Chapter 9
Gentle reader, there are moments in a woman’s life that she clasps close to her bosom, and whenever she needs to lift her spirits, she brings forth the memory and watches it play again in her mind. Such was that moment for me.
Cal’s scowl. His swift fist. The moment of contact.
Magno’s astonishment. Blood spurting from his nose and lips. His flailing arms. His undignified backward fall.
It was all quite lovely.
Even more enjoyable was Cal’s reflexive grab at Magno’s silly neck ruffle. With both his fists, he yanked him upright and lifted him off his feet. Face-to-face, nose to nose, he said, “Never speak of my betrothed with such insolence again.”
“I’m her great-uncle! I’m a professor from the University of Padua! I’m an ampelographic specialist!” Magno flung out credentials like a snake oil salesman distributes free samples.
“I don’t give a damn if you’re the pope of all Roman Christendom!”
Gasps from the crowd.
“My son, the blasphemy!” Friar Laurence remonstrated.
Whether Cal noticed, no one could tell. “You’ll keep a civil tongue, Magno, or I’ll cut it out.
” He threw my great-uncle into the arms of the men who followed like mongrels at his heels, and, after taking the heavy golden lion under his arm like a kitten he was protecting, Cal stalked toward his office.
After a brief dip into a curtsy toward a slack-jawed Nonna Ursula, I hurried after Cal. I had never in my life imagined such an outburst from the prince of Verona, renowned for his cool facade of temperance.
In an ominous voice, Great-uncle Magno proclaimed, “Madness clouds the mind of Prince Escalus while he waits to consummate his marriage.”
I almost returned and punched him with my own puny but also quite hearty fist.
Instead I heard my dear father’s voice, the voice of Romeo himself, say in chilly disdain, “’Tis treason to speak so of our prince, Magno, and that’s a crime punishable by hanging.
Because you’re a Montague, you might plead for leniency.
Perhaps the torturer would merely remove your testicole with the same knotted rope he used to pop out your eyeballs. ”
Have I previously mentioned my father had no love for his uncle? I believe I have. After that, do I even need to remind you?
As I turned back to follow Cal to his office, a sudden hush rippled from the outer door down the crowded gallery until it reached the area of densest company. Immediately, I knew why.
A man had joined Magno and his sycophants, and everything about him was unexpected.
He had the fair complexion and white-blond hair of a Viking, the broad shoulders and long arms of a warrior, and he towered above every other male in the chamber.
His heavy eyebrows fringed up like push brooms. Runes decorated the long straight sword that hung from his leather-wrapped belt.
He wore a long brown wool tunic, embroidered with gold scrolls, that reached below his knees, and a shaggy wolf pelt around his shoulders.
Note to self: Avoid men who wear shaggy wolf pelts. They’re probably tough guys.
He was a man out of place, and he cared nothing of the impression he made.
He didn’t smile so much as sneer at the gaping guests.
Placing his hands on his hips, he surveyed Magno’s bloody face, and in a voice an octave deeper than I’d ever heard, he said, “I did warn you, Magno, that a man of your miniature stature should cultivate a civil tongue and a forgiving nature if your goal is to live a long life.”
Papà gave a crack of laughter and reached out to shake his hand. “Niklaus of Denmark, I presume.”
Interesting that Papà knew of him, but I had no time to gain an introduction to the man who dared taunt Magno for both his height and his insolence. My place was with my chosen, my betrothed, my hero, Prince Escalus.
In Cal’s office, the golden lion sat in the empty space on a high shelf, overlooking the desk, the chairs, the books, pens, and scrolls, where, I supposed, it had sat before the theft.
Cal stood with his back to the door, his forehead leaning against the side of his supply cupboard. His arms rested on the polished wood above his head, an unmoving statue to disgrace.
Beside him, Holofernes leaned close and spoke softly, and when I arrived, he nodded at me—he approved of my interference in this matter—then slid past me into the grand walk. Firmly he shut the door, leaving us alone.
I had an inkling what the underlying issue might be, so I allowed my skirts and petticoats to rustle loudly. I didn’t want to startle Prince Escalus when I placed my palm on his shoulder.
He didn’t startle. He didn’t move.
“Cal …” I said softly.
“What?” He sounded like himself, steady, controlled, thoughtful. Yet he didn’t lift his head, and the rigid muscles under my hand told everything I needed to know about his state of mind.
“My thanks for your defense of me.”
“You need no defense. Your purity is known and respected.”
“Known, yes. Mocked, also.”
Forehead still resting on the wood, Cal swiveled his head to gaze at me through slitted, bloodshot eyes.
Mamma’s good sense kicked in. Perhaps what he needed to hear right now wasn’t about me, but about him.
“What you did was teach my great-uncle to keep a civil tongue in his head, and that, my prince, is something not all men have been able to do. Most men.” Energetically, I finished with, “Very few men have been able to do.”
“Through violence.”
“I’ve seen you use violence before, my lord, and other than almost dying from your injury, you suffered no undue harm.” I smiled at him, beguiling him.
He was not beguiled. “When I used violence before, I fought coolly, calmly, judging my opponent and weighing my options. I did not lose control. I did not lose my temper.” His voice was rising.
“When I show temper, when I demand and command, I become a lesser man. I become the spoilt boy you once accused me of being.”
“That was before—”
“Before I was confined to the dungeon.” He placed both hands flat on the wood and pushed himself away. “Yes. It all comes back to the dungeon—and Holofernes.”
Of course it did. Madame Culatello, Verona’s foremost brothel owner and observer of human nature, had once said, “A man with formidable control needs it to constrain his formidable passions, and one should avoid roiling those passions lest they tumble you into a whole new world.” She’d been speaking of Cal, of course, and she’d provided a treasured insight to a closed and silent man.
“Holofernes was imprisoned with you, wasn’t he?
” I knew very well he was, but I wanted Cal, so frequently silent, to talk and, more importantly, to talk about the secret days of despair and anguish.
I wasn’t being nosy, exactly, but his outburst had been a vivid display of the emotions writhing beneath a still and cool surface.
Cal slanted a look at me, one that mocked my subtle inquiry, but answered, anyway. “As you have surmised, my journey from a thoughtless, rude boy-prince to a man worthy to be a noble Leonardi was made in the dungeon.”
I kept my voice low and soothing. “I did comprehend that.”
“What you don’t know—what no one knows—is that my fellow prisoner, Holofernes, is the one who paid the toll.”
I glanced toward the door, whence Holofernes had disappeared. “He never said anything about—”
“No. Nor will he. He doesn’t speak of my weakness, my fears, and my tears. He is now and always has been my most loyal supporter.”
I would have said that he depended on Marcellus far more than he did Holofernes, but I did see the distinction.
Cal continued, “When the Acquasasso boy picked up the torturer’s iron bar and broke my leg—”
I whimpered.
“Holofernes set it. I went mad with pain. I fought him. I hurt him. Badly. But Holofernes persisted. When it was set, it became infected. Before the delirium took me, I made him swear he would not allow anyone to amputate it.”
This I did not know. And I, whom Friar Laurence had trained in all the possibilities of injury and death, knew all too well what could—and should—have happened. “You could have d…” The word caught in my throat.
“Yes. I know, and even the ridiculous youth I was then knew. I made him swear he’d let me perish.”
“You …” In my horror, I couldn’t stammer out the rest of my sentence.
“It’s because of Holofernes that I live and walk today.” For the first time, Cal faced me completely. “He deserves a life of leisure, apart from the turmoil of a ruler, but although I’ve offered him a title and land in the countryside, he will not leave me. He fears for me even now.”
The puzzle pieces clicked together.
Marcellus was Cal’s military leader, the second in command after Cal, a scowling, humorless general who demanded exemplary behavior from everyone under his command—and who occasionally imagined that included me.
Dion appeared to be a lighthearted soldier, always bringing up the tail. That meant he always took the rear guard; he protected Cal and his city from sneak attack.
Holofernes laughed. He joked. He felt like that jester of a cousin, yet …
he watched forward and backward. He paced in the middle.
He drifted like a puff of smoke, unsubstantial yet always hovering close.
He listened, heard the first whispers of trouble and the first hints of news.
Nothing escaped his attention, and for that, he was invaluable.
“He fears for you,” I repeated. Then concluded, “And you fear for him.” I thought more. “You put Marcellus in command of your private guard to relieve Holofernes of responsibility that might overwhelm him.”
Because my understanding equaled his expectations, Cal watched me with a satisfaction that hinted at an appreciation of his own good sense in choosing me.
“And because you know lighthearted Holofernes wakes at night and screams.”
Now I had exceeded expectation, and Cal’s eyebrows lifted. “How did you know that?”
“Great-uncle Martin.”
“The one who went to the Crusades,” he recalled.
“Yes. We kids always adored having him at Casa Montague. He brings gifts, and he beams a broad smile and speaks in a jesting tone. But his visits are swift and infrequent, and it was only one night, when a deluge trapped him, that we discovered that he screamed when the nightmares took him, and afterward, he walked the floor, trying to flee the memories. Great-uncle Martin seeks no comfort in marriage or …” I hesitated, then clarified.
“He has no children. I’ve heard my father and Nonno speaking in low, fearful tones of the mortal sin he might be contemplating. ”
Cal comprehended as only a soldier who’d survived could comprehend. “Suicide. Sometimes it seems that’s the only way to silence the horrors. But Holofernes is healing. Very slowly, but he is healing, and you’re a great part of that.”
“I am?” I couldn’t have been more astonished.
“With you, he knows I’m not alone.”