Still Star-Crossed (29 page)

“And our house too?” the nurse whispered. “Paris has already begun the bloody work.”

“Fear not,” Lady Capulet soothed. “Some sacrifice is necessary to claim our house’s due glory. Those Capulets who are worthy shall be saved, even exalted, once Paris has claimed his throne. House Capulet must die to live, but once my husband and his pack of puling, brawling nephews are gone, it shall rise anew from the ashes, without Montague to trouble it. And when Paris takes a Capulet bride, the throne shall be ours as well.”

“A Capulet bride?”

Lady Capulet gave a sly smile. “I am not so indifferent to the sweet looks and sighs between him and my niece as they may think. I am quite content to give her to him. Even now, Paris approaches, having gathered an army of his allies. The prince shall throw the gates open for him so that he may bear Benvolio hence, little knowing he is welcoming his own downfall.”

“A cunning plan,” the nurse said slowly.

Lady Capulet smiled. “I could not have done it without thee, dear retainer. Thy loyalty shall not be forgotten.”

The nurse sat down heavily on Paris’s one-time bed, her mind in a whirl. Here she had nursed him faithfully—the man she had once helped Juliet to spurn and deceive. She had gotten above her station, taking it upon herself to help Juliet defy her parents, and when the dear child died of it, she had been determined to be ruled by her mistress’s wisdom henceforth.

But this—this was too far. Would Juliet rejoice to see her own family destroy her husband’s kinsmen? She could not believe it. Lady Capulet was not to blame, of course—grief had twisted her mind down this treacherous path. The loss of Juliet, the nurse thought, was enough to drive anyone mad.

“My lady,” she said soothingly, “let’s to the palace. I’ll tell how Paris hath deceived you. Prince Escalus will have compassion for your grief. I am sure you need not fear our prince’s wrath—nay, he will be grateful, if you tell him what is coming.” She took her mistress’s hand in both of hers. “Come, lamb, let’s to the palace and confess all.”

Something like rage flashed across Lady Capulet’s face.
Then she smiled. “Think’st thou in thy soul this is the wisest course?”

“Aye, lady, I am sure of it.”

“I cannot dissuade thee from it?”

“I bow to your ladyship’s wisdom in all matters, but in this I must do my duty. ’Tis but for love of you and yours, my lady.”

Her lady drew her hand away and stepped behind her, squeezing her shoulder. “Dear, dear nurse. Has House Capulet ever had a more loyal servant? Thy fealty shall never be forgotten.”

The nurse patted the hand on her shoulder. “I do but discharge my duty.”

“I know.” And then a cord was passed about her neck and pulled tight.

“Dear soul,” Lady Capulet said in her ear as the nurse gasped and choked and clawed at the scrap of cloth about her throat. “Even in death shall thou serve us. Shh, shh.”

I’m dying
, thought the nurse.

And,
I do not understand
.

And,
Juliet, I come
.

Soon thereafter, a scream broke the air when the nurse’s lifeless body was discovered crumpled near the Capulet doors. A note was thrown on her body like trash:

THUS TO ALL CAPULETS
.

Cry “Havoc!” and let slip the dogs of war.

—Julius Caesar

B
ENVOLIO WAS DREAMING OF
his wife.

In his dream he was at a great feast. His wife was whirling across the dance floor, her laughter echoing all around him, but no matter how he pushed through the crowd he could never seem to get to her side. Though the room was stuffed from wall to wall with every droning noble he knew, and the heat should have been stifling, somehow the air was cold. Perhaps that was the reason for the ache in his bones.

Romeo and Mercutio were acting the fool, as usual. No matter how many times he told them to stop teasing him, they persisted in mocking his nuptial state.

I’ faith, Benvolio, I’d thought not to see you so yoked
, said Mercutio.

Aye
, said Romeo.
Rememb’rest thou not our oath to remain three bachelors until we die?

There was something wrong with that, but Benvolio could not remember what. Finally it hit him.
Thou art no bachelor, Romeo. Thou’rt wed
.

Aye
, said Romeo.
But I’m no traitor
.

Who have I betrayed? I wed for love
.

For love of her? Or hatred for thy friends?

I hate you not!
Benvolio exclaimed.
What hath my love to do with you two, pray?

He’s right
. Mercutio grinned.
He’s just a fool. Some men do bear the yoke, some cuckold’s horns, but our Benvolio’s the only man whose marriage made him don a cap and bells
.

A cap and bells? No fool’s cap do I wear
.

A cap at least
, Mercutio replied.
And hush! For that same fool-maker draws near
.

And yes, suddenly his wife was just behind him, and he kept turning around and around, trying to draw her to his side so he could present her to his friends, explain them to each other, but she seemed determined to prove their bad opinion of her right. She laughed, darting away from him, never letting him see her face behind her curtain of long dark curls, but for some reason her hand kept reaching out to pinch his hip.

Then he awoke, and he realized that the pinching was real. Rosaline’s toes were digging into his leg.

“Thank God,” she said. “I thought you’d never wake. It’s been hours.”

“What—”

“Hush,” she hissed. “Be still.”

Benvolio blinked his exhaustion from his eyes. He stifled a groan as sensation returned. His muscles were stiff and sore, and the scabbed wound across his chest had begun to throb again. Paris’s men had tied him to a post in a tent near the edge of camp this morning, and had left him alone there ever since. Despite the cold ground he sat on, his grumbling
stomach, and his worry for his companion, he’d finally nodded off some hours after sunset. Now he awoke to find Rosaline bound to another pole, just opposite his, her lower lip caught in her teeth as she stretched her foot toward him to prod at his belt. Her shoes sat discarded beside her, her dress ridden up to her knees.

“What art thou about?” he gasped, trying to ignore the sensation of her toes creeping along his inner thigh and— God in heaven.

“Freeing thee,” she whispered, nodding toward his side, and he realized she was trying to reach his dagger. It was small, and hidden under his sash, so the guards had missed it, but he’d been unable to twist enough to reach it himself. Rosaline’s long, flexible legs and nimble toes, however, showed every sign of reaching their prize.

To distract himself from pursuing thoughts of her legs, he whispered, “Why art thou here? I’d not have thought Paris such a scoundrel as to hold a lady in such conditions.”

“He did not wish to. He would have held me in his tent, but I had to find thee, so I made him see I was too dangerous not to imprison properly. I tried to stab him with a butter knife,” she said proudly.

“Foolish maid! He could have killed thee!”

“Hush.” Her toes gave a twist and with a suppressed cry of triumph, she withdrew his knife. Drawing it back toward herself, by dint of much bending she was able to put it in reach of her hands. She went to work on her bonds. As she did so, she related to Benvolio what she’d learned of Paris’s plans.

Benvolio set his jaw. So Paris meant not to let him live. “Dear God.”

“Aye,” she said grimly. “We’ve no time to waste. They have Silvius tied just outside. The guard is snoring. If we can slip our bonds, we can flee before they know we’ve escaped.”

Benvolio’s mind flew over what he’d seen of Paris’s defenses. It was possible
—possible
—that she was right. They were near the edge of camp, after all. There was a chance they could bypass the guards outside the tent, sneak past the sentries, and be gone before anyone was the wiser.

But Rosaline had overlooked something. She seemed to think his death was imminent, but if Paris planned to use him to bait a trap for the prince, Benvolio was more valuable to him alive, at least for the moment. Paris could drag him before Escalus himself, and let him rave of an army waiting over the horizon; who would believe the crazed murderer he was thought to be?

Rosaline, on the other hand, was a much greater threat. She had the ear of the prince, who would have no reason to doubt her. Paris would have to find a way to convert her, as he had evidently endeavored to do, but if it became clear that Rosaline was not going to fall in with his plans, Paris would have to silence her.

Benvolio would not permit that.

Aloud he said only, “An excellent plan. What time is it?”

“Near midnight.” Rosaline huffed a curl out of her eyes to give him a smile, then returned her concentration to her bindings. After a moment she blew out a triumphant breath and drew her hands from behind the post, the ropes now
severed. She quickly crawled to him and bent over his wrists, attacking his bonds with the knife. A strand of her hair tickled his cheek; he closed his eyes, trying to lock the sensation in his memory. Perhaps this was what his dream-friends were trying to tell him—Rosaline had indeed made a fool of him, for he was about to do the most foolish thing he had ever done.

She made quick work of his bonds and helped him to his feet. She started toward the front flap of the tent, but Benvolio shook his head—he did not wish to risk waking the guard. Instead he guided her toward the rear, where the canvas was held together with laces. Retrieving his dagger, he cut enough of the bindings for them to slip through. The rows of tents backed nearly onto each other with only a few feet of space between them, forming a narrow canvas alley. Heart in his throat, Benvolio guided Rosaline along the slender pathway until they were out of sight of the tent where they’d been imprisoned. Then, motioning for her to stay where she was, he slipped back out.

Rosaline had been right, thank heaven—Silvius was hitched to a post not ten feet from where he stood. Sending up a quick prayer of thanks to whomever watched over wayward Montagues, he beckoned Rosaline over. Luckily, they both still had their long cloaks, and he pulled up her hood and his own, tucking her curls back behind her ears. With any luck, they would pass for a groom and a stableboy.

There were a few fires in their death throes at intervals between the tents, each dotted with dozing sentries and idle gossipers. But none seemed to take note of them as they took
Silvius’s bridle and began walking him toward the road. As they slipped past the line of torches that ringed Paris’s camp, into the enveloping darkness beyond, Benvolio sighed. Perhaps his desperate plan would not need to be put into action, after all.

“The prisoner has escaped! To arms!”

Oh
hell
.

Benvolio seized Rosaline’s wrist in one hand and Silvius’s reins in the other and ran. Risking a glance over his shoulder, he saw the camp was in an uproar, torches darting hither and thither. Already, mounted men were starting toward the road. “We must mount, we must away!” Rosaline said, tugging at his arm, and Benvolio turned to her, locked an arm around her waist, and kissed her, hard. Then he pulled back, taking advantage of her momentary confusion to seize her by the waist and all but throw her into the saddle.
“Go,”
he said, and smacked Silvius’s withers as hard as he could. Silvius reared and bolted, Rosaline clinging to his neck. He had one last glance of her pale, bewildered face staring back at him before he took a deep breath and shouted, “Paris, thou blackguard, face me like a man!” as he charged back into camp.

One man against a thousand was poor odds, even if he had been armed—Rosaline still had his dagger. Still, he laid about him with his fists—no need to make anything easy for these vile traitors. His goal was distraction rather than escape, and he intended to buy Rosaline as much time as he could. It was not until they had him bound once more that the captain thought to ask, “Where is the lady?”

Benvolio grinned around a split lip. “What lady?”

The captain’s face reddened. To his men, he said, “Take him before my lord.”

Accordingly, Benvolio was hauled into the great tent at the center of camp. Paris, looking less genteel now, was pacing, his hair mussed as though he’d been running his hands through it. When he saw Benvolio he glared. “Where is she?”

Benvolio’s only reply was to spit a mouthful of blood at his feet.

Paris’s fist caught him across the face. Stars flashed in Benvolio’s eyes. He would have fallen to the ground had his captors not held him up. “You should have run when you had the chance,” Paris said. “You’ll die for this.”

“A pity. I hoped you would make me your lord chamberlain.”

“Send men out to capture her,” Paris snapped to the captain. “The rest of you, break camp. We’ll make haste for Verona in the morn.” To Benvolio he said, “Tell me where she’s gone and perhaps I will spare your life.”

“She is somewhere you will never find her,” Benvolio said, and hoped it was true.