Prince of Shadows: A Novel of Romeo and Juliet (9 page)

“Perhaps,” she said. “But your grandmother has already made it very clear that you will be married by the end of the year. Your friend Mercutio’s banns have already been posted. She’s busy matchmaking for Romeo as well. Her intent is to see the next generation of Montagues and their close allies well into the world before she quits it, you know.”

“She’ll never quit this world,” I said. “Surely a walking corpse fired by cankerous hatred can’t die. From the feel of her rooms, she already burns in hell.”

Her back stiffened, and her eyes widened in alarm. “Benvolio!”

“She’s no spies here. I can say what I like. God knows there’s nowhere else I’m allowed.” I felt angry and strangely exhausted, and I was glad to see Balthasar ease into the room with a tray of bread, cheese, water, fruit, and juices. He set it on the bed and withdrew to a respectful distance to stand guard at the locked door. “Have you breakfasted?”

“Hours ago,” my mother said crisply. “Before mass, which you should have attended. I expect you will remonstrate with your manservant for allowing you to oversleep the hour.”

“I’ll strap him until he yells,” I lied, and bit into a succulent peach. A lazy wasp buzzed in the window, drawn by the sticky sweet juice, and Balthasar sprang into action to shoo it out again. The battle between swift wings and clumsy batting hands was entertaining, at least. “What news at the church?”

“Nothing definite,” she said. “There’s a whisper of trouble at the Capulet palazzo with one of the girls; they both pled sickness today, though Lady Capulet and her entourage came.”

“And Tybalt?”

“Present, though largely absent, if you take my meaning. He looked as ill as you. There were bruises on his hands. You did not brawl with him, did you? You know the prince has taken a dim view of public disturbances. And, of course, your grandmother would expect a more fatal outcome if you did so.”

“I did not brawl with anyone,” I said, but she cast a pointed look at my knuckles. I looked down, and was surprised to see a faint shadow of bruising there, and a small cut. “Ah. Perhaps I did. My memory of last night is clear as . . . wine.” No, I did remember. I’d punched Romeo for his unforgivable obsession with Rosaline Capulet. In the cold light of morning, and my mother’s judgmental stare, I told myself that it had been purely to defend the family honor. “It wasn’t a Capulet.”

Her gaze was far too sharp for comfort. “The Capulet maidens were not in attendance. Might it have something to do with them?”

“No.”

“You offered them no offense?”

“Have I ever?” I raised my eyebrows and—deliberately—took another bite of my peach.

“Did you see them?”

“If I ever have, I hardly remember. I hear the elder girl is too studious, and the younger too sweet, and not even you would present them as possible brides.” I finished the peach and put the pit on the tray, then yawned. “Are you finished disapproving for the morning? If you are, please have juice; Balthasar has brought too much.”

I didn’t think she would—my mother rarely lowered her guard, even with me—but after a stiff moment she sighed and reached for one of the goblets on the tray. There was a very slight loosening of her shoulders, and now that she was not so fiercely armored I noticed the fine lines around her eyes, and the faint shadow of weariness beneath. Life for my mother, in this house, was a lifetime of living under siege. Romeo had told me the stories he’d had of his own nurse about my mother’s grief and distraction when my father died, but by the time I was old enough to note it, she had moved from tears to a resigned, chilly silence. To me, as a child, she had been as beautiful and unapproachable as the marble Madonna on her fountain—an icon of love, but not love itself.

She sipped juice for a moment in silence, then said, “Your sister has suggested a match for you.” There was nothing to indicate whether she approved of the idea or not, but any mention of Veronica woke deep feelings of alarm in me. “The Scalas’ second girl. Have you a strong opinion on the matter?”

I considered, because—surprisingly—I did not. I knew nothing of the girl in question, save that her name was Giuliana, and she seemed quiet. I could not even give an opinion as to whether she was fair; I’d scarcely noticed her at all, the few times I’d been near. But if dear Veronica put her forth, surely there was a snake hiding in that plain, deceptive grass.

“I would have to inspect her,” I said.

“Something will be arranged. I will expect you to give it your attention, Benvolio.” She replaced the emptied cup on the tray, nodding to Balthasar, and he whisked it away. “These are dangerous times. Very dangerous.”

“For Montague? It’s always dangerous.”

“No,” she said, and her green eyes locked on mine, like on like. “For
us
, my son. For you and me. I have ever been tolerated within the family, and while your grandmother needs you, she favors your cousin over all. I understand she set you a task.”

“I’m to keep Romeo out of trouble,” I said, and forced a casual smile. “Surely no more difficult than to stop the wind from blowing. Trouble and Romeo are long wedded.”

“That is my point,” she said softly. “It is an impossible task she’s given you, and you should know by now that the one thing she will not forgive is failure.”

I shrugged. “There’s little enough she can really do to hurt me,” I said. “I am the surplus Montague; I know it; there’s no disappointment to be had for my future. I will make my own way.”

“She would not punish you,” my mother said. “But as your mother, I can be cut off, cast out, forgotten. Even your sister stands at risk, though not as much, since she has made a good match for herself. Still, if your grandmother is angry enough, she will ruin me, and Veronica’s future will be tainted as well.”

“Ruin you how?” I had forgotten my own troubles, and even my modesty; I threw back the covers and stood in my thin nightshirt, but Balthasar—good man—was there to wrap a robe around me, and bring me a folding stool on which to sit across from her. “Mother—”

“There are a thousand ways to ruin a woman,” my mother said, with a weary shadow of a smile. “Any hint of impropriety, any whisper of intrigue would be enough. My point is that both your sister and I are vulnerable to such things, even if you are not. So, please, my son, keep this firmly in front of you. It’s not merely that you’re asked to manage your feckless cousin’s behavior; it is that you are asked to protect us.”

“From our own,” I finished for her. “From our own blood.”

“Blood has slaughtered blood since Cain killed Abel,” she said. “No doubt even the Montagues and Capulets will one day interbreed, though it may not stop hatred from festering. It’s only in stories that such happy endings are possible.”

“Peace is made, sometimes,” I said, and reached out to take her hand in mine. Her flesh was cool, pale against my darker; she even had the feel of marble, though soft and pliable it might be. “Mother, I swear I will do all I can to protect you.”

“Will you?” It hurt me that she asked it, but I nodded, and saw a shadow of relief in her eyes. “Then I am much heartened, Benvolio.” She withdrew her hand and stood to twitch her skirts into their correct and proper folds. “I thank you for the promise. I will see about the Scala girl; a few discreet questions in the right ears will reassure me of her suitability before I subject you to yet another bridal inspection. But you must promise me you will consider her fairly. I’ faith, I scarce know what you seek in these girls, but at some crossroads you must choose a path, for good or ill.”

She didn’t wait for my response, not that I could have provided one. I didn’t know what I sought in the girls presented to me, either, save that I craved . . . more. Some challenge. Some spark of intellect or spirit that would warm me in the night when the lights were dim. A comely girl was all that was required to satisfy propriety; a wife need not be more than rich and decorative, though it was useful if she had a certain political cleverness.

I could not shake the image of Rosaline Capulet, face lit gold by a single candle, reading her volume of poetry. No simple facade there, no easy match that would require nothing from me save the duties of marriage. A woman of her type would be nothing but trouble in the end, even leaving aside her impossible bloodline.

Stop,
I told myself sternly.
You’re as ridiculous as Romeo.
Except that I would never even consider dragging the Montague reputation through the streets for a woman. Whatever I felt, it would be kept masked, chained, and hidden away like a mad relative. Suffering was the path to Christ, I’d been told. Perhaps one day I’d be made a saint—the patron saint of fools and lovers, if those terms were not exactly the same.

My mother made polite, empty conversation for a few moments more, then swept grandly out of my room. She had a full day of intrigue and tension ahead of her, and little time to waste with her eldest—and only—male offspring.

“Will you be beating me now for letting you sleep through mass, sir?” Balthasar asked, with a helpfully bland expression. “Shall I fetch a strap?”

I cuffed him. “He jests at scars who never felt a wound, fool. Have I ever beaten you?”

“Perhaps it would be helpful,” he said. “I shouldn’t wish your lady mother to feel I am the devil’s whisper, leading you on the path to damnation. I would never find another placement.”

“I don’t need a strap to beat you.” I formed a fist, and winced; I’d forgotten the scabs on my knuckles, which stretched painfully. Balthasar raised thin eyebrows, which gave him an owl-eyed look.

“Clearly, sir,” he said. “Will you be a peacock or a crow today?”

“Crow,” I said. “It better suits my mood.”

My servant moved off to open cupboards and drawers, and returned with carefully folded, sandalwood-scented clothing. Smallclothes and the linen shirt, which went on quickly enough, though the short ruff, as always, chafed my neck; the padded hose did not go on so easily, but I bore it with patience. Over that came the coppice, the doublet, and as Balthasar tied on the ink black sleeves, I was already beginning to regret my choice for the day; it would be sunny and hot, and while the brighter (peacock) colors wouldn’t be cooler in any practical terms, as the fabrics were just as heavy, they somehow
felt
so.

Balthasar saw the look on my face and sighed. He untied the sleeves and switched them out for robin’s-egg blue with midnight slashes. The doublet remained black, but it too had the Montague blue worked in intricate patterns, needlework that must have taken the ladies a month to complete. “I suppose, in the mood you’re in, the black is the most practical,” he noted. “It wears blood so much more nobly.”

“There will be no blood today.”

“Optimistic, sir, very optimistic. I salute you.” He adjusted the fit of a sleeve, cocked his head, and nodded approval as he went to get my shoes and the chest of jewels. I was never as gaudy as Tybalt Capulet, but I could hardly leave the house without showing the wealth of Montague in some small way. Today it was an emerald ring I wore on my undamaged left hand, and a lion brooch in gold with eyes of pale blue topaz. I stopped him when he would have decorated me further, like some feast-day statue, but I finally accepted a single earring that flashed more pale topaz. For a young man of my age, it showed almost priestly restraint.

Balthasar brought me the necessary tools of the day—a long, thin left-hand dagger, with the Montague crest worked into the hilt, and my sword. I belted them on and felt complete. The rest was necessary, but weapons, ah, those made me decently clothed.

He picked a bit of lint from my shoulder. “Shall I accompany you, sir?”

“I’ll be with Romeo,” I said. “And with Mercutio, if he appears. No need to nursemaid me.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll just get my bag.”

It was a source of bitter amusement to me that as powerful as everyone assumed a scion of Montague to be, I could not even effectively order my own servant. He was right, of course. If he allowed me to venture out alone and anything untoward happened, his head would be for the chop. Better to die with me on the point of a Capulet sword than face La Signora di Ferro
.

We left my apartments and almost immediately saw Romeo, who was sitting on the same bench in the open atrium I’d shared with my sister, Veronica, earlier. He looked as dejected as a half-drowned kitten. I sat beside him. He had also chosen black for the day, relieved with only the smallest bits of color. Anyone seeing him would believe him to be in mourning.

He had a liver-colored bruise on his chin that gave me a savage, unchristian jolt of satisfaction when I saw it; not admirable, that impulse, and like any good cousin I choked it down and kept the smile from my face. “You look well down,” I said. “Last night was no small success, coz.”

“Success, you’d name it? To hear that the fairest face of the city, the fiercest heart, burned all the words of love I wrote? To hear she had no more regard for me than for the slops tossed in the street? Perhaps it is your ideal of success, Ben, but hardly mine.” Romeo was truly sunk in the depths, and gathering up rocks to drown more efficiently. “Still, better to have loved—”

“Shut up,” I said, pleasantly but with an edge, and he cast me a quick glare.

“You hit me,” he said. “I won’t forget.”

“Good,” I said. “Then you’ll remember the real pain and not the imaginary pleasure. There are a hundred suitable flowers blooming in the garden of Verona for you. Leave the Capulet alone.”

“A hundred, you say? And yet you seem to be unable to pick such a flower for yourself. Is it the color of the blossoms that repels you, or the smell?”

I resisted the urge to strike him again. Balthasar, hovering nearby, had an anxious look on his face that warned me I might do well to hold my anger. “Have a care what you say,” I said, very quietly. Perhaps it was the dark look on my face, or the tension that tightened my left hand on the hilt of my sword, that made Romeo take a step back and raise a hand in surrender.

Duels between cousins had been known to happen, even within the downy bosom of House Montague. I was rarely the first to take offense, nor to draw steel, but when I was, Mercutio had long declared me the deadliest of us three, and the least likely to see sense. Romeo was a fair hand with a blade, and witty when the mood took him, but I had a cold, green streak of poison running through my veins, and he knew it well. I had spent my entire life learning to keep it contained, lest it sicken others as well.