Still Star-Crossed (20 page)

Gramio’s poor swordsmanship saved his life. Had he recovered from his falter with slightly more grace, it would have fallen out as Benvolio had predicted, and his sword would have buried itself in Gramio’s heart before he’d had time to think. Instead, Gramio fell backward, sprawling to the ground, his sword spinning out of his hand.

It only put him out of reach for an instant. But it was long enough to pierce the red haze that had descended over Benvolio’s gaze. Though anger still screamed in his veins, reason was beginning to reassert itself. The short mop of dark curls that flopped across Gramio’s face with every frightened breath were much the same as those he’d earlier struggled not to draw his fingers through. This was Rosaline’s cousin.

Planting a foot on Gramio’s chest, he pointed his blade at his throat. “The sash. Now.”

Gramio’s eyes flicked toward his sword, lying just out of his grasp. Benvolio’s jaw clenched, his hand tightening on his sword.
Yes. Reach for it. Please
.

But for all his bloodlust, Gramio valued his own life. With a sulky glare, he held the sash up to Benvolio. His fingers were about to close around it when something slammed into him from the side, hard, sending him flying across the cobblestones. He did his best to roll and control his fall, which was probably all that saved him from serious injury. As it was, he hit his head on the wall so hard that he saw stars. Rolling over, he saw another swordsman standing above him. He was masked, and dressed all in black.

Beside him, Gramio gave a savage cheer. “Ha! Vengeance has found thee, foul Montague! Behold our guardian spirit!”

Whoever the masked man was, he had no interest in a swordsman’s honor. He gave Benvolio no chance to regain his bearings or even to raise his sword before his own was slashing downward in a deadly arc. Benvolio scrambled backward, trying to avoid the man’s blade, but not fast enough. He hissed as he felt a vicious slash across his chest.

“Who are you?” he panted. “What is your quarrel to me and mine?”

“Vengeance,” whispered the stranger, and struck Benvolio’s blade with his. Weakened by his injury, Benvolio could not prevent him from knocking the sword from his hand. He flinched, waiting for the killing blow.

But instead, the masked swordsman picked up Benvolio’s sword, turned, and plunged it straight into Gramio’s chest. Gramio’s cry became a gurgle. He died with a look of shock frozen on his face. The man in black retrieved his own sword, bowed to Benvolio, and walked back the way he’d come, soon swallowed by the shadows.

Recovering from his shock, Benvolio hauled himself to his feet and gave chase.

“Halt, villain! Coward!” he screamed. “Will you murder a man who never raised a sword to you and flee under the cover of darkness? Come and face me like a man!”

He reached the intersection and turned a circle, searching for any sign of the murderer. But he was gone.

On unsteady feet, Benvolio returned to slain Gramio’s side. The lad’s eyes still stared at where his phantom killer
had been. Benvolio fell to his knees. What manner of demon was this who cut down Montague and Capulet alike? Numbly, he reached for the hilt of his sword.

A scream broke the air. Looking up, he found a laundress had dropped her basket and was pointing a trembling finger at him. “Murderer!” she screamed.

“I—no, I—” Benvolio realized as he climbed to his feet, hand still resting on the sword’s hilt, how this must appear. “ ’Twas not I, we were both of us attacked—”

But now a crowd of merchants and early market-goers were gathering in the gray pre-dawn light.

“Murderer!”

“Villain!”

“Halt, in the name of the prince!”

Much later, Benvolio realized that if he had stayed, if he had gone to the prince and explained his innocence in Gramio’s death, he might have avoided much that followed. But after the night he’d had, all he could think was
run
.

And as the sun rose on another bloody Verona day, he did just that, leaving his sword where it was, pinning a Montague crest to poor Gramio’s chest.

O, a kiss
Long as my exile, sweet as my revenge!

—Coriolanus

“C
OME
, R
OSALINE!
C
OME
, L
IVIA!
Nieces, wake!”

Rosaline gasped and sat up in bed. Someone was pounding on her door, yelling loud enough to wake the whole of the duchess’s estate. Pulling on a dressing gown, she leaned out the window. The sight below made her gape in surprise.

“Uncle?” she called. “By heaven, what—”

“No time, child!” Lord Capulet roared up to her. “Wake your sister, gather your gowns, and hie you both to House Capulet, an you value your lives and your maidenheads!”

Rosaline ran down the stairs, opening the door to her uncle. “Calm yourself, good my lord. What is it?”

He entered, mopping at his brow. He looked as though he’d run to Padua and back. “ ’Tis the Montagues,” he said. “They make open war upon us. Every Capulet lady and child is to withdraw within the safety of House Capulet’s walls, so that I may protect you.”

“Rosaline?” Livia, sleep-mussed and yawning, was stumbling down the stairs. “What’s that noise?”

“Uncle,” Rosaline said firmly, “I thank you for your pains,
but if this is another street brawl, I’m sure there is no need for your protection.”

“Gramio was slain last night,” Lord Capulet said.

Next to her, Livia gasped. Rosaline gripped her hand as their uncle related the circumstances in which his body was found. Rosaline pressed a hand to her mouth, trying not to be sick. Livia wrapped her in her arms and guided her to the couch.

“I pray your pardon, Rosaline,” her uncle said heavily as she clung to a shaking Livia. “You saw the blackness of this Benvolio’s heart long ere I could. I should never have agreed with the prince’s foolish scheme to marry you with him.”

Rosaline felt as though her stomach had dropped through the earth. “Benvolio?” she whispered.

“Aye,” her uncle said, grim-faced. “ ’Tis he slew Gramio.”

Rosaline shook her head, clutching Livia closer. “Ah! No, not he, Uncle. Some kin of his perhaps, but not he—”

“Was not this his sash?” Lord Capulet said, producing a torn length of crimson cloth.

Rosaline closed her eyes. Benvolio had worn just such a sash the night before. Had any of his other kinsmen worn them? She thought so, but could not be sure. “I know not,” she whispered.

“Marry, you may not, but the sword that pierced it, and Gramio’s chest, is known to be Benvolio’s.”

Could Benvolio really slay her kinsman on the street?

She recalled the fury in his eyes as he’d slashed his blade
across Orlino’s face, and shivered. Aye, he could. If roused, he could.

“Very well, Uncle,” Rosaline said, meeting his gaze steadily. “We’ll away to House Capulet.”

He gave a short nod. “Good. There’s one there who would speak with thee.”

“Curst girl, I’ll punish thee if thou speak’st not!”

The prince winced as Lord Capulet thundered at his niece. It was a familiar scene, if missing a few players: Rosaline sat, hands folded, staring at thin air; her uncle Capulet was seated behind his desk, growing ever more red-faced. And Escalus himself, watching. Just as they had been the night he’d told Rosaline she was to marry Benvolio.

Circumstances had changed, but the obstinate tilt of her chin had not.

“I have told you, Uncle,” she said calmly. “I know not where Benvolio may be found, nor anything of last night’s slaughter save what you yourself have told me.”

So she had been saying this past ten minutes, and though the prince could see her growing irritation, still her voice remained even and low. Her curls were pinned neatly back, her green dress spread carefully over her knees. Like a statue in a hurricane, battered but unmoved. Rosaline could not be made angry unless she chose to be, quite possibly the only Capulet ever born with such control. It was that, he supposed,
that had made her an object of such fascination to him, that had made him so hell-bent on using her in his scheme. He’d been certain that that captivating mix of wisdom and beauty was just what Verona needed.

Now he wondered if it was Verona he’d really been thinking of.

“I mean not to accuse you, Rosaline,” Escalus said. “I seek only to keep you and yours safe from Benvolio’s bloodthirsty ways. I know you have kept company with Benvolio of late—”

Narrowed green eyes flashed to his. “How know you that?”

“I saw him outside your house yesternight.”

“Why hast thou passed thy days with thy cousin’s killer?” Lord Capulet blustered. “Tell thy betters, or it shall fall heavy on thee.”

“ ’Tis none of your affair, Uncle.”

“We’ll be the judge of that.”

“Your judgment, gentlemen, betrothed us in the first place. I’ll keep mine own counsel, I thank you.”

“Insolent girl!” Lord Capulet heaved himself to his feet, glaring at her.

Escalus laid a hand on his shoulder. “Signor, might I speak with your niece alone for a moment?”

Capulet squinted at him. “Why?”

Escalus merely offered him a thin, polite smile. Capulet threw up his hands. “Well, she’s at Your Grace’s disposal. If you can get any sense out of her, I thank you.”

He left, slamming the door behind him. Rosaline turned to Escalus, squaring her shoulders, preparing for a fight. The
prince held up a hand. “I told thee, I mean thee no harm. I wish merely to capture thy cousin’s killer.”

“And I have told you, I know nothing that might help you,” she said. “Two Montagues are dead as well. Why seek you not their murderer?”

“None saw who slew Orlino or Truchio, but Benvolio’s guilt is proved.”

Her gaze was glacial. Rosaline might not be quick to anger but nor was she quick to forgive. “Nothing is proved.”

Escalus sighed. Why was he taking her down the same path they always trod? “Thy pardon, fair maid,” he said.

This startled her icy composure. “What?”

He knelt and took her hand. “I cry thy pardon for the unwilling betrothal I forced upon thee. Had I had any inkling of Benvolio’s true nature, I should have cut him down myself before allowing him within a mile of thee.” He swallowed hard. “Tell me he hurt thee not.”

Her eyes were wide, lips parted in surprise as she gazed down at her sovereign abasing himself before her. “I—I—” She shook her head slightly. “He was ever a gentleman.”

“Thank heaven.” He gripped her hands in his.

But she slowly drew back, eyes clouded with confusion. “If you mean to once more use our former friendship to compel me—”

He shook his head impatiently. “Thou hast my word, I shall never do so again. It was the worst choice that ever I made. No, speak or speak not, the choice is thine.”

“I thank you.” She hesitated. “And—while you are here—it seems Livia and I have much more to thank you for.”

Her face flamed bright red. Ah. She had found out. He rocked back on his heels, trying to keep his face an innocent blank. “I know not what you mean.”

“You do. ’Tis thanks to you we’ve been able to live in honorable state.” She shook her head. “Why did you not tell me?”

In his mind’s eye, he saw the black-clad, solemn young maid she’d been when he’d come back to Verona. At thirteen she was already a beauty, but she seemed not to care how the eyes of the young men of the court followed her. His own parents were recently dead too, and he did think of speaking to her, of sharing their grief. But princes did not show friendship to penniless maids, did they? He was not sure, and there was no one he could ask. His parents were dead, his sister gone away. His new crown was heavy on him. Would she think he was courting her? No, surely she would be more sensible than that. Would Verona think he had taken her as a mistress? The Montagues would certainly say so, if they saw him paying special attention to a Capulet maiden. That would not be good for Verona. He must think of Verona.

He was sixteen, and still outgrowing his doublets every two months. It had been easier to give her some money, and say nothing.

“I never intended you should know of the gold I give your aunt for you,” he said. “I did not do it to compel you to my will.”