of such things, so I must trust my heart in this matter. Pretend I know yours. Risk humiliation. But your actions to this date have given me reason to believe you feel as I do. With my soul laid bare I await your response.

  Juliet

  I folded and sealed the letter with red wax and went slowly down the stairs, wishing to avoid my mother, who sat close by the window embroidering. Brightly lit as it was, she still squinted at the tiny stitches with her weak eyes. I was so stealthy she never looked up from her sewing.

  Then I hurried out the courtyard door. Across the small central garden was the kitchen, where Cook—fat and rosy-cheeked and armed with a mallet—was pounding a fillet of beef as though to kill and not soften it. So intent was she, she never looked up. But the one I sought was near the alley door, kneeling with her back to me, scrubbing a kettle.

  I went and knelt down beside Viola. She was sixteen and pretty with pale yellow hair and delicate features, now red and swollen from crying. My mother treated her miserably for a servant who was not a slave. Many wealthy Florentines employed them—dark-skinned blackamoors and pale-skinned Circassians from the Russian steppes. Viola was simply a poor Tuscan girl. I found her to be full of common sense and sweetness. And I always believed her features were fine enough that had she been clothed in silks and brocades, her hair prettily dressed, she could easily have passed for a gentlewoman.

  “Lady Juliet,” she said, and stood.

  “Can we speak privately?” I whispered.

  She faced me fully with a questioning look.

  “Come outside.” I slipped out the door. In a moment she followed. Together we stood in the alley, where several chickens and a pig grazed on the offal that rotted in piles where it had been thrown.

  “So you are still in my family’s employ?” I asked.

  She blinked back the tears and nodded.

  “Is my mother very angry?”

  “I thought she would have my head on a platter, like John the Baptist’s.”

  “Perhaps I can smooth the way for you. Speak to Mama of Christ’s forgiveness in such matters.”

  “You would do that for me?”

  I searched her blue eyes, then smiled. “Who is the father?” Her face lit with the suddenness of the sun emerging from behind a black storm cloud. “It is Massimo. The butcher’s son.”

  “The one who delivers our meat?”

  She nodded, smiling fully.

  “So you are not unhappy at your predicament?”

  “I was fearful of losing my position here, as I give my mother money for our family. And Massimo and I are yet too poor to marry. But how can I be sad when this boy . . .” She stopped, unsure if it was wise to continue.<
br />
  “When this boy . . .” I urged her to go on.

  “When he loves me, and I him. I will have his baby. What a blessing from God that is!”

  “It is a blessing,Viola. As is your love.”

  She looked at me strangely, as though surprised that such words would be uttered by someone like myself. I came closer and leaned in to her ear.

  “I wish such a love for myself.”

  Viola drew back, happily shocked. “Lady Juliet!”

  “I urgently need to send a letter to a certain gentleman.”

  “Not Signor Strozzi?”

  “Not Signor Strozzi.” I smiled conspiratorially. “Could Massimo be convinced, for a price, to deliver the letter with all secrecy to a villa across the river?”

  “I think he could.”

  “Oh, Viola, you are a good friend.” I pulled the letter from my skirt pocket and slipped it into her hand. “No one must know. No one but you and Massimo. Can you promise that?”

  “I promise.”

  Now I slipped a small pouch with some coins into her other hand. “Perhaps this will pay for a wedding.”

  Viola was beaming now.

  “But secret,” I said.

  “On the life of our child.”

  I smiled. There could be no more faithful an oath than that.

  Massimo proved a swift messenger and Romeo, I was much relieved to know, an eager respondent, for the following morning I was awakened at dawn by loud sounds in the walled garden. I threw on my robe and quietly opened the door to the balcony, there to find my love, in only shirt and breeches, had cleared a patch of thick undergrowth, digging in the earth. The three olive trees his family had given mine stood in a row nearby.