Still Star-Crossed (16 page)

Orlino could not go home, for he was sure that his cousin was waiting for him. Benvolio, who soiled the very name of Montague. Orlino would enjoy striking him down just as much as he would the Capulets.

So he continued to wander the streets, keeping to the shadows. Unmasked, he was merely one more black-clad noble. Verona’s citizens took no notice of him except to give him a wide berth.

As the clock chimed midnight, the streets at last were empty. Orlino thought about contacting his benefactress—surely she could shelter him in her home, wherever that might be. But no, she’d said not to contact her this night. And Orlino’s blood was still too hot for sleep, anyway.

He wondered once again who she might be. Some great and noble lady, of that there was no doubt. They’d met but once, and he’d not seen her face.
Come to Friar Laurence’s
closet when he is at Mass
, her note had said, slipped under his door by unseen hands. He’d arrived to find her already in the confessional, in the priest’s seat, so that he could not see her face.

“I am one who knows well how right the Montague cause is,”
she’d said.
“And how much you are an honorable young soul, Orlino. I believe we can help one another.”

“Orlino.”

Orlino started, his hand flying to his sword. His wanderings had led him back to the cemetery where he’d first encountered the Capulet wench Rosaline. Peering into the darkness where the torches barely reached, he saw another black-clad figure, masked as he had been.

“Who goes there?” Orlino called. “Are you one of her—”

“Draw your sword.”

“What?”

The slither of steel, and then a glint in the darkness. “Draw your sword, Montague.”

Orlino’s sword was scarcely unsheathed before the stranger’s steel rang against his. Stumbling backward, trying to keep his footing, Orlino quickly realized himself outmatched. He was a skilled swordsman, but his opponent seemed not even human, hand and arm and sword all part of one night-born creature.

“Who are you?” Orlino panted, desperately parrying the stranger’s thrusts. “Show yourself, devil.”

The masked man made no answer, except with his steel. Orlino cried out as the blade pierced his belly. The last sight
his dimming eyes ever saw was his unknown killer, vanishing once more into the shadows.

Said Livia, “My lord, thou must be still.” She put a hand on his chest and pushed, sending him back into his pillows with a groan. She took off his linens, freeing him from the sweat-dampened bedsheets that clung to his frame. “Thy fever may have broken, but thou art by no means out of danger. Stay abed or I shall tie thee down.”

“Forgive me, lady.” Paris smiled up at her. “Canst thou blame me? These four walls grow ever more wearisome. ’Tis unnatural for a man to so rely on women’s aid, when ’tis I who ought to protect thee.”

“All the more reason to rest, so thou canst leave these four walls without swooning after a half-dozen paces.”

He gave her a pleading look but said, “Wisdom I shall heed. Now tell me, lady. What news from Verona?”

His eyes were clear and bright, his gaze steady. In the fortnight since the prince’s ball he’d steadily climbed back toward health. His wits had returned and his wound was healing nicely, though he was still as weak as a child. Settling herself by his bedside, Livia told him of the skirmish in the marketplace at Rosaline’s betrothal earlier that day.

“By my troth,” Paris said, “a spectacle unfit for a lady’s eyes and ears. Thou and thy sister were unhurt?”

Livia sighed. “I’ faith, Rosaline’s betrothal gown shall
ne’er be worn again, which I count a shame, for I had hoped to make it over for myself. And some clotpole trod upon her ankle, but Friar Laurence gave her a poultice for it. He says it is only bruised and she shall be able to walk tomorrow. And as for me, I was not even there. She told me she’d no wish for me to see her yoked to the Montague and bade me stay at home.” She pouted. “And hence I missed all the excitement.”

Paris lay back against the fresh pillow she’d laid for him, a faint smile on his face. “Thy honorable sister is right to keep you as far from all Montagues as possible. I would not have thee come to any harm.”

Her cheeks warmed, but she replied only, “Rosaline says our own dear Capulets have just as great a part in this deviltry.”

He sighed. “Perhaps she is right. This feud of yours is a hard knot to untangle. And those it ensnares are hard pressed to escape.” He brushed a hand over his bandages. “As I know well.”

“Thou’lt go, then?” Livia swallowed. “When thou art well—dost thou plan to leave Verona, as my aunt Capulet suggests?”

Paris laid gentle fingers against her hand. “Let us talk no more of such sad matters.” Reaching for the chess set at his bedside, he hid two pieces within his closed fists. “Black or white?”

“Well, Rosaline, where are we to begin?”

Rosaline leaned out of the window of her cottage to find
her betrothed lord awaiting her below. When he looked up and spied her, he grinned and waved, his other hand shielding his eyes against the morning sun. Rosaline could not help but smile in return. Swiftly, she ran down to the front hall and joined him. “Good morrow, Benvolio. Why so pleased, pray?”

“Not pleased, my lady, but eager.” He bounded into her hall. “This plan of yours I like more and more. ’Tis the first moment I have had any profitable occupation in weeks.” If he found it strange to make a social call on a cottage tucked at the back of the Duchess of Vitruvio’s lands, he did not show it, but looked around her bare hall in appreciation. “I like well your house. ’Tis not so crowded with knacks and trifles as my mother’s.” He unsheathed his sword, doing a few exuberant passes with an invisible opponent.

A scream issued from the stairs. Benvolio ducked as a chair came flying at his head. Rosaline turned to find Livia glaring at him, hands on her hips. “Back, villain!” she yelled.

Rosaline sighed. “Benvolio, may I present my sister, Livia.” She looked at the shattered chair. “She is the reason, as thou canst see, that our house possesses such a pleasing lack of furniture.”

Benvolio turned to Livia, who had seized another chair and seemed prepared to drop it over the banister, and carefully sheathed his sword. “Your pardon, lady, I pray. I meant no harm.”

“Hmm.” Livia’s eyes narrowed, but she withdrew the chair, muttering something in which Rosaline could discern the word “Montague.”

Gathering up the pieces of the chair, Rosaline turned to Benvolio. “Let us start with Orlino. Has he been found? If we can speak to him—”

“Orlino’s dead.”

“What?”

Livia was coming down the stairs, her narrowed eyes still fixed on Benvolio. “Orlino’s dead,” she repeated. “Did you not hear, Montague? His sword-slain body was discovered last night near the cemetery. I heard it in the market this morning.”

All the mirth drained from Benvolio. He leaned against the wall. “Dead,” he repeated. “Orlino dead. Slain.”

“I shall not mourn him,” Livia said, arms crossed. “Another Montague the city is better without.”

“Livia!” Rosaline scolded. “Speak not so of his kin.”

“I shall speak however I please of one that has done you such dishonor, Rosaline. He was a scoundrel and I hated him. Those who will not admit Orlino’s villainy, kin or no, deserve no better than he.” With a final glare at Benvolio, she turned and went back upstairs.

Rosaline pinched the bridge of her nose. “My lord, my sister means no harm—”

Benvolio held up a hand to stop her. “She’s right. ’Twas quite clear my cousin would come to no good end.” He drew a deep breath. “And this changes nothing. We must still start with Orlino, must we not?”

“Aye,” Rosaline agreed. “With his death.”

Accordingly they made their way to the cemetery. Rosaline hid a shiver as they passed through its gates. She had not
been here since Orlino had attacked her; by day it looked quite different than it had that frightening night, but still, she could almost feel Orlino’s hands upon her as she spied the crypt he’d dragged her behind. Benvolio glanced at her sidelong. He said nothing, but drew her arm through his.

“Where do you suppose it happened?” he asked.

Rosaline looked round. The cemetery seemed tranquil and calm, no sign that it had ever been disturbed by the strife of the night before. The city’s dead slept quietly in a graveyard quite deserted. Or—no, not quite deserted, or entirely quiet.

“Aye.” They made their way toward the voice, walking up a little knoll toward the Montague sector of the cemetery.

No figure appeared even as the voice got louder, and for a fearful, idiotic moment Rosaline thought it must belong to a ghost. Then as they surmounted the hill, she realized why she had not seen anyone: The voice issued from an open grave, singing in time to upflung shovelfuls of dirt.

“Good morrow, master gravedigger,” Benvolio called. “We would speak a word with you. Pray, will you spare us a moment from your song?”

Half of a dirty face peered over the rim of the grave. “ ’Tis a jolly song, is’t not, masters? I had it from a cousin of mine who lived among the Danes. Ah! He has gone up in the world, for he has buried princes and queens, whiles my humble self has never buried better than a count. And when I did so, the coffin was delivered closed, and I was not considered fit to see the noble body.” He looked affronted.

Benvolio looked rather taken aback at this, but Rosaline laughed. “Well, all men are equal in heaven,” she said. “He that interred our Savior buried not a king.”

“No, nor did he do the job right,” grunted the gravedigger as he hoisted himself out of the hole, “for his work undid itself afore a month was out. Ah!” His eyes lit up as his gaze landed on Benvolio and Rosaline. “My patrons! Your pardon, lords and ladies, I knew not that I addressed my benefactors.” He bowed and swept off his hat, clods of earth showering from the brim.

Benvolio cocked his head. “Patrons? What mean you, sirrah?”

“Marry”—the man beamed—“does not the poet live through the patronage of great nobles, who do commission him to write sonnets to their beauty and wisdom? Does not the painter earn his bread through flattering portraits of lords and ladies? Well, here in Verona, those who practice
the grave arts have no greater or more generous patrons than Houses Montague and Capulet.”

Benvolio was scowling beside her, arms folded across his chest, but Rosaline found herself rather amused. At least someone had found some small share of joy among the misery their families had caused. “I suppose we have given you a great deal of trade this season,” she said. “You should tell the prince of your love for our houses’ feud. He is certain it benefits none in Verona. ’Tis clear he has quite forgotten the gravediggers.”

“Aye, lady,” the man said solemnly, “but by the time I meet with such a great one, he’ll have no use for conversation but with Saint Peter.” He sighed. “And truly, I doubt I shall even have a chance at that, for the prince is a young man. But there again, this is Verona. Nobles die young.”

“Master gravedigger,” Benvolio interrupted, “we come to ask you—”

“Young master Benvolio, well met!” The gravedigger shook him by the hand. “I recall you carrying your friend’s coffin into his grave. A fine funeral, that. Sometimes your houses use those crypts, which leaves my hands idle but for sweeping out a clean place for the fresh bones. But young Mercutio had a proper hole in the ground. Such weeping there was for him! But you, sir, you were ever strong, even as those around you wailed and moaned. If I meet with a family looking for a steady coffin-bearer, I’ll tell them, call on young Benvolio. He’ll do you proud.”