I run.
My slippers pound the dust, loosening my braid so that my hair escapes in wanton spirals around my face. At my nape, the long curls dampen with perspiration.
I run harder.
For if Tybalt gets to the tavern before me, tragedy will assuredly ensue.
Recalling Benvolio’s directions, I hurry past the cemetery toward the outskirts, and soon find myself entering the disreputable section of Verona. Saints in heaven, was I to go left or right at the old coppersmith’s shop? 0, which is it? A destra? Sinistra?
I choose right, and correctly, for I come to the rusting water pump. According to Benvolio, the Untamed
Shrew is but two narrow streets east of here. I run harder still.
And now I hear crying coming from the shadows of a decaying livery stable.
My heart lurches at the sound of it, so desperate is it to mine ears. I stop running and approach the noise. The stable’s door has long since been torn asunder. I enter and glance round, my eyes adjusting to the gloom as I search out the source of such sobbing.
’Tis a child, huddled in a rotting hay bale. God’s blood, it is young Viola! I hasten to her side, to kneel beside her.
She flinches, looking up at me with terror-filled eyes. “Rosaline!”
The child flings herself into my arms and sobs even more deeply than before.
“O, what is it, darling one?” I ask. “Are you lost, hurt?”
“Lost and hurt,” she says into my shoulder. “The whores took me.”
My stomach goes sour at the thought of it.
“They tied my hands.” Trembling, she extends her arms so I might see them.
The sourness in my belly turns to out-and-out pain. Her wrists are bleeding, rubbed raw from the rope used to bind them. Immediately, I sweep aside my heavy skirt and set to tearing off a wide portion of my undersmock.
Thankfully, that action causes Viola to give over terror for curiosity. She watches intently, her breaths coming in shudders, and I will my voice to be calm as I
continue to speak, all the while gently wrapping her tender wounds.
“How did these people take you?” I ask.
“It was night. Sebastian was coughing. I tried to pat his back like you did, but it only helped for a moment.”
I am momentarily amazed that such a young child would be astute enough to notice and remember such a thing. I nod and give her an encouraging smile.
“I got up to get him a cup of water, but the ewer was empty. I had to come to the pump.”
I finish with the bandage but do not let go of her small hand.
“The whores were drinking wine, and they called out to me and said I would make a fine harlot, for I’m prettier than all of them. I told them I was but ten summers, and they laughed and said there were men aplenty who would pay a pile of silver to have an untried maiden like myself.”
God’s truth, I could retch right here. I squeeze her hand.
“That is when they caught me and bound my wrists.”
“How didst thou get away?” I ask, my voice tight with revulsion.
She draws a deep breath. “They brought me to a pub, a filthy place where there were more bad women and men who reeked of ale. They stood me upon a table and offered me to whosoever bid the highest price.” Her words come flatly, but her eyes are brimming with tears.
“I remember a good amount of shouting, and finally a
crippled man offered two gold coins for me. He could hardly walk, so one of the whores dragged me outside for him. He hobbled toward the alley, and she shoved me along behind him. O, Rosaline, I was frightened. He was old and ugly, and he had a gnarled hand to match his ruined leg. When the harlot took her leave, I thought I might faint from panic.”
She pauses to collect herself. I am almost unwilling to hear what happened next, but I must, for depending upon the cripple’s treatment of her, she may have need of the Healer.
“What happened then?” I prod softly.
Now her expression turns to one of disbelief. “He used his good hand to unbind my wrists,” she whispers. “And then he told me to run.”
“Run?” I repeat, astonished.
“Run away, he said. He told me he was sorry he could not bring me to safety himself, but his disfigurement prevented it. Before I could depart, another man appeared in the alley. He lunged for me, knocking the cripple to the ground. The vile man had me backed against the wall and he was about to—”
Again, I squeeze her hand, wishing dearly it were that vicious lecher’s throat.
“’Twas then I heard the barking.”
“Barking?”
Viola nods. “Barking. And growling. ’Twas a dog who had been sleeping in the alley. A very old dog.”
My eyes widen in amazement. “Crab!”
“Yes, ‘twas Crab! Benvolio feeds him, and once he brought Crab to play with us. Crab jumped at the bad man, and tore into him with his teeth. The man fell hard, dead, I think, and the cripple yelled, ‘Run, child!’ so I did.”
I am silent for a moment as I pray for all God’s blessing upon that brave and faithful stray, and ask Him to watch o’er the pure heart of the crippled stranger.
“Viola, I shall see you home by and by, but first I’ve an errand I must undertake. Can you walk?”
She gains her feet, still clutching my hand, and we hurry out into the blazing sunlight, to the Untamed Shrew.
“Rosaline?”
“Aye?”
“I would like to give you something. A gift.”
“’Tis not necessary—”
“Please. ’Twould make me glad if I could give to you what I count most precious in this world. For I know you will love this gift near as much as I.”
“In that case, I will be honored to have it.” I smile down at the pretty child. “Pray, what is this thing you love most that you wish me to have?”
Her very heart is in her eyes when she answers.
“Benvolio.”
We arrive in the thick of a crowd. Townspeople and nobles have gathered in this spot where I was to meet Benvolio. The shouting and sobbing do not bode well, though
here, at the back of the throng, I cannot make out what has occurred. People shiver though it is sweltering. Others seem numb and affrighted. O’er their heads in the distance I can see the tavern’s shingle reading THE UNTAMED SHREW and the prince aloft, speaking grimly to the citizenry from the tavern’s high steps.
I hold tight to Viola and shoulder through to the front of the mob.
Alas, I come too late.
For hither in the street before the empty tavern lie Mercutio and Tybalt.
0, the sight is torture to behold. Tybalt, my dear cousin and adored friend, sprawled motionless upon the ground. Even in his teasing did he express his love of me. And ever did he seek to protect me, to teach me, to make me laugh. My sudden grief renders me absurd, and I can only think how disturbed my vain and darling cousin would be to see his fine clothing smudged with blood and dirt.
And near to him lies Mercutio. A rake, aye, but e’en the most troublesome lad does not deserve to die in the beauty of his youth. O, I would weep for this waste, but I cannot, for I am too afraid of what worse will come because of it.
Benvolio is near the prince on a lower step, relaying the tale of woe. The loathsome account assails my ears in Benvolio’s beauteous voice.
“An envious thrust from Tybalt hit the life of stout Mercutio, and then Tybalt fled; but by and by comes back to Romeo, who had but
newly entertain’d revenge, and to’t they go like lightning, for, ere I could draw to part them, was stout Tybalt slain; and as he fell, did Romeo turn and fly.”
He turns to the crowd, his hand upon his heart, his expression sober. “This is the truth,” he concludes darkly, “or let Benvolio die.”
I cannot imagine the prince would think Benvolio’s report dishonest. Then I understand that ’tis not for the prince’s benefit he’s made that final avowal. I see his eyes fixed upon my aunt, Lady Capulet. She is glaring at him as though he himself did murder her nephew. I would throw myself betwixt her and Benvolio simply to shield him from her hateful stare. O, can she not see the grief in Benvolio’s gaze, his vast regret, his genuine hurt?
“He is a kinsman to the Montague,” she shrieks in abhorrence, “affection makes him false, he speaks not true … . I beg for justice, which thou, Prince, must give: Romeo slew Tybalt, Romeo must not live.”
I feel Viola tug upon my sleeve. “Rosaline—”
“Hush, please,” I implore her, not taking my eyes from Benvolio.
She tugs again, but Montague hollers, “Not Romeo, Prince, he was Mercutio’s friend; his fault concludes but what the law should end, the life of Tybalt.”
The prince does silent battle with this logic. Again, Viola pulls upon my dress.
“Look you, Rosaline, that one—”
I shake my head at her and touch my finger to her lips. There is something urgent in her eyes, but I cannot address it now for I am missing the sovereign’s decree. “You may tell me anon,” I promise in a whisper. “I must listen to the prince.”
The child presses her lips shut obediently. I turn my attention back to the prince, as Viola bounces beside me in an agitated manner.
“Let Romeo hence in haste,” the prince announces somberly, “else, when he’s found, that hour is his last … .”
My heart sinks at this dire declaration for ’tis Juliet’s doom as well.
Now the prince instructs that the bodies be removed. The people disperse quickly. The prince departs as well, followed by his agents. I watch my aunt take her leave and understand that she goes directly to call forth servants who will prepare the Capulet tomb for Tybalt’s interment. My mind whirls in tumult. This morning, a secret wedding; this night, a public funeral.
When no one remains but Viola and myself with Tybalt and Mercutio dead at our feet, I turn to Benvolio, who is coming down the steps to draw me into his arms.
“I’m sorry,” I utter. “If only I had arrived more expeditiously. If only—”
“Shhhh, angel. ’Tis not your fault. This date was long in coming. You could not have stopped them any more than I.”
“But if I had just—”
Now Viola has taken a handful of my skirt and pulls with all her might. “Rosaline!” she wails.
I turn away from Benvolio, remembering she had wished fervently to tell me something earlier. “Aye, Viola. You are indeed a patient lady, and I commend you on that. Now, dear one. Tell me what the matter is.”
“That one,” she squeaks, pointing her finger at Tybalt, lying face down in the hard dirt. “Look you at that one.”
Benvolio lowers his eyebrows. “What of him?” he asks.
Viola looks direct at me and nods. “He breathes.”