Still Star-Crossed (34 page)

“Halt!”

Instead of the swift agony of the blade, Benvolio felt a soft body hurl itself atop his. Struggling upright, his eyes went wide at what he saw.

“Rosaline?”

The proper, modest maid she was when last he saw her had been replaced with an entirely new Rosaline, from the wild look in her eyes to the mannish style of her hair to— He shook his head and blinked. Was she
wearing his clothes
?

Hang all that. She was alive. Alive, and whole, and there had never been a more welcome sight in his life.

“Hear me, Verona!” she shouted. “Benvolio of Montague is innocent!”

The prince’s air of solemn majesty was broken. “Rosaline?” he cried, pulling her away from Benvolio. “Oh, my lady. What has befallen thee? Why art thou so wildly attired? Art thou unhurt?” His hands trailed over her hair and shoulders.
Benvolio clenched his jaw. “You must remove from this place. ’Tis no sight for thee.”

“ ’Tis no sight for any honest soul,” Rosaline returned, stilling his hands with her own. “My lord, upon my honor, Benvolio is belied.”

The prince sighed, pulling her gently to her feet. “Sweet, ’tis he who hath made assault ’gainst that honor you swear by, and left your brain in this confusion.”

“I am not mad!” Rosaline said. “My madness and Benvolio’s wickedness are both inventions of they that truly committed these crimes.” She pointed toward the rear of the courtyard. “Paris and Lady Capulet.”

The thundering in her ears was deafening.

Rosaline had felt as though her heart would burst when she saw the executioner’s axe raised. She had not even thought before hurling her body over Benvolio’s.

If they wanted to kill an innocent today, they would have to kill two of them.

Now, though her voice was strong, her stomach fluttered in fear. The clamor of her heartbeat was soon joined by the roar of the crowd as she made her accusation. She was shaking, near to swooning with exhaustion, but a look at Benvolio’s bloodied face was enough to give her strength.

“Benvolio never offered me the slightest discourtesy,” she called. “I left Verona in his company of mine own free will.” She ignored the flash of surprise and hurt that crossed
Escalus’s face at that. “We journeyed to see Friar Laurence, who we believed had some intelligence regarding the latest mischief between our houses.” She exchanged glances with Benvolio. “And he did.”

Reaching into her bag, she pulled out Friar Laurence’s book. “Behold the good friar’s diary,” she said to Escalus. “Listen to what he says.” The crowd grew quieter, straining to hear her voice. She opened the book to the page she’d marked and began to read.

“ ‘I have had a confession today from one I shall call A. She is a servant of long standing of the house of C, and furthermore, she and I shared the burden of the terrible events this summer. The good soul is troubled in her heart, for her mistress L, believed by all Verona to be felled by grief, instead channels her sorrow in a shocking direction. I can scarce write these words: P lives still. He is recovering under the roof of C, though L’s lord has no notion of his unexpected guest.’ ” She heard her uncle Capulet huff at that.

Lady Capulet raised an eyebrow and called in that silken voice, “All Verona knows I did succor him. How is this proof of your accusations, child?”

Rosaline flipped forward several pages to the day of the friar’s departure from Verona and read, “ ‘Even as I quit Verona, its bloody tendrils still reached out once more to ensnare me. If P’s return from the dead filled me with joy, these new tidings give me nothing but sorrow. Three more youths of Verona lie dead, two this night alone, and I know their killer. For early this morn, just as I was about to depart, A came to confession. She tells me that she came upon P’s
chamber empty this morn—just at the early hour when Truchio was killed. What is more, she found a bloody raiment P had hidden. Sweet A, though deeply troubled, will not see the thing I fear must be true: ’Tis P who slew them. And at Lady C’s direction. Verona has receded down the road behind me, and I pray my troubled heart shall at last know peace when I reach the abbey. But I fear it never shall, for I cannot tell a soul what these murderers have done, and I am sure that their thirst for blood will not be satisfied with these few deaths.’ ”

“Lady of C? Sir P?” Lady Capulet gave a rueful laugh. She had threaded through the crowd, and now she approached the prince, sweeping him an elegant curtsy. “Your Grace, I apologize for my niece’s addled babblings, and the indecent state in which she comes before you. ’Tis plain Paris speaks true—Benvolio’s abuse hath robbed her of her wits. Let us take her home.” She put an arm around Rosaline. “My poor sweet.” Her grip was like iron.

Rosaline shook her off and looked toward the prince, whose face was set into a deep frown. “This
is
Friar Laurence’s diary,” she insisted. “You must believe me. Verona is in danger. Paris’s army is fast approaching. I have seen it with mine own eyes!”

“Eyes addled by madness,” Lady Capulet snapped, losing her grip on her motherly tone. “Your Grace has no need to attend to fairy stories. Besides, ’tis not Orlino’s death we are here to avenge today.” She turned to her husband, who still stood out among the crowd. “My lord, you were to marry Paris to your daughter. Tell the prince he is no traitor.”

Lord Capulet’s face was red, his brow furrowed. “I know not what the truth of this is,” he called gruffly. “But, wife, if you want me to attest to the character of our guests, you will have to tell me when they are under our roof.”

Escalus raised his hands. “Enough!” he roared. “Each speaker is more fantastical than the last.” He turned to Rosaline. “If this be Friar Laurence’s book indeed, how came it to thy hands?”

She swallowed. “I—I stole it.” Better she be sanctioned for that than let the prince know that Friar Laurence had willingly violated the sanctity of confession. The crowd murmured at that. She continued quickly, “Punish me for that crime if need be, but, Escalus, you know well that I have never lied to you. I did only what was necessary to save an innocent life. If you believe me a liar now, I shall regain your trust most bitterly before the day is out, for Paris’s army is poised to attack.”

“Cousin?” Escalus called to Paris, who had not moved from the rear of the crowd. “What say you to these accusations? Pray defend yourself.”

“I shall make his answer,” a voice replied from behind them. “He is guilty of every word, and worse.”

Rosaline turned and gaped. There, behind her on the dais, blue eyes filling with tears and slim shoulders set, was Livia. In her hand she held a small bundle of cloth. She ignored Rosaline, ignored everyone, to stare over the crowd’s heads at Paris.

Paris looked as surprised to see her sister as Rosaline herself.
“Love, why art thou here?” he demanded. “Thou wast to wait for me back at camp—”

Escalus’s eyebrows raised. “Camp?”

“Aye,” Livia said. Her voice rang out over the crowd, her hands clasped behind her back. “The camp where he imprisoned Benvolio
and
Rosaline, before she escaped. Where he gathered enough men to storm Verona in an hour.” She drew a deep breath. “And where—”

“Livia—” Paris pleaded, his voice high and panicked.

“I’m sorry, my love,” Livia said, and then, turning to the prince, “Where he promised to make me princess of Verona.”

There was a long, shocked silence. Livia seemed frozen, staring at the dumbfounded Paris, as a tear slipped down her cheek. She unfolded the black scrap in her hands and held it aloft. It was a black mask. “This was among my lord Paris’s things in his tent,” she said. “He was the man in black. He slew Orlino, Gramio, and Truchio, all three.”

Lady Capulet screamed, “Traitor!” and before anyone could move to stop her, she plucked a dagger from her bosom, lunged across the executioner’s dais, and plunged it to the hilt into Livia’s side.

Time seemed to slow down, shattering into a thousand pieces. The surprised little
uht
that fell from Livia’s lips as the blade slid into her. Her body wilting toward the ground. Benvolio leaping at Lady Capulet, wresting the knife from her. Rosaline screaming, “Livia!” as her sister crumpled, racing to catch her in her arms.

“Livia?” she demanded frantically. “Livia?”

His greatest sacrifices. All for naught.

Escalus grimly drew his sword as chaos erupted around him. Paris had wheeled his horse about and was racing away from the city. No doubt returning to this army of his, whose existence Escalus could no longer disbelieve. The crowd was roiling with shock and suspicion; they had not turned on each other yet, but they soon might, if he knew his subjects. To his left, Rosaline cradled her sister, shrieking her name; behind him, Benvolio struggled to keep Lady Capulet from escaping. Escalus rushed to his aid to subdue her. She fought like a wild animal, and it took several of his men to wrestle her to the ground. Escalus growled, “I want her in irons in my dungeon straight away.”

She faced him with a crazed grin. Her sleek hair had fallen halfway out of its pins, and her fine gown was stained with mud and her niece’s blood. Escalus wondered how he could have looked at her and ever thought her anything but mad. “I shall not pass the night there,” she taunted. “By sunset ’tis thou that shall be a prisoner, Escalus, while I stand by the throne.”

“Take her away. We’ve no time for her ravings.” He turned to Benvolio. “How now, Montague?”

Benvolio, dirty and bruised and pale, managed a smirk. “In better health than I expected to be ten minutes ago.”

Escalus clapped him on the shoulder. “Good. I’ve need of thee.”

Benvolio nodded, took a deep breath, and knelt to the man who, moments before, had been planning to have him executed. “I am Your Grace’s to command.”

Escalus gave him a nod and turned to the assembled crowd, raising his arms. “Hear me, Verona!” His subjects quieted. “I am betrayed,” he called. “
We
are betrayed. If we cannot fight as one, Verona will fall by sundown. For generations, we men of Verona have shed each other’s blood—can we now unite against those who would slay us all? Tell me, city of mine, can we fight side by side with our countrymen—
all
our countrymen?”

Numb shock glazed the faces of the crowd. Montagues and Capulets glanced at each other uneasily. Escalus gritted his jaw. Even now, they feuded.

“Aye,” Benvolio’s harsh voice called beside him. He glared at his young cousins until they too muttered, “Aye.”

“Can we face the enemy as one?”

“Aye.” This time it was old Capulet—white-faced, shaking like jelly, still staring at the spot where his wife had disappeared, but raising his sword in a trembling salute.

“Can we prevail, Verona?”

“Aye!”

“Can we win the day!”

“Aye!”

Every sword was raised, every throat roaring out in unison. The threat of imminent destruction, at least, was enough to unite his fractured people. “Capulet, to me,” he called to Lord Capulet. “And Montague.”

The two old enemies mounted the platform to the prince’s
side. Giving each other wary nods, they stood some distance from each other. “Together, you will look to our defenses,” Escalus said, telling them with his glare that he would brook no disagreement. With a sigh, old Montague stuck out a hand and Capulet took it.

“I’ve ten score men, all told,” Capulet said gruffly.

“I’ve about that number. Paris’s forces will likely dwarf us—his lands are vast and his purse vaster. But we shall be better armed than his mercenaries.…”

As they conferred, Benvolio tapped Escalus’s shoulder. “Where am I to go?”

Escalus looked Benvolio over properly for the first time. He’d lost weight, and was covered in cuts and bruises—some of them, he realized ruefully, likely dealt by Escalus himself—and he was swaying slightly where he stood. He had been through enough at Verona’s hands.

But Benvolio, apparently reading his mind, scowled and said, “I shall not be mewed up in chains of safety while my kin and countrymen are abroad. No one has suffered more at these villains’ hands than I; no one deserves more to face them.”

Escalus nodded. “In that case, you know what I will ask of thee, Benvolio.”