Still Star-Crossed (15 page)

A flash of green below him on the street was all he saw before something flew through the air and struck Orlino hard on the side of the head. Benvolio did not stop to wonder what it was. In the moment that it distracted his cousin, he managed to hook a foot in the eaves and hoist himself back
onto the roof. Orlino tried to dance back out of his reach, but he’d forgotten how close the edge was. For a moment he seemed to hang suspended, eyes wide and locked with Benvolio’s. Then he plunged out of sight and Benvolio shuddered as he heard him hit the ground in the alley below.

“B-Benvolio?”

Benvolio crawled toward the front of the roof. Below him on the street, white-faced, wide-eyed, and dirt-streaked, stood Rosaline. She wore only one shoe. That explained what had hit Orlino.

When she saw him, she waved, then disappeared from sight. Half a minute later, she reappeared when she opened the shutters to an upstairs window.

“Benvolio, come to me. Canst thou climb safely in here?”

“Aye, I thank thee, lady.”

He made his way over to the window, crawling in to find himself in a small attic chamber hung with dried herbs. Rosaline gave a shaky sigh when his feet landed solidly on the floor. “Thou art well,” she breathed. “Oh God, sir, I thought—”

He shook his head. “I am unhurt, thanks to thee.”

She leaned out, trying to crane her neck to see where Orlino had fallen. “Is he—”

“Look not.” Benvolio reached out a hand to cup her brown curls, turning her face away from the unmoving body below.

“Heaven help us,” Rosaline whispered. “It begins again.”

Benvolio nodded. “Like before.” Death, treachery, endless hate. It was hard to breathe at the thought.

Rosaline turned wide eyes to meet his. “No,” she said. “Not like before. Didst thou not note how Orlino decried us
both without naming himself a Montague, so both families would believe they were under attack from the other? Someone did this on purpose. Perhaps the same soul who defiled Juliet’s grave.”

“Orlino—”

“Not Orlino. He is a hothead, nothing more. Someone else is rekindling our family’s war.”

She was right. Orlino was not clever enough to plan something like this. Benvolio stood beside her at the window as she stared out over the city spread beneath them. A cool breeze ruffled his hair. Somewhere below was someone who planned to destroy them—no, someone who had already begun.

“I’ll not allow it,” Rosaline said.

“What?”

Rosaline turned to him, her chin raised. “Our families have sworn peace. Whether these vicious mischief-makers be within our ranks or yours, they speak not for us. Only if we can reveal their treachery may this war truly end.”

Benvolio shook his head. “And how are we to find them, pray? And if we do, why should they heed the protestations of a callow youth and a shrewish virgin? ’Tis folly, lady.”

“Marry, is it? I shall make no protestations, I, but throw them to the prince’s justice, whosoe’er they may be.”

He barked a laugh at that. “Of course you will, sweet, gentle Rosaline. But pray do not assume that your frigid disdain for your kin is how I feel toward the Montagues. I’ve no interest in sending my blood to the prince’s jail like common criminals.”

“Your devotion to House Montague is nothing if you willfully harbor poison within its walls. Or are you too much a coward to cast it out, Montague?”

Dear lord, the woman could talk a man into believing day was night. He turned away from her, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “No coward I, and were you a man I’d cross swords with you for saying so.”

She waved this off. “If your duty to your much-loved Montagues is not enough to move you, consider this,” she continued. “If we can bring a natural peace betwixt our two houses, what need will there be to force an unnatural one?”

He turned to her, puzzled. An unnatural peace? What did she— Ah. “We’d not have to marry.”

Rosaline’s arms were crossed, one delicate eyebrow raised. “For that boon, I think,” she said drily, “you’d send a dozen Montagues to the gallows.”

“I had rather ’twere Capulets.” He grinned. This plan had suddenly grown more attractive. “Very well, sweet unloved bride, what are we to do?”

“Well, detested husband,” she said. “Firstly, we are to get out of this attic.”

He nodded and made for the door. But Rosaline cried out before going three steps, crumpling to the ground. He darted back to her side. “My lady?”

She shook her head, trying to straighten up. “I twisted my ankle in my flight. ’Tis nothing.” But when she tried to put weight on her bare foot she hissed in pain.

Benvolio slid an arm about her waist. “Lean on me.”

Their trip down the stairs became a slow progression as
Benvolio half pulled and half carried her down. He could feel her quick breaths jerking unevenly against his hand whenever her left foot touched down, but she uttered not a sound of complaint.

He felt a twinge of shame at what the feud had made of him. Who was he to spurn someone like her? His family’s hate was jealous. It demanded as much devotion as a lover. Benvolio was not blind; he knew it was no common armful of beauty pressed against his side. Truly, most young men of Verona would envy him his luck.

But most young men’s dearest friends were not slain by the Capulet she-wolf’s pride
, his mind whispered in Mercutio’s voice.
Thou art no unskillful lover of women, Benvolio. Go and find thee out one that never killed your cousin. Better yet, find a dozen
.

And there it was, he thought, trying to ignore the feel of her body against his as he slid her to the ground. Clever she might be, and beautiful—but were it not for her, Romeo would live still. He would ally himself with her for the moment only to ensure that they could soon dissolve their betrothal and part ways for good.

As they made their way down the stairs, he thought he heard Romeo’s laugh.

Rosaline seized the first opportunity to shed his arms. As soon as they reached the bottom of the stair, she pushed him aside and started forward on her own—whereupon her ankle gave out immediately. Benvolio sighed and tucked her under his arm once more.

They had just passed the chapel doorway when a voice within cried out, “Halt, scoundrels!”

Turning, they found a monk in a brown cassock hurrying toward them. His normally gentle face was set in a scowl. “What mischief have you and your kin been at this time, Benvolio?” He glanced at Rosaline. “And what poor maid is now entangled in it?”

Benvolio gave a tight smile to his old schoolmaster. “Lady Rosaline,” Benvolio said, “may I present Friar Laurence?”

Rosaline narrowed her eyes, but swept him a curtsy as best she could. “Good morrow, Father, I have heard tell of you.”

“And I of you, my daughter.”

Benvolio could see at a glance that each of them knew the other’s role in the summer’s violence. Friar Laurence had taught all the Montague boys, and had been a special confidant of Romeo’s. It was he who had secretly married Romeo and Juliet—and, Benvolio suspected, he who had listened to Romeo’s earlier moonings over Rosaline, probably more patiently than Benvolio had. “Father,” he said, “we mean no mischief. ’Twas my kinsman Orlino who caused this morning’s strife in the square, but he, poor wretch, will trouble the world no more.”

“Will he not?” The friar glared. “Was’t not he, then, knocked me from my feet not five minutes since?”

Benvolio froze. “Orlino lives?”

“Aye, though he did run from this place as if all the hounds of hell pursued him.”

He must have been just stunned, then, when he fell from the roof. Benvolio didn’t know whether to be glad or not that his villainous kinsman’s life had not been cut short. “I promise you, Father, his discourtesy will be added to the lengthy ledger of his crimes when I catch him.” He tried to stride forward, but he’d forgotten Rosaline’s injury. She could not match his pace and stumbled, clutching his doublet as she hissed in a pained breath.

“Your pardon, lady,” he said as he righted her.

Friar Laurence hurried over, pulling Rosaline from him. “Come inside. You had better tell me all.”

The throbbing in her ankle soon died down.

By the time they had told the friar what they knew of Orlino’s treachery, the cool poultice he had applied to Rosaline’s foot had sapped the pain. She wished the nurse would take some lessons from him.

“And so the poisonous flower of your families’ hate buds once more,” Friar Laurence said quietly as he bent over her, gentle hands wrapping a bandage around her foot. “ ’Tis no surprise, when it has always had such diligent gardeners.” One of his brothers had retrieved Rosaline’s shoe from the roof, and now he slipped it back on her foot.

Benvolio had not ceased pacing since they had arrived in the friar’s cell. “Is she sound, Father? If so, prithee see her home so that I may be off. With every moment, Orlino puts more distance between himself and justice.”

The friar shook his head. “I cannot, my son. Thou must needs see thy betrothed home thyself.” At the sounds of disgust from both Benvolio and Rosaline at the word
betrothed
, he laughed. “Such a pair you are,” he said. “ ’Twas but weeks ago, in the heat of July, that just such a young Montague and Capulet stood before me, mad to be married. And now August wanes and Providence has sent another pair, just as mad not to.”

“Aye,” Benvolio said, helping Rosaline once more to her feet. “We’re as different from Juliet and Romeo as night from day. For one thing, I’ve heard Juliet had a civil tongue in her head.”

Rosaline tossed her head. “ ’Tis true, I’ve none of my cousin’s fatal weakness for Montagues, and thank God for that.”

“Nor for any other man. For what man of Verona could warm thee so well as thy darling pride does?”

“None, for men of Verona have far more skill at leaving ladies cold in their graves.” She looked at the friar, who was giving them a rather cryptic smile. “What?”

“As different as night from night,” he murmured.

Benvolio frowned. “What mean’st thou, Father?”

He shook his head. “Nothing. I am sorry, young Benvolio, but I must go. In two days’ time shall I depart Verona.” He stood, wiping the medicine from his hands with a cloth. “The prince has made it clear that, for my part in this summer’s sad events, I am no longer welcome here, so I shall join my brothers some leagues off at a monastery in the countryside.”

“Thou, Father?” Benvolio said. “Of all of us, thou art the least to blame.”

Father Laurence gave him a weak smile and squeezed his shoulder. “Thanks, my son.” He sighed. “But the prince blames me far less than I blame myself. ’Twas mine own pride that led me to believe I could end the feud simply by marrying Romeo to Juliet. Their youth, which sped them to such a rash and hasty union, ought to have been tempered by my wisdom; instead, I spurred them on. Exile is the least that I deserve.”

“If you deserve exile, so do we all,” Benvolio said.

But Friar Laurence merely shook his head. He led them to the doorway of the church, grasping each by the shoulder. “God be with you,” he said. “If, whether by marriage or some other design that you pursue, you can heal this breach within your families, the shades of Montagues, Capulets, and Mercutio will thank you.”

“Paris too,” pointed out Rosaline.

The hand on her shoulder stiffened. “Aye,” the friar said after a moment. “Paris too. Fare you well now, and take heed of what passed today—one who could set your effigies aflame is not likely to hesitate to cause you real injury. You know not where the adder hides her sting.”

Benvolio and Rosaline made their way out into the street, turning up the hill toward her home. Benvolio looked back over Rosaline’s head to where the friar stood in the doorway, watching them. There was something strange about his old teacher’s manner. Probably it was just the grief that afflicted them all—but it occurred to Benvolio to wonder if the friar was hiding something.

Deep in Verona’s night, Orlino laughed.

Verona was still in chaos after the day’s events. The prince’s guards had calmed the worst of the unrest, but it was a momentary respite. Throughout in the city, hands rested on swords, and
Montague
and
Capulet
were on everyone’s lips. It was only a matter of time before the two families threw off this womanish peace forced on them by the prince and went to war. Then he and his brethren could crush the treacherous Capulets once and for all.