Still Star-Crossed (35 page)

Benvolio’s gaze followed Escalus’s up the hill. “Paris.”

Paris’s army was in sight by noon.

Rosaline watched them crest the hill with a shiver. A team
of the prince’s men had borne Livia back within the city as gently as they could, but her moans of pain would haunt Rosa line’s dreams.

Now they were ensconced in the topmost tower of the palace, where Escalus had insisted on installing them. “If the city should fall, every guard in this palace shall fight to the death to protect you.”

Hardly comforting, since that would mean that everyone they knew was dead, but Rosaline was glad of a safe place for Livia, and for the prince’s physicians, who were currently clustered about her sister’s bed.

Livia gasped her name, and Rosaline flew to her side, grasping her hand in hers. “Shh, shh. Rest.”

Livia shook her head and said in a dry whisper, “I’m sorry—should have—known—should have said—”

Rosaline shook her head. “Hush, little one. ’Tis no fault of thine.”

A pale hint of her usual humor crept into Livia’s eyes. “Always—think I’m a child.”

It was true. Rosaline had paid little attention to Livia these last weeks. It never would have occurred to her that her impish little baby sister could have involved herself in trouble such as this—or that she could have kept it secret from Rosaline for so long. She pressed Livia’s fingers to her lips. “No child could have been as brave as thou wast today.”

“Paris told me—” Livia coughed, and with an effort continued, “He told me thou hadst fled Verona forever. ’Tis how I knew he lied. Thou wouldst not leave me so without a word.”

A tear slipped over Rosaline’s nose. “No, nor may’st thou leave me.”

But if Livia had a retort to that, Rosaline was not to learn it, for she fainted once more. Escalus’s chief physician took Rosaline’s arm, drawing her from Livia’s bedside.

“Let her rest now.”

“Will she—” Rosaline could barely force the words past the lump in her throat. Livia’s breathing was shallow, her cheek nearly as pale as the pillow where it lay. “Will she live?”

“While she breathes, there is hope.” But the man’s face was grim. Rosaline gripped his arm as the room seemed to swim around her.

There was a little cough. “Lady Rosaline?”

Rosaline took a deep breath until the world solidified, and turned to find Chancellor Penlet hovering in the doorway. He gave another little cough, then said, “His Grace would speak with you.” His gaze swept over her. “My … lady.” The following cough was rather distressed. Rosaline realized she was still wearing Benvolio’s clothes, now thick with grime and blood. She offered Penlet a manly bow just to irk him further, then slipped past him and down the stairs.

Benvolio and Escalus were waiting for her in the chamber below. She paused on the landing, regarding them. Both were armor-clad, Benvolio in a breastplate with a Montague crest, the prince in a shining silver helmet surmounted by a stylized golden crown. She shivered. The handsome prince who’d begged to win her heart, the young man who’d mocked and goaded and kissed her—they were going to war.

Both looked up as she descended to them. The prince’s gaze was solemn, but questioning. Benvolio, on the other hand, offered her a quick grin and winked behind the prince’s back. “Your Grace,” she said. “Signor Benvolio.”

Escalus took her arm and drew her a little ways away from his companion. “Verona owes you a debt, lady,” he said stiffly. “Our city’s gates would never have been closed in time without you. Your bravery puts my boldest men to shame.”

She winced. Such rigid formality, she knew, masked hurt. “I did but what I must, for you, and for Verona.”

“And for Benvolio,” he said softly.

She ducked her head. “He needed my help.”

“And so thou didst flee with him, under the cover of night.” He drew a shaky breath. “I thought he’d killed thee.”

She turned tear-filled eyes up to his. “Escalus—”

“Nay.” He pressed two fingers to her lips. “Now is the hour for war, not the heart.” He took her face in his hands, heedless of their audience, and kissed her forehead. “I am glad thou liv’st, lady. All else shall keep till after we have prevailed in battle.”

“Ahem.”

“Ay, by and by, Penlet.” Escalus kissed her hand in farewell and took his leave, Benvolio at his heels. Rosaline waited for him to bid her farewell too, but he said not a word, and her cheeks flamed as she realized he had overheard what had just passed. She mouthed his name, but he merely jerked a bow and then he too was gone. They had not spoken a word to each other since that night in Paris’s camp.

Turning, she flew back up the stairs, pelting into the tower
and throwing herself halfway out the window. Far below, two armor-clad figures rode toward the gate. One of them stopped to look back up at her. On impulse, Rosaline pulled out her handkerchief and let it flutter from her fingers down to the courtyard below.

She did not see who caught it.

The Battle of Verona was soon joined.

As Benvolio’s uncle had surmised, Paris’s forces were mercenaries for the most part. They had expected a rich prize, easily won; many of them turned and ran the moment they saw Verona’s forces massed and waiting for them. But even so, Paris remained the commander of an immense horde, and they had come prepared for battle, while Verona’s men had only scant hours to make ready. The plain that lay to the east of the city, usually dusty and quiet, was soon a-clang with sword against sword and awash with blood.

Benvolio patted his mount’s neck—not the exhausted Silvius, but a steady enough creature of the prince’s—and raised his sword, guiding his company to draw in and shore up its flank. The prince had put him in command of a small force of Verona’s best warriors. They darted from one knot of fighting to the next, offering what aid they could. Benvolio was glad to be of service, for Verona’s beleaguered forces needed every scrap of aid they could get. He just hoped he lived long enough to fulfill the task the prince had set him.

A broken cry to his left drew his attention, and he looked
over and saw a slight Verona youth struggling with a much larger foe. Wheeling his mount about, he bore down on the pair. One swipe of his blade effectively drew the enemy’s attention from the boy to himself. The mercenary, a man of forty with mismatched armor and a long brown beard, snarled a gold-toothed grin and aimed a jab at Benvolio’s side, which he neatly parried. A few more passes, and the man realized he was overmatched and withdrew, leaving Benvolio to bend over the boy, who was hunched with his hands cupping his side.

“How now, sir knight?”

The boy shook his head. “ ’Tis but a scratch.”

Benvolio pulled his hands away and suppressed a hiss. Quite a scratch. “Marry, Signor …”

“Lucio. Of House Capulet.”

“Signor Lucio, thou hast done a man’s work today. ’Tis time to retire. Hie thee back to the city.”

“Nay. I’ll not withdraw a coward.” Young Lucio had a familiar stubborn chin. Over his shoulder, Benvolio caught the eye of another young Capulet, this one slightly older. Valentine, he thought. The youth had much the look of his cousin Tybalt. He offered Benvolio a slow nod. Benvolio had no time to do more than return his salute before their attention was called back to the battle before them.

Old Montague was fighting for his life.

His arms, once strong and terrible, trembled under the
brunt of yet another blow. He spared a glance behind him, but there was no path to take in retreat—nothing but foes, as far as the eye could see. Years of practice kept his sword arm moving, parrying, avoiding his opponent’s blade, but it was only a matter of time. He would see his wife and son before the day was out.

“Yahh! Back and back, you misbegotten swag-headed puttocks!”

The weight on Montague’s sword arm was suddenly relieved when a mountain of flesh and steel surged between him and his opponent. He knew that vast form. Lord Capulet wore a helmet and shoulder guards, but no breastplate—doubtless it had grown too small for him in the years since he’d had need of it. He shed drops of sweat as he swung his sword in a great arc over his head with a roar. Montague would not have thought his old rival could move half that fast—was fairly certain that the man had not done so these twenty years—but corpulent though his form had grown, it seemed a warrior’s grace and zeal had not entirely deserted it. Well, a warrior’s zeal, at least. The invader, taken by surprise by the behemoth suddenly hacking at him, faltered under his swift attack, and after a moment wheeled about and retreated toward his own forces.

“That’s right! Tell them ’twas Capulet that sent you hence!” Lord Capulet yelled after him. “By God, there’s vinegar in me yet!” He turned to Lord Montague and said, “Well met, sir, whoe’er you may be, for all men of Verona are as brothers today— Oh it’s
you
.”

Montague had raised his helm, revealing his face, and he
could not help but laugh at the look of dismay on his old foe’s face. “Brothers indeed, for you have saved me, sir,” he said. “A sweeter revenge you could not have than to put me in the debt of my most loathed enemy. I pray I shall have the chance to return the offense before the day is out.”

Capulet, after a moment, harrumphed a laugh as well. “Come, you old scoundrel, let’s play out our fury ’gainst our foes and not each other for this day. With luck, one or both of us will fall to the enemy, and none need tell of this shameful passage.” Together, they wheeled their horses and charged back into the fray, roaring out their battle cries.

“For Montague!”

“For Capulet!”

“For Verona!”

His city and his crown, he feared, were lost.

Verona’s forces fought on bravely, and never had Escalus felt more fierce pride in the city he ruled. But Paris’s army was simply too numerous. Little by little, they were slicing Escalus’s army away, forcing them back toward the city walls. The ground was littered with Verona’s dead. The northern gate had briefly been breached, and though only a small force had made it into the city proper, repelling them had cost many lives.

Escalus surveyed the field with a lump in his throat. His own life was nothing, compared to the safety of the city. To protect it, he would do the unthinkable. He would surrender.