Still Star-Crossed (24 page)

Rosaline, on the other hand, had never slept out in the wild. When a twig snapped, she sat bolt upright. “Is it highwaymen?” she hissed.

Benvolio’s sleepy chuckle drifted across the fire. “ ’Tis a rabbit, lady.”

“Oh.” She settled back down. “Art thou certain?”

Benvolio heaved himself up, dragging his cloak around the fire and resettling himself a few feet behind her. “There,” he said. “Now any highwaymen or villainous rabbits will meet my blade ere they encounter thee.”

She ought to object to his lying so near, but he had already begun to snore softly. Rosaline’s own eyes grew heavy. With Benvolio’s steady warmth at her back, sleep soon found her.

Benvolio found it hard to wake her up.

In the night Rosaline had drawn close—or perhaps, he acknowledged, it was he who’d reached out and drawn her against his side—and he’d woken to find her warm body pressed against his, her hair tickling his nose. He gently drew a few modest inches away, and as the sun rose he lay watching her, sleepily distracted by how its rosy hues played in her hair, smiling at how she twitched and snuffled as the smoke of the dying fire reached her nose. But he’d promised her they’d make an early start, so he squeezed her shoulder.

“Leave off, Livia, ’tis not near day.”

He chuckled. “Day is here, lady. Dost thou not hear the lark?”

She rolled over, her arm flopping across his face. “Hush,” she mumbled. “ ’Tis not the—”

She froze, perhaps realizing that she was not in her bed and Benvolio was not her sister. She cracked one eye open. “Perhaps ’tis the lark,” she acknowledged.

Benvolio grinned. “I am ready to declare it any bird thou say’st, lady.”

Narrowing her eyes at him, she sat up. “How close are we to the monastery?”

“Eight leagues off, I should say.” He rose and stretched, wincing at the protests from his saddle-sore body. After breakfasting on some bread and cheese from Benvolio’s pack, they broke camp and set off, riding together this time. Just after midday, they turned a bend in the road, and a large stone edifice rose before them, surrounded by farmland. There was a smaller gray building off to the side.

“Montenova Abbey,” Benvolio said. “And the nunnery of Saint Cecilia lies beside it. I’ll go and tell them we’re here. Prithee stay and let the horses graze.”

“Aye.”

Benvolio walked up the road and raised the heavy iron knocker. The hollow thump was so muffled by the large oak door that he wondered if it could be heard inside at all. But a moment later a voice called, “Who is here?”

“I am Signor Benvolio of Verona,” he called. “I seek an audience with Friar Laurence, late of our fair city, now resident among your brethren.”

There was a pause, then the door creaked open. A small, white-haired monk came bustling out. “Brother Laurence, you say? Wherefore?”

Benvolio was not inclined to lay the whole sordid tale at the feet of a stranger, even a holy friar. “He was my schoolmaster. I crave his counsel,” Benvolio said.

“I am sorry, good signor, Brother Laurence sees no one.
He is but newly arrived, and he has been deep in prayer and speaks little. He wishes no company.”

Benvolio hid a frustrated sigh under a polite smile. The monk at the door returned it gently. “Only tell him I am here,” Benvolio said. “I am sure he will change his mind. I pray you tell him ’tis a matter of some urgency, touching the House Montague.”

“As you wish,” the monk said doubtfully, and withdrew.

He returned a few minutes later. “As I told you,” he said, saintly smile still in place, “my brother Laurence abjures earthly company. Good day to you, my son.”

“Wait! It’s urgent. Please—”

But the door shut in his face. Sighing, he returned to Rosaline’s side. “What did they say?” she asked.

“Their door is barred to us.” Benvolio swore, then said, “Your pardon, lady.”

She shrugged. “An ’twere ladylike to swear …”

“We came all this way! I was so sure he’d help us.” Benvolio cast a longing glance at the doorway. “What are we to do?” His hand strayed toward his sword.

“Benvolio!” Rosaline grabbed his arm. “Thou’lt not draw your sword on men of God. There must be another way.” Rosaline frowned, twisting one curl around her finger. “Sanctuary,” she said finally. “Go thou back there and claim sanctuary. At least then thou’lt be within their walls. Friar Laurence cannot escape thee forever. He’ll have to emerge to eat. Then canst thou force him to acknowledge thee.”

Benvolio shook his head. “Sanctuary is for those in peril of their lives,” he said.

“What think’st thou that
thou
art?” Rosaline pointed out.

“Fair enough. But what of thee?”

“I’ll to Saint Cecilia’s. They will let a maiden pass the night there, ’tis certain.”

Benvolio frowned. “I like not that thou shouldst be so far. But I suppose thou shalt be safe enough among thy future sisters.”

She looked startled. “What?”

“When you take holy orders, I mean.”

“I— Of course.” She nodded to the monastery. “Thou hadst better go.”

Odd. For a moment she’d looked like she’d altogether forgotten her plans to become a nun. She had not changed her mind, had she? That thought was surprisingly welcome—for her sake, not for his, of course. How could such a fair and witty maid hide herself away from the world, allowing her bloom of youth to wither unadmired and unloved?

But he knew his advice on the subject would hardly be welcomed, so he said only, “Very well.”

Returning to the monastery, he rapped once more on the door. When it opened, the monk sighed. “My son—”

Benvolio had never shoved a man of God in his life, and he endeavored to do so now as gently as possible. The monk gave a squawk as Benvolio strode past him into the hall.

“What in the world!”

Benvolio held up a placating hand. “I claim sanctuary within these walls.”

The monk’s eyes narrowed. “Sanctuary is not for children
who have not got their way. ’Tis a haven for those desperate souls in mortal danger from without.”

Benvolio gave him a mirthless smile. “Holy father,” he said. “ ’Tis clear you know little of what has passed in Verona of late. Mortal danger is an apt description of my circumstances.”

The monk threw up his hands and scurried off. After a few minutes he returned, and Benvolio was conducted to the abbot’s study, where he was once more told that Friar Laurence was unavailable.

“Then I will simply stay until he is free to see me,” Benvolio said firmly. “Are there any chores an able-bodied man may perform for your holy order, Father? I would be happy to help for as long as I remain here.”

The abbot sighed. “Well, son,” he said, “it seems you shall have your will. Master Montague, you may pass the night here, if you’ll consent to take your leave at daybreak.”

Benvolio smiled. “I’ll do so happily, if I have done that I came for. Where is Friar Laurence?”

“I told you, he’ll none of you!” But the abbot’s eyes flicked toward a tower at the northeast end of the building. Benvolio smiled inwardly. Rosaline’s plan showed wit indeed.

A convent such as this could be her home.

Saint Cecilia’s was rather less grand than the monastery, though constructed of the same cold gray stone. Many ladies
of Verona took orders here. She had long thought she would be among them. But of course, the prince had changed everything. Rosaline knocked on the large wooden door and a small window opened. “Who goes there?” said the rectangular section of nun that appeared.

“One who would shelter with you for the night,” Rosaline called. “My name is Rosaline, daughter of Niccolo Tirimo. I am a lady and a maid.”

“Come in, my child,” she said to Rosaline.

She did, looking around as she followed the nun to the abbess’s chambers. The convent was plain but well kept, echoing with the sounds of prayer and the quiet steps of its black-clad occupants. Some of them darted curious glances at Rosaline, probably thinking she was a new postulant. Benvolio must be wondering why she had forgotten that she was one day to join such a cloister. In truth, she had not given a thought as to what to say to her traveling companion. Should she tell him that her heart was the prince’s now? There was no official understanding between her and Escalus, and in any case, what would Benvolio care? The only reason they’d passed so much time together was to escape their own betrothal. If he heard that another man had now spoken for her, he would probably cheer. Yes, it would probably be a great relief to him to be rid of her for good, even though she had helped him at every turn, had believed him when no one else would, had even fled the city to help him. But what of that? He would always—

“My lady?”

She turned to find her guide hovering uncertainly behind
her. In her anger she’d outpaced the woman without noticing.

She was tired from traveling. That was the only reason that the thought of Benvolio blessing her love for Escalus had driven her into such a fury. She carefully declined to consider any other explanation.

The friar was not easily tracked down.

Benvolio spent the day helping the monks, chopping wood, hauling water, and tending to their livestock. They gave him a poultice for his wound, which was already healing—luckily, it was not too deep. But no matter how much he tried to ingratiate himself, none of them would usher him to see the man he’d come for. He had a feeling that the abbot was assigning him outdoor tasks to keep him far from his quarry.

Growing impatient, on the second day he took his supper early and then waited outside the dining room, standing in a corner where he was not easily observed. The monks flowed in and out in twos and threes, supping for an hour or so before heading to their evening prayers. Finally, as the night hymns began to echo through the stone halls, he spied a lone figure hurrying from the dining hall.

“Good e’en, Father,” he said, stepping out to block Friar Laurence’s path.

Friar Laurence started, clutching a hand to his chest. Glaring at Benvolio, he crossed himself, then moved to step
around him. Benvolio stepped aside to block him again. “I bade you good e’en. Have you no kind word in return for your old pupil?”

Friar Laurence merely scowled and hurried past him. Apparently his silence would not be broken so easily.

Nor was Benvolio easily discouraged. He hurried after him. “Very well, I shall accompany you. I am sure you are famished for news of home, banished as you are.” The friar tried to walk faster, but Benvolio’s long legs easily kept pace. “Another of your old pupils is dead, did you know?” The friar looked pained at that. “Aye. Truchio is slain. They say it was a man clothed all in black. Know you who Verona’s deadly shadow might be, Father?” His voice had grown loud. The monks they passed looked rather scandalized at such earthly tidings being shared under their roof. Friar Laurence, now muttering a Hail Mary, gave him a tight shake of the head. “Come, I am sure you know, sir. You were ever at the center of my family’s bloody doings. Why, Romeo slew himself nearly beneath your nose!”

A wide-eyed young monk crossed himself as they passed him. Benvolio cared not. Unexpected anger was building in his chest. Verona was burning, and the friar had cloistered himself in this sleepy place. What a coward.