Chapter 15
With that mind-bending suggestion (commandment!), Prince Escalus touched the tiny yellow-enameled bird with sparkling wing tips that hung between my breasts, then wrapped me in a magnificent midnight-blue velvet cloak, which, he told me, was another one of his wedding gifts to me.
We waited while the shrieking band of boys ran the other way down the grand gallery, dropping breadcrumbs and flattening raisins into the magnificent stretches of carpet.
When they had passed, Cal put me into a sedan chair, carried by his best bearers and surrounded by his own bodyguards, and sent me to Casa Montague.
He pointedly did not refer to it as “home.”
I arrived in the midst of the tumult of Montague and Capulet girl children returning from the Verona Christmas market, their arms full of gifts and their cheeks red with cold and stuffed with dried fruit, salumi, and honeyed almonds.
I laughed to see them so delighted and helped the nursemaids carry the small children to the rooms that had been dedicated to their care, and although they didn’t know it, I took comfort in their chubby arms wrapped around my neck and their happy chatter.
That quickly dissipated as I walked toward my room, worried and frowning.
Before I entered, Princess Isabella and Katherina caught me, and the other girl cousins hung back behind them as Katherina asked, “Rosie, is it true Papà and every Montague man was given poison by all the Capulet women?”
“What? No!” I was dismayed and flummoxed. “Where did you hear that?”
“In the market. Everyone was talking about it!” Princess Isabella told me.
“Why they had to make it worse than it was, I do not know.” I fixed them with my best “oldest sister knows best” glare.
“Papà opened a cask of wine. It was poisoned. One man was killed, Great-uncle Magno is desperately ill, and Papà was sick almost to death. Furthermore, the Capulet women were off somewhere eating or shopping.” I didn’t say, “Or inciting rebellion,” although heaven knew that might be the case.
“I did see two of the Capulet aunts cooing over a baby hat for your wedding gift,” Katherina admitted. “I suggested perchance the story was exaggerated. How is Papà?”
“He’s recovering under Mamma’s tender care.”
“We’ll go see if she needs anything. Like food or drink.” Princess Isabella tucked her hand into Katherina’s elbow and dragged her toward our parents’ bedroom.
The other girl cousins turned toward the girls’ dormitory.
I watched them all go and admitted I needed a moment to myself.
Katherina turned back to say, “Great cape!”
“Told you so,” Princess Isabella answered her, then added, “Rosie, I advised Cal on the cloth and color.”
“My thanks.” I had reason to be grateful, for Cal sometimes chose to give honor to an apprentice by commissioning a gift that, shall we say, failed to flatter the one to whom it was given.
I went to my chamber, which I had retained not because I’m the eldest daughter, but because I’m the bride.
Having my room was a nod to my need for privacy, as it had been for my sisters Suzanna and Vittoria before their weddings.
With Nurse at the palace, tending to Lady Capulet (and offering me unwanted advice whenever she could catch me), the room was very quiet and private, indeed.
Before I shed my cape, I wandered out to the balcony and looked out over the gardens.
The walnut tree’s wide branches invited each Montague child in their turn to nestle against the trunk or meet for conversation, and, of course, to play mischievous pranks on unwelcome visitors and relatives. Not that I ever did any of that …
Nor at this moment did anyone lurk there, confiding secrets in its branches and betraying their presence with soft giggling. …
To be here as twilight descended gave me a sense of peace and a release of tension.
Our park extended out over paths, hidden seats, playgrounds of swings and sandboxes, all the way to the mighty hedge inside the stone wall that protected the estate from attacks from rival families.
For yes, as a city-state, Verona was sometimes at war with other city-states, and sometimes the great families fought for supremacy.
I remembered the Acquasasso rebellion when I was nine: Papà had carried his sword everywhere, even within the casa, and although Mamma had tried to hide her worry, I had sensed it and for the first time realized that what I considered normal life could change in an instant.
I suppose it was then I resolved to remain at home, to care for the household and be the sensible older sister to my siblings and eventually the loving aunt to their progeny. Don’t mock me. My plan was successful through three engagements. Or was it four? Details escape me.
It was no surprise when, with a soft knock on the door, a maid entered my chamber with a tray of food.
The cooks had heaped a bowl of giardiniera with my favorites: golden cauliflower, purple carrots, and pale green celery.
The enticing scent of warm sour yeast filled my nose; they’d baked a round loaf speckled with rosemary and delivered it while warm, which spoke to the constant need to have bread rising and ready to go into the hot oven and from there delivered to the always hungry guests and staff.
I sank down on a chair padded with a soft cushion.
Mahaut placed the tray in front of me with a bottle of wine, a goblet, and a beaming smile.
“Thank you, Mahaut. You know what I need.”
Taking my hand, Mahaut kissed it. “In the kitchen we heard what you did to save Lord Romeo. We don’t care what Lady Luce says. You’re an angel, and we, all of us in the household, thank you.”
I almost smiled at her unfortunate turn of phrase, but that would hurt her feelings, and I knew as well as anyone the importance of cherishing the bond between our people at Casa Montague and our family.
The cooks, the maids, the gardeners, the handymen, all were part of our greater family.
They cared for us as we cared for them, and I, who visited the kitchen often, knew that the staff giggled at my tribulations even as they sliced meats and cheeses into their thinnest shavings, prepared sauces of mustard, and filled a bowl of olive oil for dipping.
“Is it possible to have another tray of equal delights delivered soon?”
She looked startled at my greed, then followed my glance toward the walnut tree and beamed. “I’ll be back when the next bread comes out of the oven.”
“Perfect.” I waited until she had closed the door behind her before tearing the loaf in half. Crisp flakes of crust popped and flew, the scent of fresh yeast bread wafted upward, and I was not at all surprised when my fragrant bait worked and two pairs of feet thumped onto the balcony, by the rail.
I was surprised by who had landed. My sister Imogene and my great-aunt Fiametta, the much younger sister of my Capulet grandmother and the woman my father had nixed as a wife for Niklaus of Denmark.
I still didn’t see why. I admire Fiametta a lot, and to me, it had seemed a good match for two larger-than-life people.
However, now was not the time to matchmake, so I leaped up to hug her, then hugged Imogene because she was grinning so mischievously, then Fiametta again.
I shook Fiametta by the shoulders. “You came!”
“Of course I came. I wouldn’t miss seeing my little Rosie vanquished by the prince of Verona for anything!” Her deep, husky voice drawled with the influence of some language I didn’t recognize.
“I might have planned the match myself.” I took her cloak, gloves, and cap and hung them on wall hooks.
Imogene, my pain-in-the-patoot little sister, said, “Ha!”
I pointed my finger at her. “I don’t need to hear anything from you!”
She clutched her chest and panted as if in a panic. Then, theatrics over, she flung her outerwear on the floor by the brazier, seated herself in my chair, and helped herself to my chunk of bread and a handful of raisins.
With a sigh, I pulled up a chair for Fiametta and one for me.
We all fell on the food like the healthy women we were, chatting about the wedding preparations, until Mahaut arrived with the second tray loaded with cicchetti: smoked fish; sausage-stuffed olives; cold roasted chicken; three loaves of bread, hollowed out to form trenchers; butter, oil, and cheeses; aubergine stuffed with mushrooms, onions, and breadcrumbs; dried apples; bitter orange tart. …
The Montague cooks had been called to prepare an ongoing, never-ending banquet, and we lavishly thanked Mahaut and begged that she offer our praises to the kitchen staff for this winter feast. When she left, we pulled our chairs closer, loaded our trenchers, and spoke in lowered tones of the unexpected turn of events that had sent a still ill Papà home to his bed.
“Has Prince Escalus discovered who gifted the poisoned wine?” Fiametta asked.
“Not when I left, and I’m frankly … terrified.
” I hadn’t thought that in any way, but as soon as the words came out of my mouth, I knew I spoke the words of my heart.
“In these past three days, Verona has become a festival, a place of celebration, a home for joy. Everyone is here to be part of it. Except the Montagues and Capulets want to kill each other.”
“Of course,” Imogene said.
“Pickpockets have moved into the streets, the inns are skinning the visitors for food and lodging. The poor are suffering from the cold, and every day the palace is handing out blankets and food baskets. As are my family. What should be a simple wedding has become a theater of the macabre.” I sat up straighter, and in irritation, I announced, “And everyone wants to sit above the salt!”
Fiametta gurgled with laughter.
With utmost practicality, Imogene said, “You can do nothing about any of that.”
“Yes, but …” I said.
“You like to fix things,” Imogene said. “We all know that.”
Clearly, that wasn’t a compliment.
“Now is not the time to get flustered about the state of Verona’s streets—that is Cal’s problem—or where people want to sit when they eat. Make them all stand! That’ll teach ’em.” Imogene had a marvelous way of cutting me down to size and dealing sensibly with a problem in the same breath.
“She’s right, you know.” Fiametta looked directly at me. “Imogene is not just another pretty face.”
I laughed, and when Imogene looked hurt, I cupped her cheek. “Fiametta means that you, like all of us daughters of Montague, are exceptionally beautiful, and yet beneath that outer shell, you harbor intelligence and a scathing wit.”
“Really? Because I was worried.”
“You know how smart you are!” I said.
“What? Not that. I know I’m brilliant!” For Imogene, it was a flat statement of fact. “I was worried that I’m not pretty like the rest of you.”
Her frankness startled me into sitting back and studying her critically, as did Fiametta. “You’re not pretty like the rest of your family,” Fiametta decided. “You’re beautiful like yourself.”
Imogene sighed the way someone does when they know they’ve been patted on the head.
“She’s right, Imogene.” I was a more factual older sister than Fiametta. “You’re not fully baked yet, but in another year, Papà will have to leave off killing men who love Mamma, and kill men who try to abduct and ravish you.”
“Really?” Imogene perked up. “Cool!’
“I’ll nudge Papà to return to his sword tutoring. That saved my life not long ago. It might save yours in the near future. At least then you’ll have a chance.”
Imogene looked blissfully happy at the idea of using a sword to maim and kill. “I’m a clever strategist, and I’m growing tall, so I’ll whack every man that tries to lay a hand on me.”
I put my hand on her arm and made her stare into my eyes. “Promise me you won’t go looking for trouble.”
“Of course not,” she said airily and promptly changed the subject. “Rosie, you didn’t ask us what we were discussing in the tree.”