Chapter 12
“When Princess Ursula—”
Cal covered his eyes with his hands and groaned. “You’re a monk. You don’t believe my grandmother’s prophecies!”
“I do not,” Friar Laurence said pontifically. “But when I was told about them, I looked around at families, the guests, the characters that occupied this stage, and I thought her prophecy was more good sense than unholy divination.”
I grinned cheekily at him, laughing at what he had so lately discovered.
He frowned at me. “I prepared for every common injury, every likely poisoning, every act of violence.” He lifted the loaded purse that hung from his belt, and it bulged with bottles and boxes and clanked as he carefully settled it back again.
I stopped smiling. “Hmm.” Yes, already I kept a medicine chest at the palace, but I now realized I’d be wise to follow his lead and include healing powders for all manner of ghastly injuries and antidotes for every conceivable poison.
Lysander leaned back in his chair, forehead beaded with sweat from the force of his convulsions.
“You’ll be all right now,” Friar Laurence told him, and then to us, he said, “I must follow Lord Magno and do what I can for him. I greatly fear for his survival.” He walked to the door, then turned.
“Whether he survives or not, with two prophecies proved within hours of Princess Ursula’s séance, she’s gained credence among the wedding guests.
Let us hope this doesn’t encourage her to greater thespian demonstrations. ” He left on that ominous note.
“Dear, sweet Mary and Jesus, he’s right.” Cal stood still and strong.
Before he could continue, Friar Laurence returned, spoiling his grand exit. He pointed his stubby finger at me. “At this moment and on the soul of your father, so recently in mortal danger, you’ll swear that you will not touch Prince Escalus in a lustful manner or tempt him to do likewise to you.”
Since the poisoning, I hadn’t thought about what had occurred in Cal’s office, but the good monk had remembered and thus embarrassed me in front of Marcellus and Holofernes and, naturally, Lysander.
Lysander, who looked between Cal and me in dismay.
Not that he didn’t comprehend what would happen on the wedding night, but that I, who had so recently sworn to love Lysander forever, would approach Cal with licentious intentions …
Well, didn’t I look like a two-faced Janus?
The silence hovered until I realized I needed to shove the moment aside with a swift answer. “I do so swear.”
Friar Laurence narrowed his eyes at me, gave his stubby finger a shake, and left again, hopefully for good this time.
As if the interruption had never happened, Cal picked up the conversation where it had left off, at the discussion of Nonna Ursula’s prophecies. “Nonna predicted the finding of the lion, but I view that piece of luck with suspicion—”
I slid a sideways glance at him.
He broke off. “Do you know something I should know?”
“I do not. I swear, Cal, but I thought the same thing—that she must have had foreknowledge of that event, and I wonder why and how. Yet surely you acquit your grandmother of arranging a poisoning!”
“You know Nonna Ursula better than that by now. If she thought a death would advance the cause of the house of Leonardi, she’d concoct the venom herself.
” Cal stood with one large hand on his hip, one shapely stockinged leg extended, and on any other idle nobleman, it might have looked posed.
But that hand—long-fingered, scarred by burns from the Acquasasso torturer or by sword battles long past—ruined the portrait.
Lysander laughed weakly.
Yet I knew Cal was right. “Still, I don’t know what advantage could come of the death of a nobleman, a professor, and an ampelographic specialist.”
Lysander was moved to speak. “A what?”
“An ampelog—” I sounded as supercilious as Magno himself. “A guy who fancies himself an expert in tasting wine.”
“Then dying of undetected poisoned wine is a cruel irony.” Lysander’s voice was stronger; his color better.
At once Cal moved to take advantage. In his “I’m the podestà in charge” voice, he said, “Lysander, you’re the survivor and the witness. If you can, tell us what happened.”
As I brought Lysander a goblet of wine liberally mixed with water, he told us, “Lord Romeo has been tapping one cask after another, keeping the guests mellow and joyful, and the ancient quarrels and resentments at bay.”
“As one does,” I said. That was, in fact, the only way anyone survived our family gatherings, especially during these bitter cold, short winter days, which kept us inside.
“If only it would warm up and snow!” For the clear skies brought frigid temperatures, and if the clouds moved in, it would warm the air and encourage the snowflakes to fall, and relieve all the sufferings among the poor and the crowded conditions that kept the wealthy (think Montagues and Capulets and Leonardis) huddled inside, close to the small braziers and wide, hot fires.
“This cask was a wedding gift recently delivered, without markings of any kind.” Lysander took the goblet but stared into its depths as if he feared to bring it to his lips.
“Drink,” I said. “I drew the wine from a Montague cask, and the water is no more evil than is usual for city-state water.”
Lysander nodded and sipped obediently, then coughed and closed his eyes, as if battling nausea. Regaining control, he continued, “Lord Romeo called for the man who had gifted the wine to step forth. No one did. We thought nothing of it.”
“Did you not?” Cal asked.
Lysander defended their reasoning. “The assassin could have—”
“He could have been a female,” I said.
The two men stared at me blankly, for although everyone knew a woman’s weapon of choice was poison, this attack seemed too well planned for them to imagine a woman had managed such forethought.
Lysander picked up where he had left off. “Lord Bortolo suggested the assassin may have been taking a piss in the garden.”
“I’d kill him myself.” Not for being an assassin, but because Cal was a horticulturalist of some renown, he treasured his garden as he did the golden lion itself, and the idea of piss on his jessemine vine, acquired from near the eastern edge of the world, made him show rage that boded ill for any man so guilty.
Hastily, I assured him, “Fear not, fair prince, for I installed Leonardo’s lavs. That should divert most of the gentlemen from their usual profligate use of the hedges.”
Cal growled low in his throat.
Delicately, I pointed out the obvious. “I’d say from the results of that barrel tapping, the assassin might have been present but didn’t wish to be known.”
“No, for your father poured first for himself, to taste and be sure it was drinkable, and Lord Magno insisted he taste, also, and cited his qualifications as—”
“An ampelographic specialist,” Cal and I said in unison.
Lysander crinkled his forehead. “Perchance he did say that. Be that as it may, then Lord Bortolo jumped in as a fellow professor at Padua University and a taster of some renown, and Lord Romeo poured three goblets, and they smelled it and commented on the scents of leather and black pepper and, they said, some seductive exotic fruit. They drank, and Lord Romeo said … he said …” Lysander’s voice shook.
“‘There’s a flavor I can’t identify.’ He handed me his goblet, and as I put my lips to the rim, he …
he spasmed. He gripped his belly. He fell to his knees.
The spasm hit Lord Bortolo so hard he did a backflip.
Some people laughed, thinking it was a joke.
Lord Magno put his hand to his mouth and swallowed and swallowed and …
I thought he was going to vomit. Everybody backed away.
Next, Lord Bortolo did vomit with such force that—”
The dreadful litany would have continued through every detail, but Cal put his hand on Lysander’s shoulder.
“That’s enough. I now know we have a poisoner in our midst, and I must send one of my men to trace the giver of the cask.
” He looked to his bodyguards, and Dion, who had a talent for wheedling, nodded and disappeared.
Cal tightened his grip on Lysander’s shoulder. “Did you have a chance to observe the crowd? Did you see anyone who avidly watched?”
“People did avidly watch in horror …” Lysander began.
“I mean someone who watched with interest, who seemed enthralled by the sight of so much impending death?”
“It can’t be a guest. What person of worth would be so vicious as to bring this joyous occasion to ruin?” As soon as Lysander spoke, he seemed to realize he’d described himself. “Prince Escalus, not me! I swear—”
Cal actually chuckled out loud, a rusty sound out of place in this room where murder had occurred. “Good Lysander, as the leader of Verona, I have enemies, but I like to think I can count you as a friend.”
An odd fact, but a truth nonetheless. Cal admired Lysander for his incredible mind, which saw ways to improve life and invented the means to do so.
A ladder of lightweight round wood from the Far East, a long-burning lamp …
Lysander rose to whatever challenges Cal set.
They were two men alike in intelligence and interests.
Alas, that one of those interests was me.
Lysander put his hand on Cal’s. “I’m honored by your friendship, my prince, and extend mine in return.”
My eyes filled, but I didn’t let the tears drop. I loved these finer feelings, but now was not the time. “Lysander, Cal’s right. It’s well known that an arsonist remains to survey the fire. Just so it’s likely a poisoner watches to see the result of his murderous schemes. If he was here …”
“I wish I could help, but I saw no one who observed in an unnatural manner. Except …” Lysander frowned. “The men who came as companions to your uncle. They seemed more fearful than shocked, and I saw them put their heads together and speak in tones meant to reach each other and no further.”
“I saw them, too,” I said, “when we arrived in the great hall, and they vanished as if overcome from the sights and smells. But so did all the people.”
Cal seemed more thoughtful than concerned. “They didn’t give me a sense of guilt, more of panic, but it is my desire that they remain in fair Verona. Who are they?”
“Lord Rocco of Balzano and Sir Christofolo of Cittadella,” Lysander said. “Niklaus of Denmark, also, although he seems apart from them, not a professor but a decisive man who sought out Lord Magno for reasons of his own.”
Niklaus was the broad-chested Viking who did not look like me or anyone in Verona. He wore rough clothing, a wolf pelt around his shoulders, and carried a long sword, which, if Magno wore it on his belt, would drag on the ground.
Obviously, Niklaus was the villain.
Therefore, I knew it wasn’t him. Obvious is never the right resolution to the mystery.
Marcellus nodded and spoke to one of the soldiers who waited with him, and the man disappeared to track Magno’s companions.
Lysander shakily stood. “I must return to my rooms in Casa Marcketti and rest. I’m still not well, but I promise to think on the matter in hopes some revelation will come to me.”
Cal signaled Holofernes. “Let us house you at the palace for as long as it takes to work the poison out of your system.”
Lysander looked at the two of us. “There’s no need.”
Cal slid his arm around my waist. “After your assistance here, which helped save Lord Romeo, I fear you may have made yourself a target.”
He felt my frightened intake of breath, I knew, and tightened his grip.
I hadn’t thought of such a thing, but yes.
If someone watched and waited with malice to strike at the Montagues, at the Leonardis, at the success of the wedding or, as Nonna Ursula had said, at the very peace of Verona, he would not like the witness who survived to describe the moment and perhaps identify him.
Then there would be another death, as predicted by Nonna Ursula, and it would be my One True Love and Cal’s friend, Lysander of the house of Marcketti.
The world had suddenly become a very scary place.
I said, “I want to go home.”