Still Star-Crossed (22 page)

“They say you murdered Gramio,” she whispered. “That the Montagues will make war on our house.”

Benvolio looked grim. “I’m afraid ’tis true that the Montague men make ready to avenge the deaths of Orlino and Truchio, for the which they lay the blame at Capulet’s door. I know not whether my kin believe I killed Gramio, but if so, many of them likely celebrate me for it. I’d hide me within their walls, but I will not give the Capulets any more excuse to blame my family for my supposed crimes. But, Rosaline, I am innocent of your cousin’s blood, by my life I am.”

“But your sword—your sash—”

The sash.

Suddenly she realized what had been bothering her all day about the sash found on Gramio’s body. “Wait there.”
On silent feet, she returned to the bedroom and took the sash from her bedside table. Returning to the balcony, she scrutinized it under the moonlight. “No paint,” she said. “This cannot be your sash.”

“No, ’tis Truchio’s. Gramio took it from his body.”

“And the sword?”

“Stolen by the man who gave me this.” He pulled down his doublet and the rough bandage he’d fashioned to show her a jagged cut across his chest.

Rosaline’s eyes went wide. “Get thee gone, Montague,” she said. “Fly this place ere thou art discovered.”

Benvolio seized her hand, pulling her back to his side. “Yea, I shall go, but not without thee.”

“Me?”

He seized both her hands in his. “Aye. We must go to Friar Laurence. I feel certain he knows something of this confederacy.”

“Friar Laurence? Why?”

“Send your mind back to the day we told him of Orlino’s treachery,” Benvolio said. “He said—”

Rosaline gripped his hands. “He said, ‘You know not where the adder hides
her
sting’! He knew a woman was involved in this strife! We knew not so ourselves. He must know something of this.”

“Aye.” Benvolio’s smile was relieved. “Friar Laurence’s monastery lies some leagues without the city. I intend to fly there tonight. Wilt thou come?”

Rosaline hesitated. A cool night breeze raised gooseflesh
on her exposed arms, and she realized that she stood before a man in nothing but her nightgown.

She pulled away, wrapping her arms around herself. If she left with Benvolio, there would be nothing to stop him from doing whatever he liked to her when they were alone on the road. True, the sash was not his, but he could have fought Gramio for Truchio’s crest. For just such pretexts were duels fought. She’d be putting her life in his hands. But then, she’d already done that, had she not?

What would Escalus think?

He stepped toward her. “Rosaline,” he whispered, cupping her face in his hands, “you must trust me, sweet friend. You must. I beg you.”

Rosaline couldn’t breathe. His pleading gaze was so desperate that she couldn’t look away. This must be the selfsame balcony where Juliet had trysted with Benvolio’s cousin. Had Romeo’s eyes ever yearned as Benvolio’s did now?

A noise in the courtyard startled her. There was no time to think. She must decide. When she had proven Benvolio’s innocence and uncovered the true culprit, Escalus would understand. He would thank her for it.

“Let me dress,” she said. “We’d best be away before the sun rises.”

Benvolio’s relieved grin was like the sun breaking through the clouds. “I’ve horses waiting below. I hope you ride well, lady.”

She tossed her head. “Well enough to leave thee and thy mount in the dust, sir.”

Rosaline hurried into a clean dress and cloak before returning to Benvolio. He helped her over the balcony, supporting her body with his own so she would not fall as they climbed down to the ground.

Neither noticed a pair of eyes gleaming in the moonlight, watching their flight.

“Sweet Livia, what is wrong? Why so afear’d?”

Livia tried to calm her breathing long enough to tell Paris what had happened. She had dashed across the house and up the stairs without pausing to draw a breath—the duchess had ceased her lurking, thank God—and now her heart thundered deafeningly in her ears. Paris looked at her, concerned, and cupped her shoulder as she pressed a hand to her mouth to keep a sob from escaping. She would
not
cry, she told herself fiercely. She’d displayed enough cowardice for one night already. Rosaline would be brave. So would she.

“He took her,” she managed to get out. “He stole my sister away!”

“What? Who?”

“Benvolio,” she said around the lump in her throat.

Paris’s eyes widened. “What? It cannot be.”

“I saw it with mine own eyes.” Livia drew a deep breath as Paris guided her to sit on his bed, taking her hand soothingly as she continued. “Rosaline and I slept in Juliet’s chamber. I woke to hear noises outside the window. I looked over to see
him taking her off the balcony. Oh God, what will he do to her?” She shook her head fiercely. “Such a fool was I. I should have cried out, I—”

“Nay, lady, you did right. The villain would have slain you both.” He tenderly brushed a tear from her cheek, and Livia’s heart gave a flutter despite her fear.

“What villain?”

Paris jumped, withdrawing his touch. Livia looked up to find her aunt standing in the doorway in a long white nightgown, holding a candle.

Paris gave her hand a squeeze. “Benvolio hath stolen her sister,” he said.

“What! Oh, Livia!” Her aunt hurried to her side. She put an arm around Livia’s shoulders, pulling her into an embrace. “My poor niece.”

Livia buried her face in her aunt’s sweet-smelling shoulder for a moment. “What am I to do? Is there any hope for her?”

“Fear not, sweet,” Paris said. “I’ll see thy sister is returned to thee.” He turned to Lady Capulet. “Go and rouse the household. Every man must search high and low for my lady’s sister and this scoundrel. And I pray you, have your stables saddle a horse.”

Lady Capulet stiffened. “Do you mean—? Paris—”

“Aye,” he said. “It’s time.”

She’d spoken true. Fair Rosaline could ride.

Benvolio had not been sure what horse to bring her when he’d stolen into the stables disguised as a servant for his own mount, Silvius, and a spare sword. Some ladies were afraid of all but the smallest, gentlest mounts, but such a delicate animal was not suited to the hard ride they had before them.

He needn’t have worried. The bay mare he brought her was instantly smitten with her, and she had a good, confident seat. They’d ridden slowly through the darkened city, hoping to avoid attention, but as soon as they’d crept past the city gates, Rosaline leaned forward, raised her face to the eastern wind, and urged her horse into a gallop.

With a laugh of surprise, Benvolio nipped his heels in, sending an eager Silvius in pursuit. He found her waiting for him over the next hill, windblown, rosy-cheeked, and looking lighter than he’d ever seen her.

“Free of Verona at last,” she said.

“By heaven, lady,” he said, reining back on Silvius, who would have preferred to keep running to the horizon. “Who taught thee to ride so well?”

“My father. We rode often. Tirimos are noted horsemen, and as he’d had no son, he took me instead.” She gazed out over the countryside. The rolling hills were tinged with pink from the rising sun. “Since he died, running a household leaves me little time for it, nor the money to keep a proper stables—but oh! It’s lovely, is it not?”

“I think I remember thy father. Everyone envied that white mare of his. How did he die?”

Her eyes met his swiftly before she urged her Hecate into
a walk. “You do not know? ’Tis not a tale that will make us better friends.”

Ah. “A Montague slew him.”

“Several Montagues.” A bitter smile twisted her lips. “No one has ever thought the entire tale fit for my ears, but from what I have gathered, ’twas thine uncle Signor Valentio, and Signor Martino. Marry, ’twas no unjust fight. There were at least three other Capulets in it too.”

He cursed himself for asking. “I am sorry, lady.”

“Oh, be not so,” she sighed. Again, that mirthless smile. “My kinsmen saw to it that several Montague babes were left fatherless too, so what have I to complain of?”

Sooth, ’twas no wonder she so longed to escape Verona. He began to think she was right to do so. “It seems mine own father was quite inconsiderate to die of the ague when I was two,” he told her. “There was no one to kill in his name.”

He was rewarded with a laugh. They rode on, and as dawn turned to day, Benvolio told her what he knew of Gramio’s death at the hands of the masked man.

“And thou hast no idea who he could be?” Rosaline asked.

“He was masked. His voice seemed familiar, but—ah, by my sword, I know not. He was a fearsome swordsman, though,” Benvolio said. “ ’Tis no surprise if ’twas he who overcame young Truchio, and even Orlino. An inch closer to my heart and he’d have killed me too.”

Rosaline drew to a halt. “Aye, I had forgot thine injury. How is it?”

“Well enough.” He tapped a hand on his chest, then could not suppress a groan.

Rosaline shook her head. “Faith, Benvolio, I know not how you’ve managed to keep all your limbs attached to your body. Come, dismount.”

They let their horses graze as she washed her handkerchief in the stream. Benvolio doffed his doublet and she cleaned the shallow cut the killer had left across his chest. He winced as she dabbed the dried blood away.

“Ay!”

“Be still,” she ordered. “Unless you wish to take blood sickness.”

“I hope you’re as good a physician as you are a rider.”

“I am, though my sister Livia’s a better. She tended to our mother when she was dying of the fever, and the physicians taught her much,” said Rosaline absently as she rebound his bandage as best she could. He wondered how many of her handkerchiefs he was destined to ruin with his Montague blood. “How didst thou get our mounts and your new sword, by the way?”

He struggled to be brave under her capable but not especially gentle touch. “I stole a groom’s cloak and slipped into the Montague stables. The servants may have seen me, but they’d not give me up.”

“At least Montague loyalty is good for something.” She drew his shirt back over his bandage. “There. The monks will be able to do better for thee, I hope, when we reach the monastery.”

“I am well enough. If Friar Laurence can guide us to the villain we seek, I shall ask no more of him.” Rosaline started
to rise, but Benvolio caught her arm. “I would speak one more word with thee ere we go.”

“Yes?”

“Orlino was a scoundrel,” Benvolio said. “For his death, I grieve only that he died before I could chastise him myself. But Truchio—he was little more than a child.”

Rosaline turned away. “Man enough to draw his sword against an unarmed lady.”

“I know, and much did I upbraid him for it. But he was under Orlino’s sway when he attacked thee. He’d never have offered thee an unkind word, else.” He got to his feet. “And, lady, I give thee fair warning—when we find the culprit, whether he be Montague or Capulet, my kinsmen’s death shall fall heavy on him.”

“You will not give the culprit over to the prince’s justice?” Rosaline demanded. “I know he slew your kin, but if a Montague flouts the law yet again to slay an enemy, ’twill be no aid to the peace we seek. And the prince is like to turn the weight of his law upon you in turn. I thought you wished to end this cycle of death, Benvolio.”

Benvolio narrowed his eyes. “Why speak’st thou so fawningly of the prince’s justice? Thou wast no great admirer of his before. Has he bought thy allegiance with thy house?”

She gave him a glare that seemed fiercer than the question warranted. “Speak not so of our sovereign.”

Benvolio sighed. “To oblige thee, lady,” he said, “I will yield the villain or villains up to the prince. But if he puts them not to death, I will.”

This concession did not appear to win him back into her good graces. Jaw set, Rosaline went back to Hecate and remounted. “I suppose that is the least amount of violence I can expect from one of our bloody-minded families. The hour grows long, let’s away.” And without waiting for him, she rode on.

“Rosaline, tarry—Rosaline!”

But she did not look back.