Still Star-Crossed (31 page)

They met a few travelers on their way; though Rosaline was nearly screaming inside with urgency, she made a point of stopping to pass the time of day with them. One old matron expressed concern that “such a little fellow as thee” should be traveling alone, but none saw through her disguise. Rosaline was tall and thin for a woman, and in Benvolio’s doublet, she looked very much like a youth on the cusp of manhood. Niccolo’s secret, it seemed, was safe.

Thanks to the storm and the delay it had caused them, Rosaline was only a few hours from the abbey. Soon, Montenova Abbey rose before her once again. Rosaline raised her hood. Now came the difficult part.

After a brief internal debate, she decided not to knock at the front door and claim sanctuary as Benvolio had. Her goal was not to gain an audience with Friar Laurence—quite the opposite, since he would take one look at “Niccolo” and
recognize the maid whose ankle he had mended—but merely to insinuate herself into the abbey until she could find the journal Benvolio had spoken of. She prayed it contained the proof of his innocence that they needed.

She had considered riding straight for Verona, but with Paris’s army between her and home, there seemed little point. She was sure his men were still combing the countryside for her, but they would be seeking a Verona-bound maid, not a youth riding east. Besides, now that she knew the extent of Paris’s betrayal, it was more important than ever that Escalus learn the truth. She now realized that L was not Lucullus, but Lavinia, her aunt Capulet’s given name. It was so rarely used that it had slipped her mind entirely. If the friar had been more explicit elsewhere in his diary, his unwilling evidence and Rosaline’s own testimony might be enough to save Benvolio’s life—and perhaps Escalus’s own. If only she had been able to purloin that mask Paris had waved in her face! She would just have to hope that the diary was enough.

Rosaline’s steps slowed as she reached the door at the rear of the abbey, where servants and tradesmen were to knock. It was a great deal of hope to place on one little book of monk-scribbles. She prayed it would suffice, and that she could find some way to take it.

She drew a deep breath. No time to think of that. Escalus, Benvolio, herself—she would have to be man enough for all three of them. Squaring her shoulders, planting her feet, and hoping she looked manly, she pounded on the door.

“By and by I come.” A monk in a food-spotted brown robe
opened the door, looking startled to see her there. “Who might you be, then, my son? Are you the gentleman of Verona who sheltered here? I’m not to readmit you. They say you struck good Brother Laurence.”

Rosaline put on her best look of blank male incomprehension. She found thinking of Lucio and Valentine helped. “Verona? Nay, Father, Niccolo’s my name and from Padua come I, seeking a place as a page in Milan. Might your holy brotherhood have a bit of honest work for a man such as I, in exchange for a night’s shelter?”

“A man such as you is no man at all, but a half-grown brat,” said the friar. “Home to your mother and father with you.”

“They’re dead, Father.” True enough. One less century in purgatory for lying to a man of God.

The monk’s face softened. “An orphan, are you?”

“Yes, with nothing in the world but the clothes on my back and Si-Sirius here. But I’m a fair hand in the kitchen, and with horses. I pray you, let me be of use.”

He considered her. “Very well, you may help old Tuft in the stables for the day.”

Praise be. For one who had once thought to be a nun, Rosaline was deceiving and defying a great many of His servants these days. She sent up a quick, silent prayer of apology, made the monk the best bow she could, and headed for the stables, where she found the aforementioned Tuft, who proved to be a gnarled old horseman who walked with a stoop but led Silvius with strong, capable hands. “A fine piece of horseflesh,” he said. “Have I seen him before? I think the
young Verona fellow had a horse of such a color, and such a height.”

She gave him the stupid look again. “I hail from Padua. Sirius has been mine since he was a colt.” Silvius, bless him, chose that moment to give her an affectionate butt with his head, just as though she really were a lifelong friend and not an interloper who’d stolen him from his master. Rosaline stroked his neck and together they turned looks of great innocence to Master Tuft.

Tuft shrugged and lost interest. “Well, I suppose there’s gray horses enough in the world.” He handed her a shovel. “The cart horses’ stalls want mucking.”

He gave her a homespun shirt and trousers, which she changed into in an empty corner, out of his sight. She spent the rest of the afternoon shoveling manure. She could not hide her disgust, but she did not suppose that would hurt her disguise—a young gentleman, even one who had come down in the world, would not have spent much more time pitching manure than she had. At least these were not Benvolio’s clothes. He would probably have had to burn them.

The thought of Benvolio sent a shot of panic spiraling through her stomach. She set her jaw, forcing her eyes to her task, though it was all she could do not to throw down the shovel and bolt into Friar Laurence’s chamber to demand the book that would be his salvation. It galled her to wait here idly when every moment she waited brought Benvolio closer to his doom. What if she waited too long? What if Paris had already killed him? Worse yet, what if Escalus had? She did not think it was possible that they could be back in Verona—it
was about a day and a half of hard riding from where she’d left them, and at least a day longer for an army such as Paris’s, which could not move as swiftly as two riders alone. Still, the thought was enough to make bile rise in her throat, and she pressed her arm hard over her mouth.

“Buck up, you flap-mouthed baggage, it’s naught but a bit of horse-dirt. No puking on Vestiver there.”

Rosaline straightened, swallowing with an effort. “Your pardon. I did but pause to draw breath.”

“Well, you’re a hard-working enough young fellow,” Tuft said reluctantly. “That’s enough for today. Come, let’s wash and sup.”

Rosaline looked up and realized the sun was actually setting. She and Tuft left the stables, and she found that the monks had left them several buckets to wash with. She had a moment’s panic when Tuft stripped off his shirt and plunged it in one bucket and his head and arms in another, scrubbing himself vigorously. “What are you waiting for?” he asked when he saw her hanging back. “Wash, boy. You cannot dine so among holy men. Nothing brings lofty thoughts to earth like a good stink.”

Rosaline fingered the edge of her shirt. He was right, but she could hardly disrobe before him. “I—I—”

Tuft gave a mighty sigh. “You are a soft one, aren’t you. Here.” He tossed her a change of clothes. “Friar Francis left this for you. Watch out, I think he means to make a monk of you. Take it and go and wash in yonder bushes.”

Thank God for Tuft’s towering contempt for nobles. It seemed to make him lose any interest in “Niccolo’s”
eccentricities. Rosaline took the shirt and some water over to the bushes, which afforded her enough privacy to wash and change without fear of detection. Niccolo of Padua would live on for the moment.

Newly scrubbed, she and Tuft made their way into the kitchen. Tuft was right about Friar Francis—he seemed to have designs on “Niccolo,” and asked her to join the monks for supper, “to discuss your future.” But Rosaline begged off, fearing to come face-to-face with Friar Laurence, and instead ate in the kitchen with Tuft and the other lay servants.

Finally, supper was done, the pots and pans scrubbed, and the monks had found “Niccolo” a place to sleep by the hearth. Rosaline changed back into Benvolio’s clothes—she did not intend to pass another day here, and she did not wish to steal from the monks who had been so kind. Friar Laurence was another matter. She lay awake, listening to the pops of the logs and the evening prayers echoing against stone, until at last the noise was still and the abbey was silent. When she was sure that the monks had gone to bed, she rose.

Now or never.

Her heart was in her throat as she picked her way over the snoring scullions, praying for sure-footedness. Once past the kitchen, she found the stone corridor empty and silent, lit only by a few torches. What had Benvolio said? Friar Laurence’s study was at the top of a tower? There were two, one at the northeast corner and one at the northwest. She crept toward the northwest corner of the abbey, but found the door there locked.

It would have to be the other one, then. Rosaline slipped into the shadows, pressing herself into the wall to allow a group of sleepy young monks to pass by, before tiptoeing eastward. As she passed the chapel, a light caught her eye. A candle rested on the floor, next to a figure bent in prayer. It was Friar Laurence, though the calm, gentle man she had met a week before was nearly unrecognizable in the desperate figure before her. He was on his knees, rocking, his body a slumped arc of shame, his hands clasped as though he could hold on to God’s mercy with the strength of his grip. His mumbled prayers were too quiet to understand, but she did hear the words “Montague” and “Forgive me.”

Rosaline hardened her heart against a stab of pity. He could beg for forgiveness until doomsday as far as she was concerned. It was his fault they were in this mess. His fault Benvolio was in danger. Besides, his midnight attack of conscience was good luck for her. It meant his chambers were empty.

She sped toward the east tower. Finding the door unlocked, she slipped up the winding stair and into a small, moonlit chamber. Sure enough, the walls were lined with books, plants, and mathematical models, just as Benvolio had said. Now where was the book she sought? She looked on the desk where Benvolio had discovered it, but found it bare. None of the drawers contained a small red book either, nor any of the shelves. She looked in his closet, even under his bedclothes. In her haste, she no longer tried to leave the place looking undisturbed, throwing books and robes and blankets all around. Nothing.

Despite her growing panic, she paused, and took a deep breath to regroup. The book was gone from its former place. Had Friar Laurence destroyed it? She would have. If you had a secret you feared would be discovered, why keep it writ down? But she suspected the friar was of a more sentimental turn of mind than she. He would not want to destroy it. But he would, perhaps, hide it. Rosaline clasped her hands behind her back, turning a slow circle as she allowed her eyes to drift over the friar’s small room. Where could he hide anything?

Her gaze caught on one of the chamber’s few bits of adornment: a drawing mounted on the wall. Frowning, she drew nearer. It was more of a sketch than a drawing, really—just a handful of lines and a bit of shading, suggesting its subjects rather than detailing them. The drawing was merely competent, but what the hand of the artist—the friar himself, Rosaline imagined—lacked in brilliance, it made up in affection. The sketch portrayed several small boys of about nine, all of them with slates in their laps. One, a lanky lad, was peering over his mate’s shoulder, as though to steal his answer. His neighbor, a small boy with a comical mop of curls, was gazing dreamily off into the distance. Only one serious young figure was bent industriously over his sums, his dark brows furrowed, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth.

Rosaline swallowed, brushing her fingertips over their young faces. Mercutio. Romeo. Benvolio. She knew she’d found the friar’s hiding place.

Sure enough, when she pulled the drawing back from the
wall, she found a small crevice in the stones, and inside it was a slim red book. Rosaline seized it, preparing to run, and then with a surge of irritation turned back and seized the drawing too. The sentimental old coward had no right to such a thing when two of its subjects were in heaven, the third shortly to join them, and he’d done nothing to stop it.

Rosaline ran down the stairs as quickly as she could, not caring so much about the noise now. She was not far from the rear door. All she had to do was get to the stables without being stopped and she and Silvius could be on their way. She had almost reached the bottom when she ran headlong into Friar Laurence.

He stumbled back, nearly falling down the stairs. Righting himself, he grumbled, “Boy, why art thou about? The abbot has promised me that no servant—” He looked properly at her face and his jaw dropped. “Lady Rosaline? What in the world!” Rosaline made no reply, merely tried to push past him. He stopped her with a hand on her elbow. His eyes narrowed as he saw the book she carried. “Ah, that way goes the game. Stop, thief!” he shouted, reaching to grab it away from her.

And then his grip went slack, falling away. Rosaline glanced at him, and realized he’d spotted her other prize, clutched against her chest: his drawing.

“Father—”

“Go.” He pressed a trembling hand to his eyes and stepped out of her way. “Go.”

She started past him, and then turned back, pressing the drawing into his hand. Then she ran straight down the stairs,
out the back door, and into the stables. And she and Silvius rode once more toward home. She prayed with all her might that they would reach it this time.