Prince of Shadows: A Novel of Romeo and Juliet (33 page)

    
FROM THE DIARY OF FRIAR LAWRENCE

I pray God will forgive me all the grievous sins that mount almost hourly before me. I thought that I abetted only a little sin, that of disobedience, for the sake of love, but now I find I am party to so much more, and so much worse.

First did I, against the laws of Verona and the express wishes of our prince, give aid and comfort to young Romeo, whom I hid against his exile from the city, though he was guilty of shedding Tybalt’s blood; and then, fearing Juliet’s despair would lead her to a greater sin of self-murder, God forgive me but I sent the boy to her bed. I meant only to sanctify the marriage they so greatly desired. I had no thought of the other consequences.

Now, with Romeo safely on his way to Mantua, Juliet is forced to marry Paris and forswear her lawful marriage. She speaks of daggers, and the great and terrible sin of self-murder lest her bridal bed be also her bed of adultery. I know not what to do. I will pray upon it, and let God lead me to His will.

Ah, the bells begin their sad tolling—for a wedding for Veronica Montague, and after, for the twin funerals of Mercutio and Tybalt. I must to the Lord’s duties, though my heart is ashes.

God forgive all I have done.

God forgive what I must do next.

T
he
next morning was the solemn mockery of a marriage for my sister, Veronica.

I had slept not at all; my body ached dully, my eyes felt rubbed in sand, and I was of short temper as Balthasar dressed me in my finest clothes for the wedding. Well, at least someone would be happy today, I thought, even if it was Veronica’s aged bridegroom; Veronica would be happy after the night’s work of pleasing him, because she would have shed House Montague and become mistress of her own estate, with her own funds to begin her social conquest of Verona. After today, I’d have little to do with the girl, and of that, I too could be glad.

“Balthasar,” I said, as he straightened the hang of my sleeves, “I would have you take a journey for me.”

“A journey, sir?” He brushed dust from my shoulder. I could not tell from his expression what he felt.

“To Mantua,” I said. “My cousin will have need of a servant, even in exile. Would you go, to watch after him? He is still in danger. Capulet’s reach is long, and it carries a dagger.”

“I would be most pleased to be of service, but I would hate to leave you,” he said.

I opened up the chest kept locked by my bed, and took out a bag of gold coin. “This is the last of the Prince of Shadow’s profits,” I said. “There’ll be no more of it. Take it, with my thanks. I shall see you once the clouds have lifted, and Romeo is back in the prince’s favor.”

“Do you think such will happen, sir?”

“I pray it will. The alternative is that I remain Montague’s heir for life, and how do I deserve such a punishment?”

“I cannot think of a reason, sir,” he said, and the gold disappeared, tucked within his doublet. “Shall I take a message?”

“Only that he should keep himself out of trouble,” I said, and allowed myself a frustrated smile. “Though history proves that seems impossible. I should tell you that he’s newly wedded, before he blurts it out in drunken sorrow.”

“Wedded, sir?”

“To Juliet Capulet.”

It was the sign of what an excellent servant he was that Balthasar hesitated only a little before saying, without any surprise, “I see, sir; that is a complicated matter indeed. I take it your grandmother does not know?”

“She knows,” I said. “I told her.”

“That must have been . . . eventful.”

“In truth.”

He asked no questions, and I offered no details; the ferocious old harpy had all but accused me of collusion in Romeo’s folly, and I bore the mark of her cane in forming bruises on my back. Only the fact that she was so ancient had spared me from far worse. But she’d not tell my uncle; I knew that; my defeat was also hers. She had no cause to spread the word of our humiliation.

Only to dole such misery out to me.

Balthasar pinned a Montague badge to my chest and said, “You look very well, sir. I trust you will take care in the confines of the church, and along the way? I worry that I won’t be there to watch after you.”

“I will have to look out for myself.” I clapped my hand to his shoulder, and he looked away. “You’ve been a good servant and a better friend.”

He nodded without speaking, and slipped a jeweled dagger in its sheath at my side. Though decorative, it had a keen edge, and so did my rapier, which he belted on as well. It might give offense to the bridegroom, but I cared little what the greedy old man thought of me.

I cared about living through the morning.

Balthasar took his leave, and I joined my mother in the hall; my aunt and uncle descended the stairs a moment later, dressed in heavy velvets. Montague, too, was armed, but only with a dagger. I did not doubt the ladies were likewise encumbered, but those blades were concealed in sleeves, boots, or bodices. My mother seemed cool and distant, and she held a rosary that she had brought with her from England; I recognized the well-worn beads.

Veronica came last, and in a cloud of cooing attendants. My sister wore her wealth stitched densely on the gold-chased fabric of her bridal gown—pearls and sapphires, with the flash of rubies and diamonds at her throat and ears. She seemed much satisfied with herself, I thought, and I fell in at the front of the party with Montague swords before my uncle dragged me back by his side, to a safer position. Of course. I was now his heir, though he liked that fact as little as I.

The procession to the cathedral was made under the hot sun, and two days’ rain had become a miserably humid morning; the cobbles steamed, and so did I, inside my fine clothes. Veronica’s face turned pink from the heat, a fact that displeased her enough to demand fans and shade from her attendants as we walked in a block down the narrow streets. Gawkers had turned out, of course. Some wished us well, and tossed flowers; some only stared, and some spit and made curse signs when they thought they could do it unobserved. Near the piazza—busy as always—I spotted Capulet bullies massed in a clot of red, and they broke loose and pushed through toward us.

“Beware,” I said to my uncle, and pointed at the oncoming men.

“Walk on,” he ordered. “We are bound for the church. Let nothing stop us, certainly not some weak-bellied Capulets!”

And so we went on, and the guard tightened around us until I had to watch close to not tread heels upon those nearest . . . and just as we came close to the shadow of the cathedral, the Capulets, allied with others, sprang their trap. More poured from the street adjoining, and still more closed in behind, and then with a roar they sprang on us, knives and cudgels and swords, and the melee was on.

Veronica screamed in frustration and fear as she was buffeted by brawlers on either side; the guards around us were hard-pressed to defend us. I drew my sword and lunged over a guard’s shoulder, burying the point cleanly in a Capulet soldier’s chest. They had roused all their allies against us, and hired more bravos; they had opened the treasury in order to hurt us, and hurt us they had. So far, none of their blades had reached beyond our guards, but the cobbles were already wet with blood, and bodies fell to my left under a strong assault. I pivoted in that direction, drew my dagger, and slashed with it to parry the attack of a hired man. He grinned with the excitement of hot blood, and of all that there was to notice, I was oddly struck by how good his teeth were . . . and then I beat tempo on his rapier, one, two, three, and then a pivot and riposte in quarto, and my sword slid between his ribs and out his heart, and he was down, grimacing now.

But the next attacker caught me in the side—a glancing blow that gouged off flesh and hit rib, but a hit nonetheless, and the tenor of the brawl had changed around me as Montagues rallied and fought for their very lives. Women were screaming, and I saw blood on Veronica’s dress; I had the fleeting thought that she would be
very
cross, but then two Capulets came at me, and I sorely missed the quick blade of Mercutio, and Romeo and Balthasar on my right hand. Alone, I was vulnerable, and I felt it never so much as in that moment, with blood running hot from my side, and every lunge, thrust, and parry seeming to take more strength than the last.

There was renewed shouting, alarms being beaten, and just as I was forced back and knew I was overmatched, the watch’s men crashed into the lines of Capulet bravos and sent them running. The Capulets themselves were not so fainthearted, and a few stayed to fight, but only one tried for me. I beat him back until the watch could take hold.

In the aftermath, I leaned against a cool stone wall and caught my breath in gasps. My body shook with effort, and now that I had the leisure, I felt the wound’s sharp ache. But the blood, though free-flowing, was nothing fatal, and I turned to look at my family.

My mother was safe, still ringed by guards; with her huddled her maids and my aunt’s party. But my mother was fighting to be free of the restraints, and for a moment I did not understand, until I saw Veronica standing alone, facing a lissome Capulet boy no older than she. He was mayhap a minor cousin, a page to his illustrious uncle, or perhaps he had even served Tybalt at table.

I did not know his name. All I knew of him was that he had my sister’s right hand in his—a hand that held a small jeweled dagger—and that, as she collapsed against him, he cradled her as if he were surprised by her sudden drop.

I do not remember leaving the shadow of the wall, nor pulling the young boy away from her; I remember only my mother kneeling beside her, and Veronica’s bewildered eyes peering up into mine as her hands restlessly traveled over and over the Capulet dagger that lay buried in her breast.

I turned on the boy, hauled him upright, and shoved him hard against the wall with my dagger aimed for his eye. “Why?” I shouted. He looked as smooth skinned as my sister; surely he was even younger than she, hardly allowed out of his schoolroom. His Capulet colors fit him badly, as if he had not had time to be measured for them.
We pull children from their nurses to fight our battles,
I thought, and it was eerily clear and cold in my mind. The boy was afraid, and so he should have been.

“I did not mean . . .” He licked pale lips. There were tears in his eyes. “Sir, please, I did not mean to hurt her, but she stabbed at me. . . .”

I did not move.
Kill him,
my grandmother’s voice shouted in the back of my mind.
Why do you hesitate? Your sister’s blood is on his hands, struck down before the church on her wedding day! No one will judge you wrong!

I lowered the dagger, though I kept hold of his throat. “No more,” I said. “Tybalt is dead. Romeo is gone. My young sister lies dying. It is
enough
. Go and tell your war-making uncle that before I write it in your own blood.”

His eyes widened. “You . . . you mean to let me go?”

“Swear to lay down arms against my family, and go free.”

Suddenly his young, pale face twisted into a wolf’s smile. “Coward,” he spat. “Unnatural brother, who loves his sister so little. I spit on your family, and I spit on your coward’s oaths!” He was still afraid, but he knew there were Capulets watching, Capulets who would carry tales of him back. Like me, he was trapped by Verona itself, in the web of our ancient hates.

But I let him loose, and pushed him into the arms of the captain of the watch. He frowned beneath his shining helmet, and said, “You give him to me?”

“For hanging,” I said. “For murder of my sister. I stand witness, and so is my mother and all these here. Let Capulets be seen for the villains they are.”

“Coward!” the boy cried. His voice cracked, though, and his eyes were wild now. “You will not even avenge her!
Coward!
”

I raised my blade to eye level. “This crimson stain on me is Capulet blood,” I said. “Blood of honest and brave men, though they be enemies. I would not sully it with yours, boy.”

He shrieked as they led him off. There was no doubt of his guilt, and though the Capulets roared in protest, and would hasten to the prince for appeal, the boy would swing, and justice would be done.

I did not care.

Veronica still lived, by some evil miracle; my mother’s trembling hands touched the hilt of the dagger in her breast, then drew back, then touched again. Around us, voices cried for surgeons, but no surgeon could physick her back to life. She was dead, yet still suffering.

“Benvolio,” she said, and her voice was weak and small and lost. “Benvolio, my dress, my dress is stained—”

I took her hand in mine and knelt beside her. “Hush now; it will be cleaned. ’Tis not so bad as that.” I put gentle fingers on her cheek. She wept, though I am not sure she knew of it. It made her look so much like a frightened child. “Rest awhile now. The surgeon is coming.”

“That boy,” she said, and squeezed my hand tightly for a moment. “Wretched Capulet boy, did you see him? I only meant to frighten him away; I never thought he’d strike me. He was pretty. So pretty. I thought— Do you hate me so much, Benvolio?”

“No,” I said softly. My hate was dying with her. “You are my sister, Veronica.”

“I should not have betrayed your friend,” she whispered, and more tears rolled from the far corners of her eyes, wetting the hair above her ears and the fabric of her headdress, with all its precious pearls. “I did it for no reason, except to show I could, that I had power over another. . . . It was cruel of me. . . .”

“Hush. Mercutio is gone. He aches no longer.”

“Then I will meet him soon, and he will accuse me in the eyes of God,” she said, and gripped my hand so fiercely I thought bones would break. “It feels like a curse on us; don’t you think? For what I did. I should have been better, Ben, I should have— Please say you love me, for pity’s sake, say—”

“I love you,” I said, but it was too late; her last breath fled, and her face relaxed its tension. Her eyes looked toward heaven, but not with anticipation—rather with dread. Young as she’d been, my sister well knew her sins, and how grievous they were.

Friar Lawrence came with the surgeons, and my sister received last rites dead on the bloody cobbles, twenty steps from the door of the church where her withered old bridegroom waited in vain for his vows and his bridal rights. I could hear his querulous voice raised in protest, demanding satisfaction of my uncle. And my uncle, ever practical, demanding return of the dowry.