Chapter 33
I woke in a panic, terrified of what I would see and hear, but I heard nothing, and although my eyes were open, I couldn’t see. I took a long breath and prepared to scream, and Cal said, “She’s waking.”
My eyes cleared, and I saw his face above mine.
He cradled me in his arms, he looked at me with fear and concern, and when I struggled to be free, he let me go, and I sat up.
A swift glance around told me I was in his garden, my body stretched on a bench beside him, with my friends, guests, and relatives on benches and on the ground, and in various stages of wakening.
But glancing around proved an awful idea, for now my head spun, and with a groan, I lowered it onto my hands.
Cal supported my shoulder with one hand and put his palm flat on my back while he spoke reassuringly. “It’ll stop spinning soon. At least, it did with the others.”
I looked blearily around. He seemed to be right; some of the women were sitting up, breathing deeply, squinting as if the light hurt their eyes.
As if they’d imbibed too much wine, when in fact, it had been only a glass or two.
“Poison on the nose,” I murmured. “Carried by the odor, not on the tongue, and affecting the mind.”
“You were saying that over and over when I picked you up.”
I turned my head and stared at him in horror. “I remember nothing of that! I only remember the—” Demon. I didn’t say that. Better people than I had been tortured and burned in the public square for such claims. “My feet feel as if they’ve been scorched.”
“Everyone’s extremities—hands, feet—are inflamed.” Cal, I realized, looked angry. Very angry. Furious, in fact. “That young man is in the dungeon below the palace.”
I assembled the scene and its pieces in my mind. “Sir Christofolo of Cittadella? He … did this? For what reason?”
“He claims he wanted to watch ladies do what you do in your private parties.”
“What we do? We do … nothing! We drink, we eat, we talk, and we exchange gifts and compliments and sometimes quarrel. What did he imagine we do?”
“Among men there are legends.” Cal appeared to pick his words carefully.
“About ladies who dress scantily in beautiful”—he waved his fingers in front of his chest—“bits of cloth and tease each other, laugh, and braid each other’s hair, and do …
other things …” He observed my incredulous stare, took his hands off me, and held them up in a gesture of innocence.
“I never thought such a thing, but it is a persistent rumor among younger, more foolish males who—”
I exploded with irritation. “Blessed Virgin Mary and the Lord Jesus Himself! Men are numpties and knaves!”
Cal seemed to think this was a time to cower. “Yes. So I have frequently said. Thus young Sir Christofolo came to grief.”
“By poisoning our wine! He might have killed …” My still foggy brain remembered the elderly ladies. “Nonna Ursula? Lady Pulissena?”
“They’re on their beds, windows wide to let out the miasma.”
“Lady Capulet? Nonna Montague?”
“They’re reclining on the beds with Nonna Ursula and Lady Pulissena.
” Cal’s eyes glinted with what at another time would be amusement.
“Friar Laurence is with them now and will come here as soon as he’s sure they’re breathing properly.
In the meantime, Friar Camillo is here tending our guests.
” He indicated the young Franciscan monk who worked with Friar Laurence as a healer but who in recent days had spent his time in the monastery, praying for the souls of …
No matter. You either remember or you don’t.
As an afterthought, Cal asked, “Would you like me to summon him?”
“I recover.” In fact, I had recovered well enough that I was able to identify the culprit that had caused the trouble.
“A rare berry that grows in the spring below the retreating snow line is the cause, and it’s easily dried and crushed and added to wine because of its sweet and enticing aroma.
Thus the poison scrambles the thoughts and causes other …
” I stared at my fingertips, burning red, as if they’d been held to a fire.
The demon had been active only in my imagination, and yet I suffered. “Causes other symptoms.”
Cal took my hands and looked grimly at the damage.
“But unless it’s a long-term exposure, and usually the patient passes out before that happens, there’s no dire consequences except in the elderly and in children.” I straightened. “How is Evella?”
“She swears she was so busy, she barely took the time to drink watered wine, much less appreciate the aroma. From her demeanor, I would say she speaks the truth.”
“Nurse also? She was drinking, not inhaling.”
“Intelligent Nurse! She’s also with your Silvers, helping young Evella and Friar Laurence.” Cal peered into my eyes, not in a loving manner, but as if checking my focus. “You seemed the most impacted.”
“I was the one who took advantage of an audience by making fun of Great-uncle Magno and his stupid wine rituals.”
“You breathed in the aromas? Yet despite your learned Montague nose, you failed to identify the berry?”
First, I wanted to slap Cal. Then, seeing the suspicious lack of humor on his shadowed face, I laughed at myself. “I suppose your intention is to point out that like Magno, I have a high opinion of myself.”
Cal neither agreed nor disagreed, an answer in itself.
I didn’t like it, but yes. I said, “Sir Christofolo is a man of much education. He studies at the university with Great-uncle Magno.” Hastily, I added, “A credential that ensures nothing, but Sir Christofolo seems mannerly and eager to please. How could he be so cruel as to poison the wine at a bridal revel?”
“He swears he did not. Under pressure from Friar Laurence, he admitted that mayhap he did purchase a drug to put in the wine to lessen inhibitions—”
“Minestrone-headed fool!”
“And he confesses he hid because it’s titillating to watch girls doing things to each other—”
“To each other? At a bridal revel?”
“To his delight, he saw the inhibitions slip and believed the ladies had been spontaneously seized by the spirit of the maenads. He swears the man who sold him the drug said nothing about poison—”
“Who was that man?”
“A cloaked and hooded figure.”
“Not at all suspicious!”
“As Sir Christofolo was dragged to the dungeon, over and over he protested his innocence.”
“He keeps to that story? Then why did he run?”
“When you discovered he’d been spying on you, he feared you’d tear him apart with tooth and nail.”
With the poison that had taken my friends and family to the edge of sanity, I admit he had a point.
But … “You men are mad! How dare you say women are illogical? This is purely …!” I waved my arms, and my indignation seemed to help wash the effects of the poisoning away. “You men are mad!” I repeated.
“I suppose.” Cal seemed not quite certain who was mad.
“Who does Sir Christofolo of Cittadella accuse of being the cloaked and hooded figure?”
“Your uncle.”
“My uncle who?” I realized who Cal meant, and as much as I hated to, I had to point out the illogic.
“Great-uncle Magno? Cal. Cal. Cal. You know I would love to accuse that limp branch on the Montague family tree of something that would sever him from this life, but as was my father, Magno was poisoned. According to Friar Laurence, my confessor and teacher, whom I trust in all things, Magno hovered on the brink of a horrible death. Then it appeared someone tried again to poison him, which resulted in him assuming possession of my bedchamber.”
“You don’t have to remind me of that!”
“We agree that the incidents are positively linked, and they probably are, and what could Magno gain from such an action? He wasn’t hiding in the closet, waiting for us to … to …”
“Have a pillow fight?” Cal suggested.
“A pillow fight? A fight with pillows? Why would we …? Never mind.” I stood. My knees supported me. “I don’t want to know.” I found I could storm away, and I did.
In the morning, I woke in my own bed with a poison hangover, with a killer headache and joints that felt as if I’d recently recovered from a weeklong fever.
Oddly enough, the inflammation of my hands and feet had subsided, and I felt only an unpleasant tingling to remind me of the poisoned nightmare of a party.
I woke also to the news that overnight, in a flight of what seemed like midwinter madness, Sir Christofolo had attempted to escape the dungeon and died on Cal’s guards’ swords.
Everyone was relieved that the dangerous poisoner, who had come so close to upsetting the wedding in Verona, had died.
Although I did think his death seemed almost too convenient.
I should have instituted an inquiry into the circumstances, but I had more pressing matters on my mind.
Yes, dear reader, you’re right. The prince, my husband, and I had plans to meet in secret to finally, finally consummate our marriage. Desire, it seems, overcomes the wisdom of men and the intuition of women.
Or the intuition of men and the wisdom of women. I can’t even tell which male-female clichés are true anymore. All I know is both Cal and I failed to follow up on what later was clear to our eyes and minds, and for that, people died.