Still Star-Crossed (4 page)

And just like that, his friends—ghosts, memories, what you will—were gone, and Benvolio walked on alone through the deepening darkness of the Verona streets, his hand tightened on his sword, not sure if he wanted to prevent a fight or start one.

The choice was made for him when a woman’s scream shattered the night air. Benvolio ran toward the sound, feet slipping against the cobblestones in his haste. The scream came again, and Benvolio’s heart tightened as he realized the sound was coming from the graveyard—the recent home of so many of Verona’s young nobles. From the sound of it, someone was trying to give them yet another new neighbor.

Benvolio’s breath burnt in his lungs as he churned up the hill to the graveyard gates. Five young men stood clustered there. He recognized several of them. His jaw clenched.
Orlino, Marius, and Truchio were young Montague cousins. They’d idolized Romeo. No great surprise to see them starting trouble now, but he’d have thought they had better taste than to do it in the shadow of the new statues of Romeo and his bride, Juliet.

He drew nearer, and sure enough, steel glinted in the torchlight. His young kinsmen faced off against two other youths, swords raised. Benvolio cursed silently. The pair wore the Capulet crest on their sashes.

“Misbegotten Capulet stale!”

At first Benvolio thought Orlino’s vile insult was intended for the statue of Juliet. But his sneer was directed at the ground. Benvolio realized there was a woman sprawled in the dirt between the swordsmen. The black of her mourning dress had melted her into the shadows.

One of the other young men raised his sword. “Say another word, Montague, and I’ll make you eat it!” he shouted at Orlino, the threat rather undermined by the way his voice cracked.

Orlino dipped his sword toward the woman on the ground. “I’ll make
her
eat it.”

The Capulet youth leapt forward with a cry of rage, and Orlino met him without hesitation. Steel rang against steel over the woman’s flinching body, and Benvolio stepped forward. That was quite enough.

“Hold!” he roared. “What is the meaning of this?”

The pack of young swordsmen froze as they realized there was a newcomer. “Benvolio!” Truchio said. “These Capulet scoundrels call us liars. We aim to correct them.”

“As if you could,” one of the young Capulets yelled, his voice shaking with anger. “We know full well you are liars and villains. Who but a whoreson Montague would so befoul our kinswoman’s memory?”

Benvolio followed his gaze to the statue of Juliet, Romeo’s five-day bride. He drew in a sharp breath. The Capulet had cause for his wrath—someone had scrawled
HARLOT
across her pretty face in black paint.

There was a shout behind him. While his back was turned, one of the Capulet lads had attacked. Instantly, the air rang with the disharmonious music of sword against sword as all the young men joined the fray. Young Truchio, the smaller of the Montague lads, faltered under the assault of one of the Capulets, who feinted under his arm and nicked him, a spot of blood appearing on his doublet. Orlino leapt to his aid, and the prostrate girl gave a ragged cry as Orlino trod right over her.

“I said
hold!
”

Wrath sang through Benvolio’s blood as he roared the command, so potent he was almost glad the fighters ignored him. His own sword was out and raised in an instant. Finally, a channel for the lonely, bottomless fury that had him stalking Verona’s streets all night. He cared for neither Capulet nor Montague. These fools all needed to be taught a lesson, and Benvolio was the man to do it.

He laid about him right and left, striking Montague and Capulet boys alike with the flat of his blade. His blood thundered in his veins and he felt a fierce grin spreading across his face. For the first moment since his friends had died, he
felt like himself. Mercutio had been their clown, and Romeo their leader, but it was Benvolio who was the true swordsman. Whatever else had happened, his sword still fought true.

Despite his skill and the others’ youth, five on one was a challenge. He would have to disarm them quickly. He turned on his kinsmen first. Benvolio slammed his hilt down on Truchio’s sword hand, sending his rapier falling from his grip. Before it had hit the ground, Benvolio had sent Marius’s sword to join it with a flick of his wrist. Orlino, seeing his older cousin’s wrath, lowered his sword and drew back. At least one of Benvolio’s kinsmen had sense.

The two Capulet lads, seeing their enemies disarmed and not caring by whom, pressed forward in triumph. But Benvolio was far from finished. He turned to face them.

“Poor Benvolio,” one of the Capulets mocked. “So mired in grief for his sweet slain cousin that he cannot tell friend from foe.”

“Fear not,” said the other. “We’ll teach you to remember.”

Benvolio huffed a breath, flicking his sweaty hair back. “How kind. But you will find me slow of study.” And he was upon them. Unlike his kinsmen, they were ready for him, and they pushed him back steadily till his back was pressed against Romeo’s statue.

But they were unused to fighting as a pair. One boy got tangled in his fellow’s feet and fell, and before he could right himself Benvolio had kicked his sword away. After that the other was quickly dispatched, and Benvolio stood panting over the groaning, disarmed youths of both houses.

Catching his breath, he pointed his sword toward the statue of Romeo that rose above them, gazing with eternal longing at his Juliet. “My cousin married a Capulet,” he told the pack of them. “Thus you are all my kinsmen now. ’Tis the only reason no man”—he snorted and corrected himself—“no
boy
among you felt more than the flat of my blade this night. Go home, all of you. Next time I’ll not be so kind, kin or no, and neither will the prince’s men should they find you.”

Truchio struggled to his feet. “Cousin, they—”

“GO!”

They went. Sullen, sore, but they went, Marius and Truchio down toward the square, the Capulets east to the hills, and Benvolio breathed out a sigh of relief. No one would die this night.

Wait. Where was the lady?

Benvolio whipped around just in time to spot Orlino dragging a struggling female form behind a vault.

Heaven above. Would it never end?

The Montague held Rosaline’s arm fast.

Rosaline struggled to free herself from his hold. He was older than the other Montagues, with the size and strength of a man, if not the sense of one. When this Benvolio had appeared, she’d thought she was saved, and she’d tried to slip away during the fighting. But this villain had followed her. One of his hands gripped her arm so hard she was sure he’d leave a bruise.

If she survived, that was.

“Do not do this,” she begged, fear stealing her voice. “The prince hath commanded—”

“Hang the prince.”

“But you will be exiled, killed—there is peace between our families now, you know there is—”

His hand cracked across her cheek. “I need no lesson in law from a Capulet jade.” Rosaline clutched her cheek, willing the tears from her eyes. Her captor looked her over, his young face twisted with hate. He shoved her to the ground.

“We never defiled your thrice-damned Juliet’s statue,” he said.

Despite the circumstances, Rosaline let out a laugh. “Who but the Montagues would do that to poor Jule?”

The Montague boy’s jaw clenched. “Think you so? I’ll make your lies true and one better. Aye, I’ll carve
harlot
on the face of a Capulet—one who can still weep for her lost beauty.” With that, he advanced on her, sword held high. Rosaline’s stomach roiled as she realized his intent. She tried to scramble backward, but he lunged for her, grabbing her by the hair. His other hand brought his blade closer, and closer, the tip gleaming in the torchlight as it drew near to Rosaline’s face. She shut her eyes tight. The cold steel kissed her cheek and she prepared herself to feel the agony of the blade.

It never came.

Her attacker gave a yell and Rosaline felt his sword drop away. She opened her eyes to find him locked in a struggle with the man who had joined the fight before.

The two swordsmen separated and stood, facing each other, blades raised.

“The Capulets spoke aright, Benvolio,” her attacker said. “The loss of thy playfellows has made a weak, womanish fool of thee. Thou shouldst join me in teaching this canker-blossom a lesson.”

The other man just lifted his sword higher and growled, “Not another word out of thy craven mouth, Orlino.”

Then they were upon each other, and Rosaline gasped, her heart pounding as their swords slashed the air faster than her eye could follow.

The fight was short but brutal. Rosaline could see that the two Montagues knew each other’s swordsmanship—they targeted each other’s weaknesses with terrifying accuracy. The younger man had the first touch, nicking Benvolio’s arm, and Rosaline cried out, certain her defender was defeated, but he ignored the slash on his sleeve and somehow twisted his foot with his opponent’s, and suddenly Rosaline’s foe was sprawled in the dust, his sword lay six feet away, and her savior had the point of his blade at the man’s throat.

“Yield.”

“Benvolio, ’twas just a bit of—”

“Yield.”

“Very well.” He raised his hands sullenly. “Now will you let me rise, cousin?”

The other man stood frozen, as though he had not heard him.

“Cousin? Benvolio? What—”

Benvolio’s sword flashed, and then Rosaline’s assailant was crying out, hands clutched to his face. He pulled his hands away to stare at the red that coated them. Benvolio had given Orlino a long slash across his right cheek.

“How dare you!” Orlino snarled as he struggled to his feet.

Benvolio stepped back, lowering his sword at last. “I’d dare much worse against any man who raised his sword against a lady, no matter her name. Get thee gone, Orlino, and never touch her again.”

Orlino glared at them both. His breath was coming in pained hisses. Blood was streaming down his cheek, coating his neck and staining his doublet, but his injuries did not prevent his face from twisting with anger. Rosaline’s sweaty hands clutched her gown. Had she really thought him a boy? No child’s face could hold such hate.

“You’ll hear more from Orlino anon,” he promised. “Both of you.” Then he stumbled out into the darkness and was gone.

“Are you well, lady?” The victorious Montague turned and knelt before Rosaline, and finally she saw her savior plain.

He was young—not so young as her assailants, nor as the Capulet cousins they’d brawled with, but younger than she would have thought for such a skilled swordsman. No more than eighteen. But something in how he held himself made him seem much older.

Even had he not named himself a Montague, Rosaline would have known him for one. Pale skin, proud features,
dark hair that must have many times been the despair of a nurse’s comb—aye, here was one of the handsome, dark, devilish Montagues her mother had warned her of when she was a child. He looked familiar, but she did not think they’d ever met. She’d seen most of the young Montagues from a distance, at feasts and in the market, but Romeo was the only one she had ever spoken to at any length. Montagues and Capulets did not mix.

“I am well,” she said, running shaky hands over her muddy gown. It took her a moment to be sure it was true. A bit bruised by Montague and Capulet feet, for she’d walked into this brawl before she knew what had happened, and her own kin were more interested in crossing swords with Montagues than helping her to escape. She would be black and blue tomorrow, but only her pride was seriously hurt.

He extended a hand, and when she flinched, he laughed at her a little. “Come, lady,” he said. “They have all gone, leaving only me, who neither threatened you nor trod upon you.”

The crooked smile flared and disappeared from his face in an instant, but Rosaline was surprised to find it warmed away some of the icy fear in her breast. “ ’Tis true. Mine own cousins, well-meaning though they were, could not say the same, as you can see from the boot prints on my gown. Good sir, I thank you.” She extended her hand, allowing him to pull her to her feet.

He sketched a bow. “Your servant, lady.” As he bent over, she spotted a flash of red under his torn sleeve. Rosaline rushed forward.

“You’re hurt!”

“ ’Tis nothing,” he protested, but Rosaline had already gone to soak her clean handkerchief in water from a nearby fountain. She was greatly in this man’s debt; she must at least try to repay it. She returned and sat him down on the steps of a convenient tomb so she could wash the dirt from his wound.

“Nothing it may be for one so stalwart as you,” she said, “but since we of the weaker sex are known to swoon at the sight of blood, if you are a courteous gentleman you will let me clean it for you.”

She stood over him and carefully peeled his sleeve away. He bit back a hiss as she began to dab the blood away from his wound. It wasn’t a grave injury—less likely to scar than the cut he’d given his cousin. He looked up at her as she worked. Rosaline could see the ruddy torchlight reflected in his eyes. “A lady of your beauty is right welcome to swoon into my arms whene’er you wish.”