O, Juliet (20 page)

Finally the front door opened and Papa was in our midst, all smoky and black-faced and strangely jolly.

“Everything is well,” he said wearily. “Well as it can be, having lost the office and the showroom. But the factory and warehouse were untouched, praise Jesus. And truth be told, the parts that burned were old and falling down. We shall rebuild. No worries.”

“But what of Jacopo and Romeo?” I said with perhaps too telling an urgency. “They were at each other’s throats.”

“They have forgiven each other for their insults.”

“And the accusation of the Monticecco’s fire setting?”

“Withdrawn,” said Papa with a wry grin. “A bit reluctantly, but withdrawn all the same. Those two will never love one another, but even now they are working side by side to clean up the mess.”

I felt a jab in my chest at those last words, for the thought was jarring and the image it provoked was false, for Jacopo hated Romeo. Jacopo knew of our love.
But could he know of our marriage?

I gasped at the thought.

“What is it, sweet girl?” my mother asked, concern darkening her features. “Are you ill?”

“No. It’s nothing.”

“We should go to bed,” my father announced. “Come, Simonetta.” He took Mama’s hand. “We are all very tired.”

“And relieved!” my mother said, smiling up at her husband.

We climbed the stairs together and they watched me into my room. I shut the door behind me.

I was anything but relieved.

I paced and paced, the space of my room and out to the balcony and back. Finally I relented and put on my nightdress and climbed beneath the covers. But I was full awake, as though it were bright dawn after a good night’s sleep.

Agitated, I rose from the bed and lit a candle at my desk. Sight of the flame brought memories of the factory fire. I picked up the quill.

I was grateful for the time that passed like a sweet spell in the writing. And then like a gift of more magic, I heard a crunching on the balcony floor. I rose and swung open the door, flinging open my arms, knowing it was Romeo.

Knowing this would be my wedding night.

And there he stood, moonlight and shadows. The shoulders broad, waist narrow. Feet set wide apart. Muscular legs strong. His beautiful hair was wild, his eyes shining bright. But he lacked a smile.

And he was covered neck to groin in blood.

The sound I made he stifled with his hand as he plunged into my room and pushed closed the door.

“What has happened? Where are you hurt?”

“I am unhurt.” He moved like a cat to the bedroom door and locked it. “This is not my blood.” When he turned to me again, the pain was so vivid on his face that I scarce believed him.

“Whose blood?” I said, growing fearful for the answer.

Romeo began to pace from corner to corner, as I had done earlier. He wrung his hands, then raked them through his hair. Yet he would not speak, name the victim.

“Whose blood!” I cried.

His lips were trembling. He plucked absently at the gory doublet. He seemed deranged. “Marco’s.”

“My cousin?”

He nodded. Then his face crumbled and he fell to his knees. “I killed him. He died on the end of my dagger.”

My arms, which had been welcoming, then beseeching, fell limp at my sides.Words escaped me. But there sitting on his heels before me was my poor desolate husband, now beginning to weep. I went to him and came down gently before him, unsure how to touch him, but wishing desperately to comfort him.

I lifted his chin. Tears were brimming, his cheeks a shallow pond.

“Tell me what happened.”

He closed his eyes and his mouth worked silently. I could see him remembering, though the words came slowly and hard.

“The fire was out. You and your mother were sent home. My father and yours”—his lips contorted in a pained smile—“refused to believe Jacopo’s lie.”

I was biting my lip hard. I took Romeo’s hands in mine, horribly aware that the blood that had dried upon them was of my own family.

“So we set to work. Inside. Throwing out in the street what remained of furniture and bolts of silk. The company books were somehow spared, and there was much rejoicing for that.” It seemed too hard for Romeo to continue, but I urged him.

“Go on.”

“I told my father to go home. That Mama would be worried. The men and I would stay till all was finished. Jacopo”—Romeo’s face twisted again—“suggested the same to your father. So there we worked, side by side—silkmen, orchardmen, vineyard men—sorry for the loss, but with goodwill and grateful for no injury to anyone.”

He stopped and opened his eyes, looking deep into my own. I saw confusion there, as though he sought but could not find the single moment when things had turned for the worse.

“I was out in the street. Most of the men had come out. We were neatening the piles of rubble, burned beams. What remained of your father’s desk. Then Jacopo spoke up. Said to Filippo, ‘You started the fire. No one can tell me different.’ Everyone stopped still where they stood. Filippo said, ‘Take that back, or I will break your face.’ And our vintner, a gruff man to be sure, he said quite loudly, ‘Strozzi pig.’

“All at once the goodwill vanished and everyone was trembling with anger, looking for a fight. I went toe-to-toe with Jacopo and said he should curb his foolish tongue, for Capelletti and Monticecco had made peace, not once, but twice, and I would not allow him to rupture it. Marco was at his side, agreeing with me. Urging Jacopo to stand down.”

Romeo’s breathing grew ragged and his face pulled into a grimace. “Then I heard sounds behind me. A thud. A cry. Sickening. I turned to see Benvolio down. His head . . . crushed. One of the silkmen was standing over him, his eyes mad, a burned beam still clutched in his hands. That was all it took.

“All hell broke loose. Men shoving men. Punches thrown. Knives drawn. I went to Benvolio, knelt at his side. He was moaning, bleeding from the ears. Then someone kicked me in the back. Hard. My hand flew to my dagger and I came to my feet, ready to fight. But it was Marco standing there, pushing away the man who had kicked me. His hands were outstretched like this”—Romeo opened his hands in supplication—“as if to say ‘I’m sorry, my friend.’ And suddenly he was
lunging
at me.” Romeo drove his fist into his palm. “Just like that! It happened so fast. He was pressed up against me, chest to chest, and I saw, behind him, Jacopo. Grinning.”

Romeo sobbed. “Then I heard Marco moan and I knew, I knew, oh Juliet, I knew he was on the tip of my dagger! But before I could move to release him, Jacopo came crashing into his back. His arms went around us both and he
crushed
Marco into me. Crushed him further onto my blade.
Uugh!
”

Romeo covered his face with his hands. “There came his warm blood seeping.... I smelled Jacopo’s stinking breath on my cheek and he whispered, ‘I set the fire.’ And then we both felt Marco—oh God, forgive me—we felt the life go out of his limbs. Jacopo pulled away and cried out loud for everyone to hear, ‘Murder! Look, here is murder!’

“All scuffles ceased. All eyes turned. Marco was dead at my feet. The knife was still in my hand.” Romeo turned away, ashamed to meet my eye, but I pulled him back.

“Yes, there was murder, my love. But you were not its cause.”

“Prove it!”

I was speechless.

“Prove it to anyone. Just try.” Romeo came to his feet, pulling me with him. “Everyone will swear to be a witness to the murder of Marco by Romeo. Even my own men were fooled.”

“It’s another of Jacopo’s lies. We will tell our fathers. Explain.”

“No.” He laughed miserably. “There is no explaining it, Juliet. There is only a dead Capelletti at the hands of a Monticecco. That is all anyone will wish to know.”

“How did you come here? Why did they let you go?”

“My men closed ranks around me. I bless them for their loyalty. They wanted me to run, but still I could hear them whispering, ‘Murder, murder.’ I did kill Marco. How could I explain it was not my intention? They held off your father’s men and pushed me, pushed me from the street near the factory. As I went, I heard Jacopo Strozzi shouting, ‘Let him go. He will not get far, for all of Florence will know of his deed!’”

Finally Romeo was dry-eyed. “So I came here. Where no one would expect to find me. To my wife.” He looked at me beseechingly. “Can you forgive me?”

“Romeo, love, you have done nothing that needs forgiving.” But the words caught in my throat, and Romeo heard.

“You see?” he said grimly.

“I see nothing but the sad death of our friend and good cousin Marco!” I cried. “He was your kin, too, when he died. So let me offer my condolences to you.”

I took Romeo to myself, and he clutched me with hard, sinewy arms.

“Is it not an unkind cut that the one soul who succored our love is gone?” he said.

“Monstrously so,” I agreed.

There we stood, trembling with silent grief, for how long I cannot say.

“Let me take your clothes from you,” I finally said with all gentleness.

He stepped back and I pulled apart the blood-soaked leather laces of his doublet. He pushed it from his shoulders and it fell like a dead thing on the floor. The arms of his white shirt were dark brown with gore, and this he let me pull over his head. I went to toss it away, and turned back, regaining sight of him.

There he stood, my own husband, Romeo, in naught but his stockings and bare-chested. Despite his pain-racked face he was so beautiful to my eyes that I went and embraced him again, laying my cheek against the soft warmth of his breast.

“I am death, Juliet,” he rasped softly. “A young Reaper.”

“No. I hear your heart beating.You are life.You are my life.” I looked up at him. “Romeo. Husband. This is our wedding night.”

He tried to smile, but even such words as I spoke were weak medicine for what ailed him.

Thought of consequences for Marco’s killing, murder or not, pressed in on me, heavy, a suffocating cloak. I sought to throw it off with brave words.

“Soon you’ll go. Your uncles in Verona will shelter you. And meanwhile, together, we will set this right.”

I saw a flutter of a smile, the pain ebbing from his features like an outgoing tide. “Our wedding night,” he murmured ruefully.

I took him by the arm to my basin and bade him wash his hands and face in the frigid water. I dried them for him with a scented towel, then took his fingers and placed them on my face. I heard the rush of breath, his relieved sigh.

“Your hands are cold. You should warm them,” I said, and pulled open my robe to reveal the thin, fluttering night shift.

He let go a small gasp and could not help but smile. A moment later his expression flattened in remorse.

“It’s all right, my love. I promise you. We must take some joy before you go.” I reached for his hands and put them at my waist.

That was all was needed.

He pulled me hard against him, laying his warm mouth against my neck. A shock, like lightning, went through me. I moaned and clung to him, as if only he could preserve my life. We kissed and kissed again. I heard, as if from a distance, our short gasping breaths and small wet cries.

Then I was airborne, lifted effortlessly from my feet, and laid with less gentleness than urgency on my bed. He grappled with his hose and I with my robe. I saw him straddled above me, fully naked and steely hard. I laid my arms above my head and he accepted the invitation it was to remove my gown.

With more restraint than I believed either of us possessed in that moment, he found the hem and slowly, very slowly, untangled it from my thighs. The breath suddenly caught in my throat with the thought of my undressing.

But far from mortifying me, the thought sent a rush of pleasure to that part about to be unveiled and so surprised me I barked a laugh, startling Romeo from a passionate grimace to a grin. He finished my disrobing with a single upward sweep and we came together in a kiss of pure joy and celebration. Our limbs twining, the flesh moved like silk on silk. His hands, warm now, grasped my knees and pulled them high against his sides. I was open, exposed to his center, and now when he put his mouth on my breast and suckled, I was wild with wanting him in me.

Whether my cry was aloud or inside my head I cannot say, but he did hear me and complied.

Filled, I was, with his strength and sweet pain. Rocking with a rhythm I did not know I owned. Then he slowed, halted. The look on his face was desperate.

“What, love? Speak to me,” I whispered.

“Oh, Juliet, I want this not to end. I want to stay like this with you forever.”

I laughed and kissed him. “Can we start again?” Teasing, I moved my hips.

He moaned happily and answered with a great thrust. “Husband!” I cried with mock dismay, but feeling a thrill in all parts of me.

“So I will start again, good wife, but very slowly.” He moved as he’d promised, and the sweetness was so great I thought I would die of it.

“Don’t stop. Don’t stop,” I said.

He did not stop but moved ever more slowly, ever more deeply.

“Oh. What is this? Is there a name?” My breath was jagged.

He put his mouth to my ear and flicked a tongue inside for reply.