Chapter 11
“Papà!” I lifted my skirts and ran, easily passing stout Friar Laurence as I raced toward the great hall.
Cal ran with me. Holofernes followed, and we were joined by Marcellus and Dion. Because Cal kept pace with me, a path miraculously appeared through the horrified, fearful crowd.
As the way cleared, I saw the ill, broken men: Great-uncle Magno face-first on the table, twitching in all his limbs, lanky Lord Bortolo collapsed across a chair, blue-faced and coughing up blood, and Papà, my papà, crumpled to the floor, his head pillowed on fair Lysander’s lap.
The odors of spilled wine, vomit, and inexorable death assaulted me.
Although Lord Bortolo was clearly in the most need, I knew God would forgive me if I first helped Papà. My dear father, Lord Romeo, who breathed laboriously, his bloodshot eyes open merely a slit. I knelt beside him, and when he saw me, his lips barely moved. I leaned my ear close.
“Good wine,” he said. “Strong flavors. Clever poison. Take care.”
Indeed it must be a clever poison if it had fooled my father, a Montague renowned for his excellent nose and choices of wines.
He whispered again. “Tell your mother I love her.”
“You will not die,” I declared and buried my nose in the half-spilled goblet nearby.
First, I breathed in a superior red wine with dark fruit and hints of briar and pepper.
Then, oh God, then I caught a hint of the warm earthy smell …
and it grew until it overwhelmed the pleasure of the wine and provided the knowledge I needed.
A panting Friar Laurence reached me, and he awaited my verdict.
“’Tis the mushroom called Homewrecker that has provided the poison,” I said. A common mushroom that grew in the woods, and while Friar Laurence might have the antidote, I knew without hope it would be at his shop on apothecary row, and no one could go and fetch it in time to save—
He thrust his hand into the bag that hung on his belt and delivered a small stone vial and a spoon whose cup was marked with lines. “To the second line only,” he warned. “Too much is as fatal as too little.”
I nodded.
“Don’t spill it! I have barely enough.”
No pressure.
My fingers trembled as I poured the correct amount of the thick, viscous yellow fluid on the spoon. I handed the bottle back to Friar Laurence. Cal knelt beside Lysander and helped him lift Papà’s head a little higher, and I spoke firmly. “Papà, swallow this.”
Obediently, he opened his mouth.
“All the way to the back,” Friar Laurence urged. “He’s losing consciousness, and he must swallow it.”
As if my papà was a babe unable to suckle, I tilted the spoon into the back of his throat, Cal stroked his throat, and Papà took the medicine. At once he began to cough, then sneeze. Violently he rolled to his knees, tears pouring from his eyes.
“Good.” Friar Laurence pulled me to my feet.
Niklaus of Denmark lifted Magno by his collar and his belt and slammed him face up on the table.
Thrusting the bottle back into my hand, Friar Laurence said, “Another dose.”
This time I poured with a steady hand.
Magno, covered with wine, bruised from Cal’s punches, weeping softly, waved Friar Laurence toward Lord Bortolo. “My friend Bortolo. This is my fault. You must help my friend!”
Friar Laurence didn’t hesitate. He turned at once to Lord Bortolo.
But when he touched Lord Bortolo’s cheek, the poisoned man’s head lolled back.
Clearly, death had claimed him. Friar Laurence sadly shook his head and returned to Magno.
“Your sentiments do you honor, my lord, but it’s too late.
Take the medicine. It will save your life. ”
“No.” Magno fought in a frenzy. “No, don’t make me. I don’t deserve such a reprieve. I have the nose. I should have known. The scent … I could have warned them. I beg you …”
Niklaus placed one knee on Magno’s gut to hold him still. Then he wrapped one of his huge hands around Magno’s jaw and used the other to hold his head. Below his breath, I heard him mutter to Magno, “You’re not getting out of this so easily.”
I tried to ladle the antidote into Great-uncle Magno’s mouth.
Maddened by the poison, he snarled and glared at me from eyes reddened by blood that had burst from the veins and spread across the whites.
“My son.” Friar Laurence placed a placating hand on Magno’s forehead. “No matter what you think, this is not your fault. Take the antidote, be at peace, and God’s will be done.”
Magno stilled. He looked at the priest. “Of course. This is justice. God’s will be done.” So saying, he allowed me to put the antidote into his mouth and, with great difficulty, swallowed.
Although some of the thick fluid leaked out of the corners of his mouth, Friar Laurence nodded at me. He was satisfied with the amount Magno had ingested, and Magno had a chance to live.
Yet he reacted to the antidote even more violently than Papà. Papà, whose convulsions had now calmed, thank God, sat propped up against a table leg, pale and sweaty, while Lysander kept him from sliding to one side by a firm hand against his shoulder.
I felt sorry for the pitiful swine that was Great-uncle Magno, for with his convulsions, the foam around his lips, his twitching and vomiting, he was a horrible sight.
Every lingering curiosity seeker escaped, hands over their mouths, and I observed the two remaining sycophants who had followed Great-uncle Magno into the palace depart at great speed.
Only Niklaus remained, watching stoically.
In a low voice, Friar Laurence told me, “I fear we were too late. I must take his confession and administer last rites.”
When Magno saw Friar Laurence preparing, his terror proclaimed itself in his bulging eyes and violent headshaking, and I wondered what sins weighed down his soul …
besides the ones of which I knew. Before he could confess, he lapsed into unconsciousness.
Friar Laurence lifted his eyelid, checked his pupil and, although he should not, swiftly administered last rites.
Cal called his footmen and instructed them to lift Magno, and as they did, Cal instructed, “Prepare a bedroom for him in the north wing.”
Somehow Magno roused, and in the rasping voice of a man whose throat had been burned by poison, he whispered, “No. I beg you, send me to the inn. I don’t want anyone to see me like this … My shame and sorrow are too great.”
In the end, Cal yielded, for Magno was increasingly miserable, and if he wished to die alone, so be it. A somber group watched as the footmen put him on a stretcher and lifted him, and Niklaus followed, as if he had set himself up as bodyguard.
A professional group arrived to remove the sad remains of Lord Bortolo, and when that was done, I knelt once more beside Papà, on the other side from Lysander, a single, still-fearful tear trickling down my cheek.
Papà touched the tear with a gentle finger and weakly whispered, “Figlia cara mia, thanks to you, Friar Laurence, and our Blessed Mother of Mercy, I will recover. A Montague of my strength may be challenged by poison but not dispatched—”
He had passed on his own superstitious nature, and that led me to exclaim, “Papà, do not so challenge the Fates!”
Recalled from his assurance, he nodded his agreement.
He closed his eyes, and Lysander leaned in to see if Papà was still breathing. Looking up at me, he nodded and leaned back, and we both sighed in relief.
Friar Laurence leaned close to my ear. “Don’t let him sleep. Not yet. I fear he’ll slip from consciousness and …”
At once I spoke in a brisk tone and asked the first question that occurred to me. “Papà, who is Niklaus of Denmark? Why do you know of him?”
Papà jumped a little, as if he had been slipping away, and caught at the thread of conversation, as if it had pulled him away from the edge of the pit.
“Ah. Niklaus of Denmark is a legend, a fearsome Viking warrior, ruthless and intelligent, a man of unimaginable wealth, and a servant of some great lord of the North. What he sees in that little pustule Magno, I don’t know. ” Papà closed his eyes again.
“I don’t know what anyone sees in Magno,” I said conversationally.
Papà smiled faintly. “He has delusions of adequacy.”
Lysander barked a laugh.
Which made Papà open his eyes to acknowledge his own wit.
“Is he married?” I asked. “Niklaus of Denmark, I mean?”
From across the table, Cal asked in his driest tone, “Are you matchmaking again, my Lady Rosaline?”
That induced a cascade of condescending male laughter. If they knew how many successful matches I had arranged, they wouldn’t dare be so smug.
I seriously considered the question. “Most women would be frightened of him. A widow would perhaps suit him or, hmm … Great-aunt Fiametta.”
Fiametta was my Capulet grandmother’s much younger sister, tall and athletic, and I thought she would fit Niklaus well.
Papà laughed indulgently. “Fiametta’s not here.”
“Yet. I instructed Lady Capulet to invite her.”
“Child, no!” Papà struggled to sit up. “She drags trouble behind her like a cart.”
“Why?” Cal was clearly interested.
“She’s reputed to be a witch,” I answered.
“A witch?” Cal lifted his eyebrows. “Between you and Nonna Ursula, don’t we have enough of that?” Before I could give a scathing reply, he continued, “Why is she reputed to be a witch?”
“Obviously, because she’s wicked gorgeous well past the age she should be.
In her rebellious youth, she disappeared and returned with a much older husband from another land.
Within months, he died in mysterious circumstances, leaving her in charge of his entire fortune.
” I warmed to my tale. “To the scandal of all, she bought an estate in Piedmont, on Lake Maggiore, where she retired to live … unmarried. She keeps as a companion her stepdaughter, a mystery woman. None of us have ever laid eyes on her, but Fiametta seems devoted in a most loving way.”
“Ah.” Cal and Lysander both spoke.
If I’d been paying attention … but I was off and running with my (to me) pleasing description of Fiametta.
“She takes offense easily, she doesn’t open her mouth unless she’s going to say something intelligent, and she has been seen working late into the night with pen, ink, and parchment in a most unladylike way.
” My disapproval was all too obviously feigned.
“She dresses elegantly, speaks with wit and charm, and laughs in the face of any man who dares to put a hand on her. Indeed, any fortune-hunting gentlemen who would force her into marriage by rape and kidnapping, well, she handles them by leaving them embarrassed and in pain.” I turned to my father.
“Papà, I had to invite every relative from the farthest reaches of our families to this celebration whether I like them or not. It’s my wedding.
I should be allowed to invite one person for me! ”
I may have been a little wound up, for Cal patted me on the shoulder, Lysander made a sympathetic noise of agreement, and Papà said, “Yes, of course, child. But she will not do for Niklaus. She has other tastes.”
Before I could demand a further explanation, Mamma ran into the room. Papà opened his arms for her, and she rushed to him, hugged him, exclaimed, touched his face, his hair, and kissed his lips. True love, because he was smeared with all kinds of dreadful and smelly bodily fluids.
I smiled to see them aglow with the joy of being together.
I have been known to be sarcastic about the legend that surrounds Romeo and Juliet—as the child of celebrity parents, I do occasionally take it with a grain of salt—but then they openly show the truth of their love and devotion, and like the rest of the world, I believe.
Lysander and I stood.
Mamma allowed herself only a few minutes of fussing. Then she snapped into her role of devoted spouse, and with a contingent of attentive Montague servants, she whisked Papà away to Casa Montague, leaving me alone with Friar Laurence, Lysander, and Cal.
Warmed by the heat of my parents’ embrace, I glanced around to share a sentimental smile and found Lysander had been watching them, too.
As if he felt my gaze on him, he looked into my eyes, and I saw clear into the longing of his heart.
He had wanted that for me and him. We thought we’d found it together.
Then … then Cal had played the arrogant prince and taken me for his own, rearranging my life and Lysander’s.
And yes, eventually he’d done the right thing and offered to give me up, and in so doing, I’d caught a glimpse of the loneliness that drove the somber prince to behave in a manner so unlike his principled character.
Yes, I had elected to remain with Cal, to become one with him, and I had no doubt that I, too, had done the right thing.
All my decisions had left Lysander standing alone, and to see him in pain …
I liked him. If we couldn’t be man and wife, we could be true friends, and I ached for him. In his hour of need, I wanted to comfort him.
But this was not the time.
I intercepted an enigmatic stare from Cal, and a frown from Friar Laurence, when Lysander turned pale and swayed.
Cal caught his arm, and in a terrible tone, Friar Laurence asked, “Did you ingest the wine?”
“The smallest sip,” Lysander admitted.
Cal pushed him down into a chair.
“You fool!” Friar Laurence whipped out the vial. “By God’s grace, I have but a drop left to save your life.” So saying, he shook the bottle onto Lysander’s tongue.
Immediately Lysander reacted, although in a lesser manner than Papà and far below the scope of Magno.
While Lysander retched, Cal and I moved aside. I liked Lysander … but there were limits.
Friar Laurence put a strengthening hand on his neck. “A poison to counter a poison, my lad. You’ll recover quickly.”
Cal asked the question that had also occurred to me. “Friar Laurence, why did you have an antidote to that mushroom in your bag?”