Still Star-Crossed (33 page)

I’ faith, how could he have been so wrong about Benvolio? True, he’d been a close friend of Romeo and Mercutio, hotheads both—but Escalus had truly thought him a wiser man than they. One who could be worthy of Rosaline’s hand, unwillingly given though it was. The stab of pain that went through him at that thought took his breath away. He’d thrown Benvolio and Rosaline together, forced them into one another’s company.

And thus, he’d unwittingly sentenced the lady he loved to hell at the hands of a villain.

Where was she? What had Benvolio done to her? Something horrible enough that she’d lost her wits, according to his cousin. Sickening images flooded his mind and he gritted his teeth. It nearly made him want to throw himself off the balcony to imagine such things happening to her. Why had Benvolio done it? Why abduct her, ravish her, only to throw her away? Even at their worst, neither family had ever targeted a maiden so. For a moment Escalus’s mind returned to Benvolio’s wild tale of an army waiting to attack the city. There could not be any truth to it, could there?

But no. It was as Paris said—Benvolio was a liar. Why trust a man whose sword was found buried in a young Capulet’s heart—whom Livia had seen making off with her sister—over his own flesh and blood? And he had also claimed that Rosaline fled with him willingly—why would she do that, after what had passed between herself and Escalus? No. Paris was his kinsman. Escalus was certain he would not betray him so. While Benvolio betrayed as easily as he breathed. Escalus’s momentary whim to believe Benvolio’s wild tale stemmed from one thing—if he spoke the truth, it meant Rosaline might still be unharmed. But though his heart longed to believe it, his reason knew better.

The Prince of Verona laughed, burying his head in his hands. The woman he loved was destroyed, and he would probably never see her again. There was naught he could do to help her. Except to make certain that her offender never saw another sunset.

Benvolio’s sleep was ended by a kick.

He groaned, jerking away from the guard’s prodding foot. “Up, villain,” the man said. “Thy judgment is at hand.”

Benvolio scrambled to his feet, but not quickly enough for his companion, who gave him another vicious kick to the ribs. “There’s one would see thee, ere thou meet’st thy maker.”

Benvolio craned his neck eagerly beyond the guard. “Rosaline? Is she returned?”

“No, nephew.” Lord Montague stepped through the door. He nodded to the guard. “Leave us.”

The guard gave a reluctant bow and withdrew, closing the tent behind him. With a sigh, Benvolio’s uncle turned to face him. Though he was facing his own death, Benvolio felt a twinge of pity for him—the lord of the Montagues had grown even older in the days since Benvolio had last seen him.

“Uncle.” Benvolio bowed to him; with palsied hands, his uncle drew him to stand once more. Benvolio steadied his shaking hands with his own, wondering as he did so whether it could be long before his uncle joined his wife and son in the grave. “Good day, sir.” He opened his mouth again, then shut it. What else was there to say, when one was minutes from death?

“Oh, Benvolio. My poor child. What we are fallen to.” His uncle shook his head.

“Listen well, Uncle. I am innocent of all that they claim, do you hear? ’Tis Lady Capulet and Paris who are the authors of all.”

“ ’Tis no use. I have pled with the prince for mercy these three hours, begged him to sweeten thy sentence from death to banishment, but he is steadfast. I did remind him of your rank, of the suffering you have endured at the Capulets’ hands, but ’tis no use. He says you shall die this morn.”

Benvolio grew cold as he listened to his uncle’s words. “My rank? My suffering? Why did you move him thus to pity me, and not beg for an innocent man?” And then it dawned on him, and he felt sick. “You believe I am guilty.”

“I believe thou hast cause for whatever thou hast done.”

“Think you I would slay young Gramio? Would hurt a
woman
? When Lady Rosaline comes home—”

“Paris believes she is dead. He says she wandered raving into the woods, there to fall prey to wild beasts, or drowned in the river.”

“She lives.” Benvolio shook his head. “She lives, she
must
. Uncle, listen well.
Do not
trust County Paris, nor Lady Capulet. Friar Laurence knows of their guilt. I saw it written with his own hand.” His uncle’s watery eyes were filled with pity. Benvolio looked to the heavens in frustration. Paris’s army would be here long before anyone could send for Friar Laurence. “Soon, very soon, Verona shall have need of you and Capulet both, you must prepare House Montague to repel Paris’s invasion—”

But Lord Montague shook his head, his watery old eyes
fixed sadly on his nephew. “I have done all I can. ’Tis the hour to pray. Unburden thy soul of whatever weighs upon it.”

Benvolio glared at his uncle. His heart was beating fast, his hand twitching at his side for his sword. But his blade was gone; there was nothing to fight. So he did as his uncle asked, and fell to one knee, hands clasped.

God in heaven
, he thought,
I pray thee now in my darkest hour, deliver me. Bring the truth to light. Let me not die today
.

And if ’tis thy will I should die upon these false accusations, I pray that thou wilt watch over my family. Save my house and my city from destruction
.

And, Lord, watch over my Rosaline
.

Rosaline was close to passing out.

Silvius carried her on through the night, the rocking of his gait lulling her exhausted body to sleep. Twice she nodded off and managed to jerk awake just in time to keep herself from tumbling off his back.

She knew she needed rest, but she’d allowed them only an hour—enough for Silvius to eat and recover, that was all. She could die of exhaustion later, if it kept Benvolio from the executioner’s blade and kept Escalus’s rule safe. Though they rode swiftly, she had to keep to the back roads to avoid Paris’s search parties, which delayed them for most of a day, and the delay terrified her.

And so she forced her fingers to keep their aching grip on
the reins, kept her eyes on the road stretching toward the two men she cared for above all others, and prayed.

She was perhaps four leagues from Verona’s walls when she crested a hill and pulled Silvius up short. There they were beneath her: Paris’s army. She supposed he had left them encamped here while he diverted Escalus’s attention. Now they stood between her and Verona. She thought quickly. There was another path that would take her home, but it meandered through the hills. Could she make it in time? She looked to the east. The sun was beginning to stain the sky. It soon would be dawn.

The morning breeze blew back Benvolio’s hair.

He closed his eyes, letting it wash over him one last time as the guards at his elbows hauled him up Executioner’s Hill. His hands were not tied—a small mercy, or maybe they thought that in his current state he posed no threat. He tried to focus on the cool air caressing his face, ignoring the bruising grip on his arms and the sickly pounding of his heart and the crescendo of the crowd as he was dragged before them.

Behind him thundered the river, swollen with the recent rains. His blood would slake Verona’s thirst tonight, he thought grimly.

The sight that greeted his eyes when he opened them was enough to make him fight for control of his features. Though the day was young, nine tenths of Verona’s nobility and great
families had made the trek outside the city walls, all shouting and jeering and straining to catch a glimpse of him.

“Murderer!”

“Knave!”

“Montague cur, you’ll burn for what you’ve done!”

Such a prominent execution would usually be held in the town square. But perhaps the prince had decided to keep the spectacle where its audience could not spill over onto Verona’s streets. It was easy to see why. At Benvolio’s appearance dozens of harsh Capulet snarls had broken the air, shouting insults. The Montagues roared back, the two sides kept apart by the prince’s guards. Had they not been surrounded by the prince’s men, it could have easily become a riot.

As for Benvolio himself, an odd peace stole over him. The voices raised in strife by friend and foe seemed to fade to a distant, wordless sea that he floated on as the guards hauled him by the elbows to a raised stone platform at the top of the hill. He was surrounded by the sycamore trees where he and Romeo used to play as children. Where he had seen Romeo, just days before his death, wandering before dawn. Pining, he remembered, for Rosaline. A smile touched his lips. Fate did like its little jests.

I come, cousin
, he thought. There was nothing else to be done. His pleas of innocence had fallen on deaf ears. His family’s influence had no power to sway this case. The one woman who could save him was gone.

The platform held but two occupants: the prince, and a masked man holding an axe. His executioner. As the guards led Benvolio up onto it, he caught sight of faces in the crowd:
his uncle, looking bereft; Lady Capulet on her husband’s arm, a soft smile on her graceful features; Paris, mounted at the rear of the crowd, regarding him stone-faced; his young cousins, lost and unsure. Though he would not for all the world desire her to see this, he could not help but wish to behold Rosaline’s fair face once more.

As Benvolio was thrust onto the platform, the prince raised his arms, calling for quiet, and the courtyard grew still.

“Benvolio of House Montague,” the prince said, “for thy crimes against our Crown and our people, including the murder of Master Gramio of House Capulet and”—the prince’s jaw clenched—“the abduction and ravishment of a good lady of Verona, we sentence you hereby to death. Have you anything to say before you leave this world?”

Benvolio drew a deep breath. “I am innocent of these crimes, Your Grace, but was ever your honest and true servant. If I must die, I pray that my death may at least bring peace to my family and to the city I have always tried faithfully to serve, for no justice shall be done in slaying me. Heed my dying warning: Treachery is afoot, and all men of Verona, no matter their houses, must be prepared to defend their sovereign with their lives.”

He turned to face the crowd. He sought out his uncle’s face, and his young cousins’. “Someday it shall be clear that I was slandered,” he called past the lump in his throat. “When that day comes, I pray, do not venge yourselves upon House Capulet, but only ensure that those who wrought my death meet the Crown’s true justice.”

Against his will, his eyes sought out Lady Capulet’s face in the back of the crowd. Her soft, satisfied smile did not alter. “For those whose cunning hath ensured I die for their crimes, my death shall fall heavy on you, in this world or the next.”

With that, he fell silent. The prince’s hand fell on his shoulder. “On your knees,” he said.

Benvolio sank down before the chopping block. The prince raised his arms. “See, Verona!” he called. “Thus your grudges must end.”

A firm hand pushed Benvolio’s head down on the block. The courtyard grew deathly quiet, the only sound the gentle rush of the morning breeze. Benvolio closed his eyes.