Still Star-Crossed (25 page)

“Well,” Benvolio continued, “if you know not who the man might be, what about she who aids him?”

A ripple of shock passed across Friar Laurence’s face. “Aye,” Benvolio said. “There is a woman involved in all this, as well you know.”

They had reached the base of Friar Laurence’s tower. After pulling the heavy wooden door open, the friar at last turned to look him in the eye. “Stop,” he hissed. “I cannot help thee. I swear I would if I could, but I cannot. Go home.”

He tried to draw the door shut, but Benvolio wrenched it from his grasp. “I have no home. If once I set foot within Verona’s walls, I shall be killed. I stand accused of the death of Gramio, a young Capulet.” He followed the friar up the winding stair to the summit of the tower. The friar was a learned man, and it seemed his brothers had honored him with rather fine quarters. He had been here only a day or so, but he must have sent his things ahead, for he was as comfortably ensconced as though he’d been here for years. His chamber was small but airy, with windows on three sides. His books lined the shelves, and Benvolio recognized many of the volumes of Latin and mathematics that had tortured him and Romeo as small boys. A desk was scattered with papers and ink pots. Plants overspilled their pots and twined over the windowsills. This must be heaven on earth for the retiring, scholarly friar.

“A fine chamber,” Benvolio said. “I shall not find the prince’s jail so comfortable, I fear. Does my fate not trouble you at all, my old teacher? Or will you idle away your days here till all your pupils are slain and none of us remains to remind you of your sins?”

Friar Laurence turned to look at him at last, and the grim set of his jaw reminded Benvolio of his school days. The friar had been a gentle, tolerant teacher, but on the rare occasions
when the small Montagues had reached the limits of his patience, his fury had awed them. Benvolio could still feel the sting of the switch on his hand.

But he was not a child anymore.

“Attend and mark, young scoundrel,” said the friar. “Much as I might wish to stop your kinsmen’s slaughterous ways, my loyalty is to a higher power than the Montagues. Even for my dearest pupils, I will not break my vows.”

Aha. A clue at last. Benvolio seized on it. “Break your vows?”

Friar Laurence closed his eyes. “I have spoke rashly.”

What part of his vows could prevent the friar from saving lives? Benvolio puzzled as the friar went to the window, stooping over the sill, his body an arc of defeat. Benvolio pushed aside a pile of papers to perch on a corner of the friar’s desk. Then it struck him: A friar was privy to all sorts of information, very little of which he was at liberty to share.

“Someone told you something in confession,” he realized.

Friar Laurence said nothing, but the slump of his shoulders told Benvolio he was correct. “Who was it?” he asked.

“Well thou knowest, boy, I cannot tell thee.”

“Father, lives are at stake. Give me a name. Some hint at least. God will understand.”

“Knowest thou God’s plan, now?” The friar gave a bitter laugh. “Nay, I have sinned enough in thy family’s name.”

Benvolio’s fist clenched in disappointment. In doing so, he nudged one of the piles of papers, which began to slide off the desk. As he righted it, he noted a small red book beneath
it. It was open, both pages covered with the friar’s tiny, neat writing. A passage caught his eye.

Benvolio frowned, intrigued. Friar Laurence still had his back to him, head bent in prayer. Praying that Benvolio would let him be a coward in peace, no doubt. Discreetly, Benvolio tugged the journal toward him, so he could see the full page.

Before Benvolio could read on, a hand slammed down upon the pages of the book. Friar Laurence snatched it from beneath his nose, snapping it shut. “How dare you!” he snarled, peaceful face twisted with fear and rage.

“How dare you!” Benvolio cried, stabbing a finger at the book. “Enough, Friar! I know right well that the Duchess Vitruvio is behind all this, and there’s the proof!”

The friar drew a sharp breath. His nostrils had gone white. “You know nothing.”

“L. Who is L, Friar?” He saw suddenly, in his mind’s eye, the duchess’s hulking, silent servant bending over her. Lucullus. Her manservant. It was he who wore the mask. Benvolio extended his hand. “Give me the book. The prince shall know of this.”

But Friar Laurence ran to the window and rang a bell that hung there, the clangor echoing through the courtyard below. Seconds later, three of the monks’ servants burst through the door. “Seize him,” he said. “Escort him without our walls. His sanctuary is at an end.”

Prayer, then cooking. Prayer, then laundry. Prayer.

The day was long, the work hard, the food sparse, and the bed cold. The abbess was a cold-eyed woman of fifty, clearly contemptuous of soft noble hands. To appease her, Rosaline had insisted on joining entirely in the life of the nunnery for as long as she stayed there, just as a postulant would, but as she knelt in the garden, trying to pry radishes from the ground with throbbing, aching fingers, she was glad she would not be adopting this life permanently.

She paused to wipe her brow. A few feet away, a postulant
bent over her own row of turnips; two more knelt beyond her. In a few minutes the bell would ring, and they would file in to wash and go to supper. In truth, it was not the work that bothered her, but already she chafed against the monotonous tyranny of the hourly bell. The clamor and color of life in Verona seemed as distant as the Orient. Here there was only the murmur of prayer, the gray stone, and always that bell. There was beauty in the order and simplicity of the nuns’ lives, but by this day, it was dull.

Still, she’d passed an entire day without once hearing the names
Montague
or
Capulet
. Which was a pleasant change, to be sure. Such a day was unlikely to pass once she was Princess of Verona.

That thought made her freeze. If she wed Escalus, she would be a princess. How had she never thought of that?

Escalus’s mother was called Princess Maria, the pretty, birdlike daughter of a Sicilian duke. Her circle had been small and intimate. Just a few ladies attended her, including Rosaline’s mother. Every summer, she rode out hunting with Lord and Lady Montague at their country estate. The princess hated hunting. She cried to see the game fall. But that was the price she paid for not having a Montague lady in her inner circle. She could not appear to favor one family over the other.

If Rosaline married Escalus, keeping the peace between Verona’s great houses would be as much her task as his. The feud that seemed so distant from this quiet garden would be her daily occupation.

Well, someone had to do it, she thought grimly. Perhaps
Escalus’s task would be easier if he was wed to one who already knew the players in this endless game.

“Ah, see how the mighty house of Tirimo is fallen.”

She turned to find Benvolio, hands hooked on his belt, staring down at her with a mocking grin. “Good e’en, Benvolio,” she said. “Think you that good, honest labor in the service of God is so shameful?”

“I think you look more miserable now than you did with three swords pointed at your throat.”

She did not care to tell him that her frown came from contemplating hunting with his kin. Instead she wiped her hands on the apron they’d lent her and stood. “Miserable? Never less so,” she claimed.

“Truly? Do you truly think you can forgo the beauty and excitement of Verona for radishes and these infernal bells?”

“The rhythm of the bell is soothing,” she retorted, as if she’d not just thought the same thing. “And in any case, what concern is it of yours, Master Benvolio?”

He shrugged. “I think thee much prettier without a coating of dirt.” He reached out a thumb, wiping at the side of her forehead.

“Ahem.”

They turned to find the abbess behind them, eyes narrowed. Benvolio withdrew his hand.

The abbess put a hand on Rosaline’s shoulder and drew her away from him. “We’ve word from Montenova,” she said to him. “Father Laurence says you were turned out of their door and we’re to have no traffic with you. Come, daughter, we’ve a basin for you to wash yourself.”

Rosaline followed her to a chamber near the garden. As she splashed frigid well water on her arms and face, Mother Abbess said, “There will be none of that, you know.”

“None of what, Mother?”

“You assured me that you were a noble lady of good character when you took shelter beneath our roof,” the abbess said. “One who had kept chaste and away from the company of men.”

Rosaline laughed. “Do you mean Benvolio, Mother? I assure you, he need not concern you.”

“I know what sin looks like, lady.” She shoved a towel at Rosaline. “Dry yourself.”

She did so, having no more words with the abbess, as she could think of nothing to say that was not unconscionably rude. But it seemed the abbess had no such qualms.

“Benvolio is to return to Verona, the friars tell me,” she said when Rosaline had washed and changed. “You will, of course, stay here, until a more suitable chaperone may be found.”

Rosaline blinked. “Your pardon, Mother, but I cannot. If Benvolio has what we came for, I must return with him.”

“You will not travel alone on the road with a young ruffian whose company even holy brothers cannot abide. Your chastity demands you remain.”

Rosaline’s gaze followed the abbess’s out the window where Benvolio waited on the other side of the garden. When he saw her looking, he waved. Rosaline shook her head. “My chastity is in no danger from him.”

“The worst sin is that which the sinner will not see.”

Enough of this. With a curtsy to the abbess, she hurried to Benvolio’s side. “I hear even monks cannot abide your company,” she teased.

But his face was grim. “Come. We must return to Verona.” He put a hand on her back, ushering her toward the gate. Knowing the abbess’s gaze was still on them, Rosaline felt as though his touch was burning straight through her clothing. She tried to take a modest step away, but he stayed close, hulking protectively around her.

Beyond the nunnery gates, she found Hecate and Silvius saddled and ready to ride. Benvolio turned to her.

“I spoke to Friar Laurence.” He sketched out what had passed in the monastery.

“So he did not name the duchess?” she asked, frowning.

“No, but ’tis quite clear, is it not?”

Rosaline had to own that it was. “So L is Lucullus,” she said. “That explains how the duchess has been able to manage the slaughter. But who is A?”

“That puzzles me still.”

“A. A.” Rosaline snapped her fingers. “Angelica.”

“Angelica?”

“ ’Tis the given name of Juliet’s nurse. Rememb’rest thou, she was at the duchess’s house?”

“Of course. She must have seen something there and told the friar, without realizing what intelligence she possessed.” Benvolio looked worried. “I hope the good soul has spake not of it to anyone save her confessor.”

Rosaline suppressed a shudder. She hated to think of Juliet’s
nurse in danger. “Hast thou the book? We’d best show it to the prince.”

Benvolio shook his head. “Friar Laurence had me thrown out the door. He’ll not let me touch it.”

“Very well, we’ll just have to tell the prince what thou saw’st.” If they could convince the prince to believe Benvolio’s story, she added silently. Escalus might love her, but last she saw him, that had not been enough to convince him to trust Benvolio.

Benvolio noticed her discomfiture. “What?”

She shook her head. “Only a Montague could so irritate a company of holy friars that they could not abide him even for holy sanctuary.”

Benvolio paused from checking Silvius’s bridle to look affronted. “Yonder black-habit looks no more pleased with thee, Capulet wench.”

Sure enough, the abbess was across the courtyard, giving her a stare that could powder granite. Rosaline offered her a weak smile and bobbed a curtsy. “True, but it’s because she wants me to stay, not to go. She thinks I’ll be not safe on the road with thee.”

Benvolio frowned. “She may be right. Perhaps thou shouldst stay.”

“So the prince’s men can kill thee on sight? Be not such a fool. I must vouch for thy honesty, thou knowest it well.”

“If I must sacrifice mine own safety to keep thee from harm—”

“Then art thou a fool indeed, and shall vex me greatly.
There is no safer place in Italy for me than at thy side.” Without waiting for a response, she took hold of Hecate’s pommel and swung herself up into the saddle. “Come. The hour grows long. Let’s away.”