Prince of Shadows: A Novel of Romeo and Juliet (22 page)

I did not need to put myself on the point of Tybalt’s knife, for his uncle drew him back sharply. “No,” he said. “Verona brags of him as a virtuous, well-governed youth, and I would not for the wealth of all the town do him harm here.” His words were honey, but his expression vinegar; he was thinking of the politics of the matter, and of the prince’s royal presence in the very room. “Be patient and take no note of him.” Tybalt made a rough, low sound of protest, and tried to pull free, but his uncle’s grip tightened to steel. “It is
my will
. Show a fair presence and put off these frowns. It ill becomes a feast.”

“It fits when such a villain is a guest; I’ll not endure him!” Tybalt said.

“He
shall
be endured!” Capulet said, and twisted the young man’s arm. “
I
say he shall. Am I the master here, or you?”

“You,” Tybalt gritted out from between his teeth, though his red-faced fury was plain beneath the mask. “’Tis a shame.”

“For shame, I’ll make you quiet,” his uncle replied, and the threat was plain in his voice. “Go to, and cheerfully.”

It was a dismissal, and Tybalt took it as such, though he looked straight murder upon my cousin Romeo, and I knew very well that this would not end with the eldest son of Capulet being sent away without his supper. He pushed his way through the crowd, leaving in the same direction as his sister but with a good deal less grace.

I watched, in outright horror, as Romeo drew the Capulet girl off behind the shadow of a pillar, and their hands entwined in love knots, and their lips met first softly, then more strongly. A Capulet girl would be well ruined tonight, without doubt, but I had not looked to find it here, and from the earnest hands of my cousin.

I was obscurely relieved to see the fat old nurse of the Capulets waddle over to spoil the moment, sending Juliet off to attend her mother, and staying a moment to answer eager questions from my cousin before shaking him off like dust.

I made my way to him, and marked well the pallor of his face, the dark and shocked look of his eyes.

“She is a Capulet,” he said; I do not think he said it to me, more to himself. “My life is my foe’s debt.”

“We must begone,” I said, and grasped his elbow to lead him out. “The sport is over.” If sport it had ever really been. I searched the room for Mercutio, and saw him emerging from an alcove. He spied us, and arrowed our direction, pausing to deliver mocking bows to Capulets along the way.

Capulet himself rose to block us from the exit. His eyes were bitter and black, but his tone had a honeyed, poisoned sweetness. “Gentlemen, do not prepare to be gone just yet; will you not have food from our feast?”

“We’ve had our fill, gentle Capulet,” Mercutio said, and gave him his very deepest, most mocking bow. “Our thanks to you.”

Capulet’s smile curdled like sour milk, and he nodded. “I thank you all; I thank you,
honest gentlemen.
Good night.” He called for torches to see us home, and as if our departure were a signal, many others began to offer their good-byes as well.

Romeo, like Lot’s wife, could not but stare back with pure and aching fascination while I drew him onward, and when I glanced as well I saw the Capulet girl Juliet straining to follow us, against all sense and decorum, and her nurse firmly anchoring her in place.

I felt the same irresistible pull through my cousin’s flesh, trying to draw him back to her. It was more than infatuation, more than love.

It was something darker than that, and with a darker end.

“I must turn back,” he said, as soon as we had him outside in the street. The chill of the night bit hard after the overheated gaiety of the feast, and I wrapped my cloak tighter around my shoulders as I fought to keep hold of him. “Benvolio, I must go
back
!”

Mercutio threw his own arm over Romeo’s shoulders and steered him firmly away from the Capulet palace, and toward our own safer territory. “Madness,” he said, and laughed to rub knuckles over Romeo’s curls. “Give him a taste of his fair Rosaline and he’s hungry all over again. There’s nothing so fair about that wench, or any.”

Romeo began to hotly fire back, but then withheld his choler, and I realized why almost at the same moment: Mercutio, it seemed, had missed Romeo’s encounter with Juliet, and therefore thought his longing was for his obsession of this morning. But no man who’d gazed so hotly on a girl as Romeo had on Juliet could still harbor feelings for another; he’d forgotten Rosaline in the second he’d fixed eyes on her younger cousin.

For some obscure reason, I did not wish to tell Mercutio of it, and I could see that Romeo was likewise reluctant.

“Mayhap you’re right,” I said, drawing the focus from Romeo’s sudden silence. “Home with us, then. We’ve scored a coup this night; Capulet had to swallow their pride and allow us to put our feet beneath their table. Grandmother will be well pleased with that.”

“I put my feet beneath more than their table,” Mercutio said, and gave me a wild, sharp grin like the edge of a dagger. “She’ll be better pleased than you know.”

I felt a surge of anger, of dislike, and looked away from him. He was not, I thought, the friend I had known for so long. He was whole without, and ruined within, twisted and burned and blackened, and I mourned for him, because the Mercutio I had loved died on a rope months ago.

“Home,” I said, under my breath. “Home and safe.”

Though I had the disquieting notion that what had just occurred would follow us no matter how far we ran, and that safety would never again be ours.

    
FROM THE DIARY OF VERONICA MONTAGUE, BURNED UPON ORDERS OF LADY MONTAGUE

My brother, Ben, has done everything possible to avoid me these past months, since the death of the pervert outside the city wall; God wills that these vile, unnatural sinners be condemned and cast out, and whatever Benvolio believes (heretic that he is), I believe that I did God’s business in whispering of the assignation—still, best the blame fall on the Capulet whore, for safety’s sake, for Mercutio makes a bad enemy. I had thought he would swing alongside, but his father was too merciful, and now I must beware constantly of his wrath. ’Tis lucky I thought to swing the guilt toward our enemies when I did.

Benvolio knows the truth, and hates me as much as a brother might hate a sister, but I do not think he would break ranks to betray me to his friend. I keep a watchful eye, nonetheless.

The banns have been cried, and my marriage day approaches! Would that I could marry a young and virile man, but Lord Enfeebled is still rich, and I will have wealth and position enough to move among the finest company. God grant that he expires soon, or I will have to visit that witch they whisper of in town to procure something to speed him on his way. My old nurse says that many a gouty old goat of a husband has been hurried to paradise; I think it more likely they have been shown the straight path to the devil’s own bedchamber.

When I am wedded, for safety’s sake, I will put it about that Benvolio and Mercutio are . . . more than friends. It will be easily believed, and this time, both with pay with their lives; even the softhearted prince will see that it must be done. All that I need do is purchase some commoner witnesses to swear they glimpsed such unnatural practices, and any risk from my brother will be finished.

But first, the wedding. I have insisted upon the finest quality for the feast, as befits a woman with such a well-endowed purse, and I am inviting the better half of Verona to celebrate with me. My mother is pinch-faced about the expense, but she’s ever treated me as her lesser child; I will see she pays me some due before I leave her maternal embrace.

’Tis a pity that men run the world. I was born to be a prince.

I suppose I will settle for marrying one, when this old fool is dead.

W
e
eks passed.

The mood between our houses turned ever darker. Hatred grew on hatred, quickly and violently, for slights both real and imagined. No edict from the prince could stop it from coming to blood. First, a distant Capulet cousin was knifed in the street by someone not even allied to our house, yet it was cried about on Montague; next, a Montague servant was set upon and beaten to death while on an errand for my aunt, and this was—possibly unfairly—set at the Capulets’ door.

And as untimely as ever, my sister’s wedding approached at the speed of a runaway horse, and with as much decorum; Veronica had turned shrill and moody, and nothing was good enough, not even the fit or fabric of the gown. My mother was tight-lipped on the subject, but my uncle was not so circumspect; he complained, loudly and often, of the lavish expense in ridding himself of the unwanted burden of a niece. Whatever he had cheated from her bridegroom would hardly cover the cost, though we all secretly rejoiced that she would soon be gone.

I came around the corner from my apartments on a bright Thursday morning, with the Angelus bell’s chime still hanging in the air, and found Veronica weeping on a bench in the garden. She was sitting uncovered in the sun, which was strange to see—she always claimed that sun ruined a woman’s skin, and yet here she was, bathed in the glow, disheveled and red eyed, with a single maid hovering anxiously nearby to catch the wet kerchiefs as Veronica finished with them. The maid had not escaped my sister’s ill temper, I saw; there was a red mark on her cheek in the shape of a plump small hand. Perhaps she’d not brought enough kerchiefs to soak up Veronica’s tears.

I tried to move past without incident, but Veronica looked up and in a choked, watery voice, whispered, “Benvolio? Please . . .”

I could not remember a time she had ever used such a word, and so I paused, to gaze down at her. I did not feel any sympathy. Whatever troubles she suffered, she had more than earned them, and I had not forgotten our filthy family secret. The blood that was on her dainty hands had rubbed off on mine, and I would never forgive her for that.

“What?” I asked. It sounded abrupt, but I did not care, not at all.

She burst into tears again, this time (I was sure) feigning grief. I was tempted to walk on, but the maid sent me a beseeching look, and since I pitied her mightily for her role in soothing Veronica, I sighed and sank down on the bench next to my sister. “What?” I asked again, more gently.

“Nothing’s as I thought it would be,” she said, and muffled her words against the kerchief. “The dress is wretched, Benvolio, our uncle has imposed such a restraint on it that it won’t flatter me, and the feast—why, there’s hardly a feast at all! It’s the one day when I can show my quality to the women of Verona, and he’s making me hardly better than a common fishwife. . . . How can I rise in esteem with such a beginning?”

Not so much a female complaint as a problem of ambition meeting its limits, then. “It’s of no matter,” I said. “You bring the family blood of Montague, and your husband is rich enough. Society will embrace you as a woman of quality, Veronica.” God help society, but what I said was true. “Now stop your tears. It ill becomes a woman grown to weep like a spoiled child.”

She sent me a murderous glare through swollen lids, but she wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and threw the soiled kerchief to her attendant. Then she stood up, smoothed her skirts and patted her hair (none of which made any difference to the red mottling on her tearstained face), and took in a deep, trembling breath. “You are acid and vinegar, brother dear, but at least you are bracing. Tell me, then, how fares your friend Mercutio?”

I sensed a barb under the honey, and was instantly wary. “Happily espoused. I see him little now. He has new responsibilities.”

“Espoused,” she agreed. “But happily? It stretches the word’s meaning to say so.” She leaned closer, and dropped her voice to a low whisper. “I hear that he saw a witch. Perhaps to cure himself of his . . . appetites?”

I shoved her away. “Peddle your gossip somewhere else,” I said. “Witches! What next, then? Furies and dragons? Will the old Roman gods come down from Olympus?”

She shuddered and crossed herself. “I pray not. But you should not mock, brother. Witches exist; all the churchmen say it. It takes a dire cause to drive him to one.”

“Then go be pious and pray for Mercutio’s immortal soul,” I said, and stood up. “Pray for mine, while you’re at it. I’m sure I have sins to be forgiven.”

“Many,” she agreed with false sweetness, and snapped open a fan. “I should leave this dreadful sunshine. It won’t do to go to my wedding with spots!”

I wished her a plague of them, as disfiguring as possible, but I said nothing, only stepped aside as she swept past me, heading indoors. Her servant followed with a handful of soiled kerchiefs she’d have to wash and iron and have ready for the next ill-tempered tempest, which might come any moment. She, at least, had my genuine sympathy.

Two more days passed, each another twist of the strangling cord of tension that gripped our household; I kept within the precincts of the palazzo, and so did most of us. Veronica threw more fits, but I observed them only at a hearty distance. My grandmother demanded my attendance once, to interrogate me on Romeo’s behavior and express her pleasure at what had occurred at the Capulet feast; it seemed rumor had run riot in the streets that we had trespassed with impunity, and that one of the minor Capulet girls had been sent, in haste, from the city. Mercutio’s doing, but the old witch was eager to take the credit for Montague.

As to Romeo, he seemed quiet. Subdued, in fact. I saw no more poesies from his pen lauding Rosaline’s beauty, at least, so perhaps the visit to the Capulet feast had yielded some positive result after all.

By the end of that time, the tension and suppressed violence of the household drove me out into the dark once more. I crawled rooftops, dropped silent into bedchambers, and took away the adornments and prizes and secrets our enemies cherished. It was a busy few nights, seeking out Capulet allies and discovering their vices; some were expensive but not sinful, like the man who had an entire room filled with brocades and silks—not for his wife or daughters, apparently, since there were also finished (and never worn) doublets and cloaks made to his measure. I took the richest selection of fabrics and had them sent to my mother and aunt as a gift from a friendly merchant willing to conceal the silk’s origins in order to draw their business toward him.

But there were far darker secrets, and less cheerful prizes. I found a heavy, locked chest in the home of a count, and instead of gems discovered inside the body of a young servant girl; this I left in place, as it was too unwieldy to move, but posted an accusing letter on the church door, along with the bloody silk banner in which she’d been wrapped. I doubted he would ever pay for the crime, but the girl’s pitiful, huddled end had deserved that much effort.

On a moonless night, carefully chosen for cover, I crept into Capulet’s feasting hall, removed the banner, and stole the most doleful-seeming donkey I could find; it bore the indignity of being tarted up with the florid silk banner, and the all-too-drunken Capulet adherent I’d paid to ride it through the streets as a tribute. Unfortunately for the fool, he ran afoul of a nest of his own. It did not end well for him.

I missed having Mercutio at my back. I was taking risks, I knew—ones that might destroy me. But it was as hard to stop stealing as others found it to give up drinking.
Perhaps I’ll give it up for Lent,
I thought as I crouched in the shadows atop a roof, watching the moon rise. It was only a quarter full, and was the color of rich cream. So many stars above, and as I stared upward, I spotted a vivid shooting star that burned as red as Lucifer’s horns. It was gone in a few seconds.

I heard someone passing below on the street, and flattened myself; in the dark, I would be just another decorative corner to the roof, but the moon illuminated the passerby clearly. He was alone, and anonymous in a worn cloak too big for him, but when a stray gust of wind caught the edges and sent them flying, I spotted the familiar, deadly line of a rapier. No commoner, though he had left off his finery save for the sword.

I was curious. The hour was very late, and I was very bored, waiting for my latest target to douse lights; I made a decision, lowered myself to the iron of a balcony, and then from there to the cobbles, where I quickly stepped to the shadows as he turned. I’d made no noise; this was a man on business just as illicit as mine, clearly.

I followed him down the winding streets. He turned in the shadow of the cathedral, and from there we were in less friendly territory—for me, at any rate, since it was Capulet controlled, and patrolled by their men. I took to higher ground again—rooftops—and watched the brave (or foolish) wanderer. He had sense enough to hide when Capulet guards ambled by, arrogant and loud, spoiling for a fight; as soon as they’d sauntered on, he hurried around the corner.

I dropped down to the street, following in the shadows, and was on the point of avoiding a man asleep in a doorway, cradling a wineskin, when my dark-adapted eyes picked out the familiar sigil of the Ordelaffi on the drunkard’s doublet, and the changeable, cloud-draped moonlight limned the sharp lines of his face.

Mercutio.
He was drunk and asleep—muddy and filthy in a doorway that, unless my nose had numbed itself, had been used as a privy more than once.

My casual curiosity about the wayward traveler I’d been tracking vanished, and I glanced about to be sure no one was watching. I still held doubts about Mercutio—we’d avoided his company since the last ordeal of the Capulet feast—but for the love I had once borne him, I could not leave him lying dirty in the street, an object of mockery and a target for thieves and murderers.

I tossed the wine aside, which woke a sleepy murmur from him, and pulled him up to a sitting position. He was as boneless as a corpse, if considerably more mobile, since he shoved at me with ineffective, drunken fury and then flopped back flat on the dirty cobbles.

“I should leave you here, fool,” I said to him in a low, fierce voice, but in truth, my guts ached for him; this was no simple indulgence, coming here into enemy territory. He’d made himself a true foe of the Capulets at the feast by bringing us under his invitation, and for him to be lingering here, helpless . . . it smelled of a desperate desire to meet his God.

I got him on his feet, with great effort, and held him there with his arm around my shoulders. We had stumbled on for several steps before he seemed to realize that he was upright, and several more before he said, tentatively, “Benvolio?”

“Aye,” I said. “Hush, fool; know you not where we are?”

“In the lion’s den, my Daniel,” Mercutio said, and laughed, raw with wine and a barely suppressed wildness. “Hear them roar? Raaaaaar!” He swiped at me with a claw-crooked hand, which I slapped aside. He giggled and nearly slipped to the ground again, but I bolstered him up. “Have you any shiny trinkets tonight? No? What good are you, then, for a thief?”

“Quiet!” This, I realized, had been a mistake, however good-hearted my intentions. Whatever demon drove my friend to drink himself senseless within the easy grasp of his foes would also push him to betray us both. “For the love of God, man, even if you court your own death, don’t court mine!”

He giggled again and shushed himself—noisily—as we stumbled along. If we ran into a Capulet watch, all would be lost; I was anonymously dressed, but Mercutio wore Ordelaffi colors. I stripped off my long cloak and threw it over his shoulders, shrouding the betraying crest.

As we turned the corner, I spotted the single, stealthy traveler I’d started out to follow. He was staring up at a wall, and as I watched, he sprang up and began to climb it. I knew that clumsy scramble, especially when his hood fell back and moonlight exposed his face, angelic and determined beneath a riot of black curls.

My cousin Romeo.

I bit back the impulse to call to him, warn him; the wall, I well remembered, was trapped at the top, and he was ill prepared to deal with such things . . . but I had underestimated him, and as he scrambled up, he balanced carefully above the sharp points, and vaulted over with more grace than I’d have credited. Perhaps my cousin had learned something from me after all.

“Romeo!” Mercutio suddenly brayed, and I almost dropped him in my surprise.

“Hush, man; he’s leaped the orchard wall—”

“Nay, he’s stolen off to bed, but
whose
bed?” Mercutio thumped me painfully in the chest with an outstretched finger. “I’ll conjure him, like that mad old witch—no, hush; we speak not of witches. . . . Romeo! Humors! Madman! Passion! Lover!”

He was too loud, far too loud, and I shoved him onward, desperate to get him away. He dragged his heels, and would not quieten, rambling nonsense that I only half heard. “The ape is dead, and I must conjure him. . . . I conjure you by Rosaline’s bright eyes, by her high forehead and her scarlet lips, by her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh, and the domains that there adjacent lie—”