Chapter 7
I sat there, tucked into a fetal position, while Friar Laurence made Cal swear not to touch me in a lascivious way until after we had been married in the eyes of God.
I took comfort in the fact Cal didn’t want to promise.
However, I failed to take comfort in the fact I also didn’t want him to promise.
You could say I was confused. That is not my usual state; I’m a self-confident young woman, a characteristic of which most men and quite a few women disapproved.
Confusion … I didn’t enjoy it. I didn’t enjoy it at all.
When Cal came back around the cabinet, he stared at me balefully. “Friar Laurence wants to speak with you, also.”
I shook my head.
He offered his hand, and when I didn’t take it, he grabbed mine and hefted me to my feet.
I wavered for a moment; it was difficult to transition from a sublime moment, where seraphim sang songs of passion and promises of pleasures, to …
Friar Laurence. Yet I smoothed down my skirts and adjusted my bodice and stepped around to face my usually rotund and cheerful and now rotund and stern teacher and confessor.
This whole situation was not my fault. I badly wanted to point that out to both men.
Instead I stood with my eyes downcast as Friar Laurence exhorted me to maintain my virtue regardless of the enticements offered by my betrothed.
In fact, I was a vision of modest Veronese maidenhood, mostly because I was blushing so hard, sweat beaded on my forehead and trickled down my cleavage.
Also, come on! Caught again? First by my father and his cronies (that was the disaster that got me into this marital kerfuffle) and now by Friar Laurence? And not in a chaste kiss. Oh no. In full-on sexual arousal! Both times!
Oh, Rosie, you say, Friar Laurence is a Franciscan monk, vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience, takes all his holy duties seriously. He doesn’t understand this physical stuff.
If he doesn’t yet, he’s going to, because you can bet when I’m in confession, he’s going to ask all the right questions!
When he finished with his mini-sermon, Cal and I knelt to indicate our penitence and receive his blessing; then he turned to enter Nonna Ursula’s bedroom.
Friar Laurence had come in his capacity as a learned apothecary, but I knew that was merely his excuse to enter Nonna Ursula’s chamber.
His real intent was to rake her across the coals for conducting yet another séance to summon visions of the future (quite against the Church’s teachings) and the irreverent use of Yorick’s skull.
Not that Yorick would have cared. He loved attention, but somehow in Friar Laurence’s eyes that made it worse.
As Lady Pulissena predicted, they would both be rattling the beads in penance.
Cal and I waited until he was gone, then stood, and I found myself doing the “I’m a shy virgin” thing, where I simply could not look him in the eye, and I knew my red face was lit up like the altar at Christmas midnight mass.
And him? He was immobile, looming over me, I assumed with his usual dark and cool stillness.
Yet when I glanced up, taking one quick look, he was almost smiling.
For Cal, I mean. For most people, that wasn’t a smile, but more of a lip twitch.
In a voice as rich and thick as golden honey, he said, “I’ve never seen you flustered before. ”
“I’m not. I’m …” What was I? “Hearing a commotion outside.”
“Coward,” he whispered and lifted his head to listen.
“No, that’s definitely a commotion.” Not a battle, though. I well knew the sound of battle.
Running footsteps pounded down the corridor toward Nonna’s rooms.
I hastily smoothed my dress again, feeling as if my recent activities had left a visible mark, when, in fact, I was merely rumpled and still ruddy.
Cal adjusted his clothes, too, mostly to make sure his knife was within easy reach.
Holofernes dashed into the room. Cal’s usually humorous, alert, well-dressed bodyguard appeared both happy as an ant on a fig and as frightened as a babe with night terrors.
Eyes wide, he bowed and choked out, “My prince. My lord. My lady. You cannot believe. Princess Ursula’s prophecy has come to pass! ”
“Who’s dead?” Cal asked.