Teach the Torches to Burn (Daughter of Montague #3)
Chapter 1
In the great hall of the palace of Prince Escalus the younger
In fair Verona where we lay our scene
If I have to pinpoint the moment when events spiraled out of control, it was when Ursula, the dowager princess of Verona, looked at the display of gleaming swords, sharp knives, and bared teeth and, with all the drama at her fingertips, announced, “At sunset I shall hold a public séance to determine the future of this marriage between Lady Rosaline of the house of Montague and Prince Escalus the younger of the house of Leonardi!”
Beside me, Prince Escalus muttered, “Blessed Mother, here we go.” He might sound disgruntled, but he sheathed his knife in his belt and indicated I should return mine to the holster I kept strapped to my arm.
Those of my younger sisters who were present, Vittoria, Susanna, Katherina, and Imogene, did the same, and Papà and Mamma assumed their “happy parents of the bride” posture.
Thankfully, my siblings Emilia and Cesario both worked for the prince running errands, Emilia in the palace and Cesario on the streets.
Cal knew his wily, wicked grandmother would succeed in pouring oil on the turbulent sea of emotions, for Princess Ursula’s séances were famed for their interesting (the less charitable would say hammy) stagecraft and for the occasional ghostly apparitions that appeared, or were said to appear, or whatever.
Occasionally her prophecies came true, mostly because people so badly wanted to believe.
Sometimes, based on her own observations, she was right, and occasionally she got lucky.
As she once told me, even a blind pig finds a truffle sometimes.
You can bet with Princess Ursula’s announcement, everyone calmed the inferno down.
Knives became eating instruments, swords were out merely to admire the decoration on the hilts, and Papà and Nonno Montague poured another round of wine, which beautifully complemented the cheese, bread, and apples placed on covered boards in all corners of the room.
I am Lady Rosaline (aka the Bride), and I’m the daughter of Romeo and Juliet. (Contrary to the assertions of a certain famous playwright, they’re alive, happy, and the parents of nine.)
The playwright was correct about some salient points. My parents’ families, the Montagues and the Capulets, were in fact knifepoint enemies, and of course, all were invited to the wedding, creating a situation that …
How to put this tactfully?
I love my family. I really do. Taken individually, they’re great folks. But put them together …
Every one of Romeo and Juliet’s children (except the twins, and they were infants) knows they owe their existence to the détente forced by the discovery that Papà and Mamma had taken matters into their own hands, got married and pregnant in one night (with me) and, by a serious attempt at mutual suicide (funny story, that), healed their families’ strife.
What do the Montagues and the Capulets have to quarrel about?
Nothing. Nothing, I tell you! Their similarities are greater than their differences. Both families are wealthy, respected households of Verona, with far-flung connections throughout the Italian peninsula.
The Montagues are loud, tempestuous, fertile, brimming with life and humor.
The Capulets imagine themselves to be the more refined family; that is to say, they are not nouveau riche. They’re almost aristocratic, nose-in-the-air riche.
The Montagues are definitely nouveau: growers and vintners, makers of fine wines, and wooed by all the best exporters and suppliers of all the city-states.
My dear, the vendetta ended twenty years ago, or as the older kin call it, “the good old days.” Memories are long in fair Verona, although when I sensibly inquire what started the feud, no one quite remembers that.
During any kind of family gathering, we kids take our roles as diplomats and peacemakers seriously.
We circulate, we head off quarrels, we keep certain members as distant as possible, including some husbands and wives, and if we’re too late to step in and stop the fight, we bandage wounds and mop up blood.
At this point, I’d like to point out the obvious: when someone’s standing over a body, holding a bloody blade, everyone knows who’s dead and who’s guilty. That clarity was a blessing much lacking in later events.
Of course, not only the Montagues and the Capulets were implicated in this marital casker … er, celebration. Also in attendance (obviously) were the groom and his family.
The Leonardis are quiet, restrained, royal, cautious.
The immediate family consists of my betrothed, Prince Escalus the younger; his adolescent sister, Princess Isabella; and his paternal grandmother, dowager Princess Ursula.
In addition, there are his three loyal companions and bodyguards, Dion, Marcellus, and Holofernes.
You’re right, and I must agree. Our families are mismatched in temper and in social station. Yet invitations were issued and sent to honored guests and relations far and wide, leaving none out for fear of grudges, ancient or newly ignited.
Princess Ursula held out her arm to me. “Dear new principessa del mio cuore, help me go and prepare to receive my ghostly guide.” In an aside to her aged friend, Lady Pulissena of the house of Acquasasso, she said, “My guide is poor Yorick, my jester, that man of infinite wit and charm.”
“I knew him well, and there was nothing he loved more than to assist you.” Lady Pulissena sounded solemn and as if she believed, when in fact I knew these two elderly women enjoyed nothing so much as to make fools of us mortals and chortle later.
I put my hand under Princess Ursula’s arm.
She placed the tip of her cane firmly on the floor, and with an appearance of frailty, she allowed herself to be hoisted to her feet.
Why, you ask, did the servants and her grandson not hasten to assist such an aged lady?
Because Nonna Ursula (she had commanded I call her Nonna) resented unasked-for help, and her wooden cane was both heavy and enthusiastically wielded.
As we made our way through the long gallery with walls decorated in fresco by the finest artists on the Italian peninsula, with marble statues created by some long-dead Roman sculptor, with lamps of precious colorful glass made on the isle of Murano, and into the palace library, Nonna Ursula said, “Make haste, make haste! For we must catch the setting sun!”