Chapter 22
I made big, wide, innocent eyes at Cal. “Can’t you throw a knife accurately?”
“If I can, I don’t need my enemies to know it!” He realized how I’d goaded him and took a long breath. “Pins seem relatively harmless. Clubs might have led to violence.”
“Yet I handled it well.”
“You handled it masterfully. But this could end badly, and as the prince of Verona, I must forbid—”
The musicians played a fanfare, drowning him out.
He sank back down on his seat, accepting defeat, and yet with his sideways glance, he let me know he had taken note of my actions, and he would be on the watch for future developments.
Papà leaped onto the dais. Holding his hands up for silence, he proclaimed, “Six days hence, my daughter Lady Rosaline of the house of Montague will wed Prince Escalus of the house of Leonardi, and she will be a princess worthy of the city and the mother of Verona’s future!”
Cheers from the crowd and no waggery from anyone. What a lovely change.
“While she reimagined childish party games to be enjoyed by all of us”—Papà encouraged the whooping with grand gestures—“I insisted we have manly games to finish!”
The shouting took on a decidedly deeper tone.
One footman brought out a cork target, ten palmos wide and tall, with ever decreasing circles painted upon it and hung it on the wall.
“Knife throwing!” he announced. “For men only!”
I stood and slapped my hands on the table. “Papà, this is not what we’d agreed upon. I insist on being allowed to enter the games!”
Papà smirked. “As you wish, princess of Verona.” At a signal from him, five footmen staggered out, carrying a cork target forty palmos wide and long, and with much dramatic staggering under its weight, they hung it on the wall. “The women’s target!” he proclaimed.
Men laughed mockingly.
Women booed.
Cal proved his dramatic streak by standing and slapping his hands on the table.
Silence rippled out across the room, and everyone viewed him warily.
“I wager a gold ducat that Lady Rosaline will strike the center of the men’s target with her knife—the knife that I gave her and that she used to dispatch more than one villain who would disturb Verona’s peace—and she’ll do so from a distance equal to the men’s.”
Guests looked at each other.
“About these villains … Did she throw or stab?” Great-uncle Magno asked. Fair question. He’d missed those events while in Padua, being a learned professor.
“Stab,” Papà said.
Rugir called, “The men’s target, and from the same distance as the men? I’ll take your wager, Prince Escalus.”
Why had I liked him even for a moment?
Casa Montague’s scribe appeared with his wager book, the male guests lined up to register their names, and I did exactly what I should. I folded my hands at my waist and serenely smiled.
But when even my aunt got in line to wager against me, I snapped, “Samaritana!”
She narrowed her heavy eyelids at me. “I’m sorry, dear, but I am above all practical, and a gold ducat never goes amiss.”
When the line had finished and all the wagers had been marked, I leaned down, and from the holster at my ankle, I drew out the blade Cal himself had first strapped on me.
The brief glimpse of my leg centered attention on me, and once I knew every guest was watching agog, I flipped the knife and caught it.
Yes, of course, gentle reader, by the hilt!
A defeated groan rippled across the great hall.
An excessively casual Cal examined his nails, as if he expected no less. (Although I’d seen him flinch when I performed the toss.)
Mamma turned on Papà. “Romeo!”
“I did not teach her that!” Papà protested.
“Mamma, don’t fret. I taught myself with a covered blade.” I swept my smug gaze along the dismayed faces of those who had taken Cal’s wager. “Now I seldom catch it blade first.” I showed my hand, as if displaying a scar, and flashed my most obnoxiously satisfied grin.
Long story short, a lot of people lost a lot of money that night.
The ladies all greatly enjoyed themselves and enjoyed varying success when throwing their food knives at the big target.
Also, after Imogene, with a feminine simper, asked if she could try to hit the men’s target and was given a place in line, and she nailed it dead center, no one bet against any of the Montague girls again.
As Papà said, “Should a villain come across one of our daughters shopping in the square, he’ll look for a lesser challenge.”
As always, there were the quiet mutterings of society mavens who considered every one of us Montague women to be immodest, overeducated, and bold. As always, none of them walked out in a huff or even refused a refill of wine when it was offered.
The truly great moment came when it was down to the last two men, who time and again nailed the heart of the men’s target—you know, the one Imogene and I hit dead center—and those men were Nonno Montague and Great-uncle Magno.
Nonna Montague let it be known that all the Montague boys had spent their childhood roaming the wine estate and piercing every tree and fence post with their knives until they perfected their game, and even now their aim was true.
At last, the men began to rub their aching throwing arms, so Cal declared one last throw would decide the winner, and after they both nailed the target again, a great cheer went up, Nonno embraced Magno, who pounded Nonno’s back, and both men looked as pleased as boys.
A pleasant sight, and perhaps it was just me, but I noted that although Magno’s light gray eyes lit his face and gave it warmth and humor, that was a lie, for jealousy still twisted the lines around his mouth.
Another food course came out, the musicians played soothing music, the guests ate and drank, and neither Cal nor his bodyguards, nor Papà and Mamma, nor any of us children had to separate a snarling Montague and Capulet, for they had prized gossip to discuss and compare and magnify about the celebrity lovers, Romeo and Juliet, and their unique brood of children.
At last, Nonna Ursula rose and gestured widely. “Such a splendid party can only end one way—with my departure!” So saying, she, Lady Pulissena, and Lady Capulet started the exodus out the door.
Others followed, but reluctantly, helped along by Cal’s reminder that his bride needed her rest. Nonna and Nonno retired to their room, and over an hour later we saw the backs of the final guests, and as Cal prepared to leave, I pulled him aside and quietly told him, “My mother suggested a way around Friar Laurence’s prohibition. ”
He spoke quietly, too. “Prohibition of what? Of …” His eyes rounded, and he became overloud. “Your mother?” Words failed him.
I hushed him and nodded, eyes shining, as I took in his natural pleasure at gaining wisdom and thus satisfaction.
He questioned me again, but in a lower tone. “Your mother suggested … about …? You will tell me right now!”
I grinned at his stammered excitement. “I’ll tell you about it tomorrow. I’m coming to the palace early to consult with Old Cook. At this moment, we’re getting ready to share food and blankets.”
He gestured at the early morning darkness. “It’s night!”
“You know why, Cal. The children cry when they’re cold and hungry.
On a selfish note, New Cook wants all the foods the guests didn’t finish cleaned out before she starts again in the morning.
” I saw the first loaded baskets coming down from the kitchen.
All needed my attention, so I absentmindedly kissed Cal’s cheek.
“Tomorrow!” I waved him out the door, and it was only after I finally collapsed onto my bed that it occurred to me Cal hadn’t sounded exactly excited about the news that Mamma had given me ideas about, well, fornicazione.
Had that been a note of horror in his voice?