Chapter 8
It was a fair question. Lately Verona had seen its share of murders, and a few of them had brushed close to me. Some who were critical would say most of them.
“No, my prince. Not that. Not yet! No, among the wedding gifts a long-lost treasure has been found.” Holofernes’s teeth were chattering. “Come and see!” He dashed out.
I recited Nonna’s prediction. “Among the wedding gifts a long-lost treasure will be found that will end an old feud.”
With an exasperated sigh, Cal started toward Nonna Ursula’s bedroom. “What has she done now?”
Holofernes put his head in the door. “Hurry! A crowd gathers!”
In fact, the sounds of shouts and shrieks and hurrying feet penetrated the chamber, and Cal switched directions because, after all, it was starting to sound like a battle. Or a riot. The kind of situation that involved his princely intervention. He stopped only to clasp my hand.
Holofernes fell in behind us as we joined the crowd streaming toward the gift tables outside the library.
Cal had claimed Nonna had frightened guests into leaving, but she was right.
More of them needed to go. I was already tired of them.
The clamor rose toward the high vaulted ceiling and offended the ears, and as we neared the table that held everyone’s attention, people fell back and silence pooled around us, wider and deeper.
Cal’s eyes grew narrow, and his hand tightened meaningfully on mine.
“What?” I scanned for anything out of place.
“The lion.” His voice sounded odd, strained and harsh.
“Oh.” Among the gifts of gourd baby rattles created by Verona’s children, a golden lion gleamed in menace.
It stood on three legs, its fourth paw raised, claws out, to threaten and admonish, its mouth opened wide in a roar of warning.
His mane grew thickly on his head, his tufted tail was proudly raised, his gold had been rubbed until it gleamed. “Oh.”
Cal released me. With great deliberation, he reached to take the lion in his possession.
People crowded around us, watching as if mesmerized …
for although I’d never before laid eyes on this beast, I knew it to be the lost lion of the Leonardis, vanished many years ago, on the occasion of Cal’s first wedding to shy, sweet Chiarretta, a marriage of political alliance that cemented his position as prince.
On that occasion, the limited number of guests had been family, his and hers, and none had had reason to wish anything but the best to the Leonardis.
The servants had proclaimed their loyalty, and they took pride in working at the palace, and so fervent was their insistence that none disputed them. More telling, none of them ran away.
On that long-ago day when the lion disappeared, the thieves had left no clues except … a dent in the wood floor. The weight of the statue had taken them by surprise. It was, after all, gold.
The lion had long been the symbol of the Leonardi ascendency.
Superstition, perhaps, and illogical, considering how strongly and wisely he ruled, but people of Verona believed the lion’s disappearance signified ill fortune.
When, less than a year later, Chiarretta died tragically in childbirth, and their son with her, the omen was seen to be fulfilled.
Now Cal’s long fingers clasped the lion, lifted it. Holding it cupped in his hands, he examined it, caressed it, looked into its purple glass eyes. His face, usually so controlled, glowed with intense passion. Its reappearance at this moment before our marriage took on new meaning. As omens go …
Behind me, I heard a woman’s whisper pierce the silence. “He can touch me like that anytime.”
With a jolt, and for the first time, I realized Cal was a hot property.
Rosie, you say. What’s wrong with you? Of course he is. Because—
1. He’s a prince. All that wealth and power are mighty aphrodisiacs.
2. Look at him! He’s twenty-five? If I were that old, I’d be a crone, but noooo. The rules for a man are different. He’s “reached maturity.” And he’s handsome, if you disregard a few scars and the limp.
3. He’s a famous swordsman. I’ve seen him in action, and not only is he swift and ruthless, but he is also cunning and fights to win. Look, I’m not merely some moon-eyed damsel. My papà is Romeo; he knows his way around swordplay, and he taught me to appreciate a dirty fighter.
Plus … Cal’s got that broody thing going and the tragic past (tortured in the dungeon; lost his mother to childbirth and heartbreak, his father to assassination; forced to assume the mantle of power too young; the loss of wife and baby …).
I had been so busy not wanting to marry at all, then for the past few months, not to marry him, it had never occurred to me some women would use any means to pleasure him, trap him, keep him, ravish him over and over. …
We were discussing the miraculous return of the Leonardi lion.
Now, as Cal ran his fingers over the lion, his fingers lingered over the upraised paw. He looked at me, only at me, and said, “The lion’s royal purple escutcheon has been stripped away.”
“Was it a gemstone?”
“Pottery, of humble origins, created by a skillful artist of Verona, with the Leonardi crest. To know the lion has been stripped of its symbol of pride is almost as painful as the loss of the lion.” He pinned the guests crowded around us with his dark, shadowed gaze.
“Did any of you see who placed this on the table?”
Heads shook. Of course, if they had had possession and returned it, they would never admit it.
On the other hand, every one of them would love to be able to point a finger and gain the prince’s favor.
Yet they knew, they knew what a false accusation would gain them, for he had a reputation for ferreting out the truth, and his justice would be swift and fierce.
Leaning heavily on Friar Laurence’s arm, Nonna Ursula made her way through the crowd.
“Nevertheless, a good omen, heh?” She looked in equal parts exhausted and triumphant, and she had, I realized, raised herself from her bed to be present at this moment when all realized her prediction had come true.
“A portent that foretells the triumph of Prince Escalus and his sovereignty, for Verona, and for the success of this marriage between my grandson and Lady Rosaline of the house of Montague.” She swept the assemblage with a haughty gaze.
“And proof that your elderly princess holds powers to wield for good … if she chooses.”
A shiver swept through the ladies and, although the patronizing males later denied it, also the gentlemen.
Nonna Ursula’s reputation as the most outspoken, difficult, terrifying woman in Verona lent itself to the opposite belief: They’d better walk on eggshells, for she was more likely to use her powers to vanquish those who opposed or doubted her.
In unison, everyone crossed themselves.
Prince Escalus placed the lion on the table once more, gathered my hand in both of his, and raised it worshipfully to his lips.
“Lady Rosaline and I need no good omens. She is the wife of my heart, and she chose me to be her husband. I am the most honored of men.” The way he gazed down into my eyes, the skill with which he kissed the backs of my fingers, and the slow, sensuous slide of his palm under my sleeve brought me up on my toes.
A faint moan whispered from several of the guests and reminded me again that Prince Escalus of Verona was a hot property, coveted by living, breathing persons who might not consider marriage a barrier to intimacy.
Before I could react appropriately—you know, shout, “Hands off, canaglie. He’s mine!
”—Friar Laurence saved me from embarrassment by loudly clearing his throat, and when we turned our heads, he looked pointedly at our joined hands.
Cal and I sprang apart.
A buzz of speculation began and next transitioned into amusement, which, when Cal bent his furious, frustrated gaze on the monk, told a tale I had wished to be private.
Next, an interruption occurred, which amplified all previous embarrassment.
A man projected his unctuous voice from the back of the gallery.
“My darling niece Rosaline, eternal maiden of the Montagues!” The way parted for Great-uncle Magno Montague, smirking, charming …
smarmy, fulsome, oily, swirling his prized cloak of crimson velvet.
He was a man of Montague proportions: good bones, strong muscles, fierce intelligence, which showed on his noble brow.
Dark skin, light brown hair, light gray eyes that lit his face and gave it a warmth and humor that lied about his character.
He used his appearance ruthlessly, as he used his antecedents and education: to impress, to oppress, to vanquish his detractors and mock his imitators.
Yes, you’re right. Not only did I not admire the man, but I also detested him. I don’t like men who attend university not for learning but to use their education as a tool of intimidation.
Three well-dressed men trailed him, one tall and with twinkling brown eyes, one short and scrawny, clothed in garb so rich he might have been the son of a cardinal, one young and exceedingly handsome, and all wearing superior sneers.
Immediately I diagnosed them as professors at the University of Padua, and proof a fool can always find a greater fool to admire him.
Magno spread his arms wide to embrace me. “Still hanging on to that virginity? It’s served you well to catch a prince!”
At that, Cal stepped between us and punched him in the face.