The Healer prepares a tonic for my headache, and I drink it gratefully. She cautions me to forestall sleep until the dizziness subsides.
Stepping again into the square, I find I have missed the prince’s lecture entirely. He has dismissed the perpetrators, and market trade has resumed. The carters’ voices mingle in shouts as they hawk their wares.
The fishmonger cries, “Pesci, pesci!” The woman who spins exquisite silks sings out, “Seta filata, seteria.” Her handmade laces—merletti—are as precise and delicate as winter frost. Nearby, the handsome tanner shows his fine leather goods—articoli di cuoio. They are as soft and pliable as the tanner himself is rugged and strong. When they
are not selling, he and the lace maker flirt openly with each other.
A farmer arranges his bushel baskets while his hefty wife boasts of the eggs she gathered at sunup. “Uova fresche! Uova!”
I glance round the square for Mercutio, but he has fled. I also wonder mildly what hath become of Benvolio. The crowd is thick; even were he still about, ’twould be near impossible to spot him amid this multitude.
Passing the gate where the cemetery path begins, I come upon Juliet’s parents, my uncle Capulet, and his wife, my aunt.
“Good morning, Rosaline,” says Capulet in his vigorous way. He is always so jovial. It causes me to wonder if he is hiding something.
I manage a curtsy. ’Tis unsteady at best, given the spinning in my head. “Good day to you both.”
Juliet’s mother gives me a look of strained patience, a tight smile. “Rosaline, you are bold as ever. Visiting the marketplace unchaperoned! Your cousin Juliet would quiver at the thought of it. She does not possess your taste for adventure.”
“Mayhap one day it shall rub off on her,” I suggest, suppressing a grin.
“Never say thus!” Lady Capulet exclaims.
Sayeth Capulet, “We shall see you and your mother, my dear sister, at this evening’s feast, I trust?”
“Most assuredly, my lord. We would not miss it.”
In the next moment, we are joined by a young man I know to be the Count Paris.
“Good morrow, sir,” he says in his rich voice, then bows to me. “And to you, my lady.”
“Paris!” Capulet beams. He claps the fellow heartily on the back. “Good Paris. How dost thou this day?”
Paris is tall and elegant, and many fine ladies would delight in securing his attention for their daughters. Paris is of the royal line, kinsman to the prince, and to my mind, he is duller than dirt. He and mine own cousin Tybalt were fast friends in their childhood, but ’tis no wonder they grew apart, for Paris is now as serious as Tybalt is wild, as cautious as Tybalt is brave.
The two men become engrossed in a discussion. I listen with only a corner of my consciousness, for the reckless spiral inside my head requires all of my attention. From what little I overhear of their conference, I surmise ‘tis a business concern. It seems Paris is interested in obtaining some possession presently belonging to old Capulet, some item my uncle seems quite willing to trade, but not immediately. He recommends the transaction take place two summers hence. ’Tis always such with men; they think only of what they have and what they might attain, all for their own advancement. I see little point in tarrying here, so I excuse myself, blaming the pain in my head, and start for home.
I have ne‘er before attempted walking whilst dizzy. ’Tis rather fun. For the ground seems slanted where normally
’tis not, and the road lies less than level, and the buildings to my left are suddenly at my right. I swirl without swirling, then weave and skip and arch to the sun. I leave the common far behind, the haggling voices of farmers and fishwives fading as the cobblestones trail off to grassy pathways dappled with wildflowers, leading to the outlying villages. ’Tis now well past noon, and the sun is raining fire, governing the day so everywhere unforgiving. My gown, soaked earlier from my spill in Montague’s font, is dry now, and stiff.
Soon I come upon a servant of Capulet’s, a doltish clown called Cardenio, gazing hopelessly at some dispatch; ’tis sure he is unable to read it. Were he any other of my uncle’s staff I would happily help him, but this Cardenio is a snakelike fellow, whom Juliet once caught loitering near the open door of her chamber during her bath.
“Forgive me. You are Lady Rosaline, are you not?”
“I am. You know that well.”
He smiles his reptilian smile and continues in a tone too smug for a servant.
“I also know that your name, which is Rosaline, is clearly writ here on this slip of foolscap I carry upon my very person.
“Dost thou, now?” I narrow my eyes in challenge. “Pray thee, sirrah, show to me which name is mine.”
“Why, ’tis”—Cardenio’s lip twitches—“’tis … this one.” His knobby finger hovers o’er the leaf, then pokes
at a name inscribed there. The name is Placentio. Signior Placentio.
“That is the name of a man,” I say shortly.
He studies the leaf again, which I see is a list of guests to be welcome at Capulet’s feast. Indeed, my name is writ there.
“Here,” he says, tapping his thumb beside another name. “Surely these characters spell out the name of Rosaline. See how they roll and curve and link in a way most feminine? Surely these lovely letters can only signify my lady’s name.”
I snort at him. “’Tis Tybalt’s name to which you point.”
Cardenio jerks his hand from the list as though it were on fire.
“Who read this list to thee? I know you are too incompetent to have done so on your own.”
“True, ’twas read to me,” he confesses. “And them that read it made special mention of your name.” His chin comes up, his arrogance recovered. “Two nobles, lady, did decipher this language as a kindness to me. Nobles. Two of them.” He sniffs importantly. “They spoke to me.”
“And you spoke in turn to them?” I ask.
“Aye, and boasted that wealthy Capulet is my master who assigned to me this task—to trudge throughout Verona and locate each and all whose names are written here to inform them of the feast this night.” His chest puffs proudly. “And for their service, I invited the two
aristocrats to attend. Think on’t. Two more learned, noble personages present shall there be, thanks to my own self. Lord Capulet will be twice further honored by their attendance.”
“That remains to be seen.” I frown. “You did not ask their names?”
Cardenio squirms under my accusing glare. “Would it be wrong if I had not?”
“Only if they be Montagues,” I say lightly.
“Ah, well.” He beams. “They did not say that they were, so surely they are not.”
He is e‘en more dimwitted than I thought. Without another word, I take my leave of him and amble on, praying the spinning in my head will cease before this evening’s party. I turn my thoughts to the gown I shall don, what slippers, and which jewels. I will laugh with my cousins and eat fine delicacies. The candlelight will spark prisms in the crystal goblets, and Juliet will be shy and mannerly with the beaux who come to admire her. Several will beg a dance with me; I say thus without conceit or pride—’tis merely a fact proven again and again at occasions such as this. Having vowed never to fall in love, I have found such attention tedious indeed.
If only tonight the fiery-eyed Mercutio could be among that number, but alas, being of the house of Montague, he would ne’er be invited to a Capulet celebration. I walk on and lose myself in remembering the warm stroke of his voice. I go on in this manner for some while, until the
sturdy wholesomeness of my surroundings thins, giving way to a section of town that is not near so inviting. My preoccupation with Mercutio, combined with the disorientation caused by my injury, has sent me heading opposite of home, and I have arrived in one of the most disreputable of Verona’s neighborhoods. I have oft been warned by my mother to avoid this place and have gladly obeyed that directive. Until now.
I glance around, shuddering. The roadway is strewn with rotting food and other manner of waste I prefer not to identify. Mean-looking women wearing scanty garb lean lazily in doorways. An inebriated lout lolls in the filth of the street and calls out invitations to the harlots, who laugh raucously.
I am suddenly afraid.
The ancient buildings lean toward one another, forming narrow alleyways off the main road. The shadows of these forgotten lanes beckon coolly, but I dare not turn down one. I envision young ruffians, ensconced in these tunnel-like alleys, plotting awful things.
Dizzy, of a sudden, is no longer fun.
I find myself wishing for an escort, one strong and manly and fixed on protecting my person as well as my honor in this section of the city. I wish for Benvolio.
This thought stops me, midstep. Benvolio?
Nay, ’tis Mercutio I meant. Aye. The one with the dangerous smile. He who saved me.
Benvolio. ’Twas Benvolio who fought Tybalt. Whose hair
was a boyish tumble of dark curls, who sought to keep the peace, whose eyes, e’en from across the square, looked deeply kind and honest.
But ‘tis Mercutio I meant to wish for. Aye, he is the rightest rogue for a setting such as this. ’Twas surely what remains of the dizziness that made me think Benvolio …
Heaven save me. Voices approach!
I feel the air lock in my chest. There are two voices, both masculine, drawing closer. The harlots take note and stand straighter in their doorways, puckering their painted lips in hopes of a day’s wage. Panic fills me when I realize that in my disheveled state, these men might very well mistake me for a loose woman too.
For the second time this day, swift concealment is in order, and, praying no worse fate awaits me, I duck into the nearest alley. No sooner am I safe inside the shadow than the men come into view.
I blink, adjusting my eyes to the dimness, and see with utter astonishment that, again, ’tis none other than Romeo. And the one with whom he converses, I discover, is that tousle-haired, kind-eyed Benvolio, dusty still from the fight, but no less imposing. He carries a burlap sack slung over his shoulder.
I am far too relieved to wonder what business they have in this dirty district. My first thought is to reveal myself and humbly request their assistance. Forget that
they are Montagues! In such a circumstance they could be henchmen of Beelzebub and I would not care. Romeo does not know me for a Capulet. Benvolio does not know me at all. To the best of their knowledge I am simply a lady unwittingly trespassing in the realm of degenerates and reprobates who might at any moment emerge to pillage me.
Benvolio and Romeo are deep in conversation. Just as I prepare to demonstrate my presence, I catch the drift of their discourse … .
The drift of their discourse is me!
“I say again,” sighs Romeo, “as I said to thee in the square. The all-seeing sun ne’er saw one fairer than my Rosaline.”
Benvolio’s chuckle seems out of joint in this forsaken place. “And I, too, repeat mine earlier sentiment. Beauteous she may be, but there are others just as lovely, or lovelier. ’Tis only that you have not had occasion to compare. Aye, tonight we shall attend the enemy’s ball, and in attendance there shall be a wealth of ladies, each with her own gifts to offer. And in seeing such an assortment of confections, my romantic cousin, thou wilt know that your Rosaline—for that matter, any lady passing fair—is merely one more delectable tart in a well-baked batch.”
My fists are clenched, as are my teeth. How dare that rogue! To liken me, or any maiden, to pastry!
Romeo shakes his head in disgust. “I have already
agreed to attend the feast, but ’twill not be to challenge my taste for the sweet Rosaline.”
“Aye, aye.” Benvolio flashes a lopsided grin. “So you have said. You go only to clap eyes on Rosaline and … what was it thou spake? ’Rejoice in her splendor.’”
“Amen.” With that, good Romeo takes his leave.
Benvolio shakes his head in Romeo’s wake. “He is an impossible romantic,” he remarks to himself.
“And you,” I say, stepping forth from the alley, “are a contemptible cur!”
Startled by my ambush, Benvolio drops his sack and reaches for his sword.
“Go ahead,” I challenge, my dizziness forgotten, my hands planted hard on my hips. “Slice me into pieces, as you would any ‘delectable tart.’”
He stays his weapon. For a moment he can only blink in surprise.
“’Tis you! The heroic maiden from the market square. You saved the child.”
This remark has me waylaid—my stance softens, and I blush. “You saw?”
“I saw.” His eyes fill with awe, respect.
For a moment I am touched by it. Then, remembering my anger, I arch one brow at him. “’Twas hardly the act of a piece of pastry, was it?”
Benvolio blinks again. “I beg pardon, lady?” Of a sudden, a look of worry clouds his face. “You were hurt.”
His apparent distress surprises me. “Art thou recovered? Pray, art thou well?”
Before I can answer, he catches my hand and brings my fingers to his lips. ’Tis a soft kiss he makes, a breath, really.
“I would know your name, my lady.”
’Tis my turn to blink. “Hm?”
“Your name.” His eyes meet mine. They are indeed as gentle as I had first believed. Darkly brown in color, with golden flecks. “Tell me your name, I beg of thee.”
I have no intent to whisper, and yet I do. “You know my name.”
He shrugs. “Nay. I do not.”
’Tis a moment ’fore I realize he still cradles my fingers in his palm. I snatch them away, struggling to hold a thought. “But … just now, your companion spoke of—”
“Spoke of one called Rosaline, aye. ’Tis the only female he can think upon. He fancies himself in love with the maid. He has only just learned from her uncle’s servant that she is a Capulet, and still he is not deterred. Says she is the most beauteous creature in all of Verona, nay, in all the world. Clearly, he hath never caught a glimpse of thee.”
I am speechless.
Now something dawns upon him.
“Might I inquire as to what a well-bred lady such as thyself is doing here?” His wonder and concern are genuine.
“I am lost,” I say truthfully.
“Praise be to heaven, then, for allowing me to find thee.” He bends to retrieve the burlap sack, his eyes never leaving mine. “I shall see thee to safety.”
“I would be grateful.”
“Not near so grateful as I.”
I fall into step beside him. Confused falls short of describing my condition now, and it has nothing to do with the blow to my head. Benvolio, just minutes before, taunted Romeo for being so romantic. And yet he kisses my hand and speaks in words as sweet as any Romeo ever hath spoken.
Sweeter, even. For Benvolio’s ring true.
“Where dost thou lead me?” I ask, when I notice that we are not, in fact, leaving this cruel vicinity but rather traveling deeper into its heart. Odd, but I am not in the least mistrustful, merely curious.
“I’ve an errand to undertake,” he replies.
We turn down a gloomy lane. An aged dog seeks refuge there in the shade. He emits a disheartened growl. Benvolio reaches into the sack and removes a leather flask. For a moment, I imagine he is going to offer me a sip of wine. But next from the sack comes a battered wooden bowl. Benvolio lowers himself to a crouch beside the languid mutt and places the bowl on the ground, murmuring softly all the while.
“Hot today, isn’t it, boy? Smart dog, you are, Crab, to find thyself some shade.”
“Crab?” I ask.
Benvolio grins. “Aye, that is what the residents call him.”
I watch, my mouth a small circle of surprise, as Benvolio empties the contents of the pouch—’tis water—into the bowl.
“I told thee I’d be back, didn’t I, Crab?” Benvolio gives the dog’s ears a scratch. “Now, drink up.”
The dog rises slowly on his feeble legs and begins to lap up the liquid. A contented rumble sounds in his throat. Somehow, he summons the energy to wag his scrawny tail.
“You are most welcome,” Benvolio says to the dog. He slings the sack o’er his shoulder once more and begins walking.
“That was your errand?” I ask, hoping he does not notice the catch in my voice.
“A piece of it,” he answers. “Come. I have one more visit to make.”
Toward the end of the alley we come to a flight of dirt-and-stone steps, carved into the earth alongside an uninhabitable building, leading down, it would seem, into the very bowels of hell. Benvolio descends, and I, without a heartbeat’s hesitation, follow him.
At the bottom is a cracked and splintered wooden door; Benvolio raps on it. A muffled commotion can be heard on the other side. Then the door swings open, and I am looking at what is perhaps the most beautiful—albeit the filthiest—little girl I have ever seen.
“Ben!” she cries, in a voice like music. “Nonno, ‘tis Ben …:’ She frowns over Benvolio’s shoulder at me. “And … his wife?”
Benvolio laughs out loud, sweeping the child into his arms. “Ah, Vi. You know I have no wife.”
“Aye.” The girl beams. “Because you are waiting till I be old enough to marry!”
When she smiles, I judge her to be at least ten in years, for I see that most of her permanent teeth have come in. Those teeth are fine and straight, and her smile is glorious. Her hair, though long-unwashed, is thick and probably quite lovely when it is clean. It is pulled back from her cherubic face and tied with dirty string.
“By then, Viola,” Benvolio says, placing her down again, “every gentleman in Italy will have already begged thee for thy hand.” He feigns a pout. “Alas, I will surely be forgotten.”
“Never!” She giggles.
Benvolio steps within the dwelling. One could hardly call it tidy, but ’tis evident great effort has been made to keep it clean. Another child, a boy, comes barreling toward us, calling, “Ben! Ben!” He too is dirty and beautiful.
Now he and Viola throw themselves at Benvolio’s shins and cling to his legs like two enormous cockleburs as he tramps across the room. They cry out in delight, enjoying the ride.
“This fellow here,” says Benvolio, ruffling the hair of one of his captors, “is Sebastian.” He leans down toward
the child and says in a loudish whisper, “Dost thou remember what I taught thee?”
Sebastian nods, releases himself from Benvolio’s leg, and sweeps a deep bow in my direction.
“Good morrow, lady,” he says, though his nose is verily stuffed so as to distort his pronunciation.
“Good day to you, kind sir,” I say, inclining my head formally and trying desperately not to laugh. Benvolio’s eyes are shining.
“And this princess who still dangles from my knee is Viola. They are gemelli. Twins.”
Viola promptly sticks her tongue out at me.
Undaunted, I respond in kind.
The child’s eyes go wide at first, then she breaks into a fit of giggles, leaves hold of Benvolio, and dashes back across the room to throw herself into my arms. Instinctively, I scoop her up and hug her tightly as she kisses me loudly on the cheek.
“I like you!” she declares.
“I like you too,” I confess. I am struck by the resemblance she bears to Juliet when she was small.
“Come si chiama?”
My name; she asks my name. But surely I cannot say Rosaline, for then Benvolio will know me to be the one with whom Romeo believes himself smitten.
I am uncertain as to precisely why I prefer he not learn that truth just yet.
I am spared answering when Sebastian falls into a fit
of severe coughing. I put Viola down, go to him, and pat his back firmly but gently. He is so thin that I can feel the wet rattle of an infection right through his rib cage. Benvolio looks concerned but resigned, as does Viola. From this I understand that Sebastian’s convulsive hacking is a sound not unfamiliar.
When at last the coughing tempest subsides, Sebastian snatches the bag from Benvolio. Viola lets out a shriek and pounces upon him, so that the two of them are rolling over each other on the floor—Viola attempting to wrench free the burlap sack, Sebastian clutching it with all his meager strength.
“Children!” comes a deep voice from across the room. “Basta! Enough!”
At once the children cease their antics; they scramble to their feet. I turn to see an elderly man in the far corner. I did not notice him before in the dimness. He steps, with a pronounced limp, into what little light reaches the burrowlike dwelling.
Benvolio bows his head respectfully. “Buongiorno, signior.”
“Buongiorno, Benvolio.” The man turns to the children, who look properly contrite. “What have you to say to Benvolio?” he asks them.
“Grazie, Benvolio,” says Viola.
“Grazie,” Sebastion intones with a rasp.
“Now,” says the old man, a smile tugging at his thin mouth, “you may claim your prize.”
I wonder what that prize might be. Toys, perhaps? A
suit for Sebastian, and a gown for Viola? I find I am as anxious as the youngsters to discover the sack’s contents.
Viola retrieves the bag, tugs it open.
’Tis … food.
Food.
And plenty of it. Bread—three fat, crusty loaves. And fruit. Vegetables of every sort, it seems, and a large wheel of cheese.
Viola is quick to tear a sizeable chunck from one of the bread loaves. She is about to have a bite when the old man clears his throat. At once, the pretty child crosses the room in my direction. God’s truth, as she stands before me, I can hear her stomach growl with hunger. And yet she offers the bread to me.
“Thank you, no,” I say o’er the thick lump of tears forming in my throat.
Viola glances at Benvolio; he shakes his head. Only now does she take a bite of the bread. Sebastian has helped himself to a generous-sized pear. I can’t help but wonder where their parents are. I pray they are gone for the day to perform some chore. But e‘en as I think it, I know ’tis not the case.
Back on the street, I again take in the desolation of the place. I no longer feel fear. Rather, I am consumed by the hopelessness of it all.
“So, lady,” says Benvolio, a teasing lilt in his tone, “dost thou come here often?”
“Nay.” I smile in spite of myself. “Though ’tis evident that you, sir, are something of a regular.”
“I try,” he says, serious now. “Their father was a good man. He worked many years in our stables but fell ill two winters past; his wife caught the fever from him. She passed only a week after he did. The grandfather does his best to care for the children, but he is old and without means.
We walk a good distance in silence. When we pass the women in their doorways, neither of us speaks, but I am certain he is thinking the very thing that I am—’twould be horrific if, one day in the future, Viola were found among their ranks.
Horrific. But likely.
I shudder. How is it that only an hour ago I could think of nothing but which costly gown I would wear to mine uncle’s banquet?
At last we reach the safe boundary of the market square, though in far less time than I would have thought, or liked.
“I thank thee for escorting me, good Benvolio.”
“’Twas my privilege, lady.” He crooks an inquisitive grin at me. “Lady?”
“’Tis too bad that you will not be at the Capulet ball this eve,” I stammer, to avoid supplying the answer to his inquiry. “I would like to see thee there.”
His eyes darken. “You are to be a guest at the feast?”
I nod, as if in apology. “I am required to be. I am kin to Capulet.”
Benvolio thinks on this a moment, then surprises me with his laughter. “It seems my cousin Romeo and I have e’en more in common than I knew.”
I can only gulp at that.
“Tell me, why dost thou think I will not be at the ball?”
“Well, because thou art a Montague.”
He waggles his eyebrows. “’Tis a masquerade, is it not?”
“Aye, it is.”
“Well, then. What is the quandary? I can mingle with the guests—you, in particular—and no Capulet shall be the wiser.”
“Brave of thee!” I declare, smiling.
“No more brave than you, m’lady. You ken that I am aligned with the Montagues, and still you speak to me freely.”
I toss my head in a dismissive gesture. “To me, Montague is naught but a name. I have no fear of your friendship.”
“My friendship?” His frown deepens. “So that is all you wish of me?”
I laugh. “Yes, that is all, and so you may relax. ’Tis known to me you have no use for love or marriage.”
Again he looks confounded.
“I did overhear you earlier, talking to your friend, remember? You are scornful of love and other such silly sentiments. To be candid, I felt much the same myself until this day.”
“Pray you, lady, what changed your mind?”
“Mercutio did.” In truth, ’tis the first I’ve thought of Mercutio since finding myself lost.
“Mercutio,” Benvolio mutters. “You are impressed with him, I take it?”
“Of course. He saved my life.”
Benvolio’s face twists with bewilderment. “He saved you?”
“During the brawl in the common,” I clarify. “Just after I rescued the child. Did you not see that part of it?”
“No, I did not,” he grumbles, then pauses. “And that is your only incentive to love him? Because he saved you?”
“He was there when I emerged from my stupor.”
“Mercutio was.”
“Aye.” I can make no sense of the expression on his face. “I believed him to be your friend.”
Benvolio grumbles a reply that sounds something akin to “so did I.” His expression hardens. “I feel obliged to enlighten you, lady, as to Mercutio’s viewpoint on the topic of affection. He is as firmly opposed to it as I.” Benvolio lowers his voice to add in a mumble, “Mayhap more.”
I step closer and touch his cheek. Bold, I know, but I will not deny that since this day’s experience, there is something familiar between us. “You are sweet to worry for my heart. But please think no more on it. I will not be hurt by Mercutio. That is a promise.”
“And how dost thou intend to avoid it?
“How else? By making him fall madly in love with me.”
Something explodes in his eyes. He reaches out and takes my hand, pressing it ’twixt both of his. “Mark me, fair one. Mercutio is the wickedest of scoundrels, a wastrel, a cad. I know it well, for I am his closest friend.”
“And what might you say of him were he your enemy?” I ask.
“Do not mock me, please. I am sincere in this.”
“Aye, ’tis clear you are. I shall be careful. I swear to it.”
For a long moment Benvolio simply stares at me.
“Tonight, at the feast,” he says at last, “I beseech you save a dance for me.”
“I shall happily dance with you,” I tell him. “’Twill be a joy to dance with so good a friend.”
With no further word, he turns and stomps away from me through the square.