Chapter 50
Cal staggered slightly, as if he’d experienced too much to bear one more thing.
“Oh. That. Do I have to?” Princess Isabella sounded like a petulant child, and she must have heard herself, for she straightened up and assumed her mature princess pose. “Yes, Friar Laurence. Lead on. It’s time for this confession and my apologies.”
Friar Laurence led us out of Nonna Ursula’s bedchamber, out into the grand walk, and into Cal’s dark, empty office.
Cal looked at me to see if I knew what was happening.
I lifted my hands in puzzlement.
When we had all gathered there before the bookshelves, Princess Isabella said, “Cal, I apologize. I’m the thief who took the lion.”
“What lion?” Cal frowned, bewildered. Then as light dawned, he gestured at the shelves behind her. “The Leonardi lion?”
Friar Laurence lit a taper from a candle flame in the corridor, then with a flourish illuminated the golden lion that represented the prince and his family.
“Yes. The Leonardi lion.” Princess Isabella went from defiance to pleading. “You know I loved it as child. I always petted it and talked to it.”
Prince Escalus drew himself up to his tallest, most regal stance. “You were forbidden to pick it up!”
“Yes, but I thought you were merely being a big brother and making another rule. I didn’t understand how heavy gold is.”
Realization dawned on Cal’s face. “You dropped it. There was a dimple in the floor.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I dented his face, and he lost his purple escutcheon, and I thought you were going to kill me.”
“Have I ever threatened to kill you?” This was Escalus, the older brother.
At once Isabella realized she’d hurt his feelings.
“You have never threatened to do anything to me, but while I didn’t remember the Acquasasso uprising or any of that, when I learned all you’d been through, and I realized how you felt about being the prince and all the responsibilities, and the lion was the symbol of the house of Leonardi …
” She waved her hands helplessly. “I was going to tell you, I really was, but first, I hid this lion so I could try to fix the face and put the escutcheon back on. Like I could do that, but I didn’t know …
I swear, Cal, I never imagined how close to war my actions would bring Verona. ”
From my point of view, watching this moment between brother and sister made me think of the crises in my own family and realize that families, however royal or impecunious they were, were always the same.
The same angers, the same upsets, the same forgiveness, the same exasperations and pride and emotions that mixed and became the security of relations and emotions.
“Nonna Ursula knew all this time?” Cal was obviously not pleased at that idea.
“No! After she had the first séance, I got the idea that she could, um, make a prophecy that would come true. I knew she’d do it for me, and she didn’t yell at me much about the lion, and besides, she sandwiched it in there with the murder prophecy, which she came up with because she was trying to stop the Montagues and the Capulets from killing each other.
” Isabella dug into the pouch she wore on her belt and placed in his hand the humble pottery escutcheon.
“I hope a metalworker can reattach this. I am really sorry, Cal. I did the wrong thing, and then I tried to fix it, and I messed it all up.”
Cal took a hard breath. He’d raised Isabella from the time he got out of the dungeon, a baby girl he’d been handed and whom he treasured first as a tribute to his parents and then for her own sweet self.
He loved her, he worried about her, and he’d been a parent to her.
He had to say something stern. He knew it, and so he did.
“Isabella, I understand at the time you were very young. But in this instance, your behavior does not reflect the dignity and honesty of a Leonardi princess. I am disappointed in you.”
Tough reprimand, Cal.
I did not snort. After all, I had my sisters I loved, and they—and I—had done enough dumb stuff in my life not to judge, or at least not judge harshly.
Rather, I indicated with a bow and a jerk of the head that Princess Isabella should leave us, and she didn’t waste any time.
She curtsied in Cal’s general direction and left, intent on returning to Lysander.
Cal spread his hands, palms up, at me, a sign he needed guidance or at least reassurance.
I reached out and took those hands and held them, grimaced in lieu of smiling, and quoted the playwright. “Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds.”
Cal dropped his forehead against mine. “I am a great prince. I have wisdom in my judgments and compassion in my doings. Yet how is it I have not wisdom in my family?”
“Even the aged are not always wise. Ask Nonna Ursula. Ask Nonno Montague. Ask my mamma. We have no answers. Only love.”
“That’s right, young Rosaline.” Friar Laurence placed his hands on my shoulder and on Cal’s. “Follow me.”
With a quick exchange of confused glances, Cal and I did follow.
We followed Friar Laurence into the corridor, empty of guests, who had fled, too shocked to remain; past the dining room, where a spontaneous celebration of Montagues and Capulets and Leonardis and others, drunken with glee that Magno had been vanquished and their prince and princess had prevailed, was taking place.
The good monk led us up the stairs to the double doors that led to Cal’s bedchamber.
He ushered us inside and lit the candles, a few in every candelabra.
He went to the side table, poured us cups of wine, and handed them to us.
I got a queasy feeling staring into the depths of the liquid, but he poured himself a cup and took a swallow, then raised it in a toast. “Your wedding night has been too long delayed. Let not memories of the recent troubles or your concern about Lysander cast a shadow on the coming hours. The villain is vanquished, and Lysander is held in God’s loving embrace.
Allow this day of triumph and sorrow to be consumed by the fires of marital passion. ”
I raised my cup to Friar Laurence and to Cal, brought the wine to my lips, and sipped.
A sweet wine, a winter wine, an ice wine of the finest vintage.
With the cup still to my lips, I looked up at Cal and found him watching me with dark eyes heated by desire, and for the first time, I took in what Friar Laurence had said and done.
He’d brought us here to at long last consummate our marriage. Without our plotting or planning or sneaking, the moment was upon us (yay!), and I found myself shocked and unprepared. I sipped again and found the fragrant wine intoxicated me as surely as the thought of making love … with Cal.
Friar Laurence placed his cup on the table, waved a blessing over us and the massive royal bed, rumbled, “Good night,” and shut the door behind him.
I stared at the handle as it settled into place, then sprang forward and turned the key, locking us in. Provided divine will favored us at last, no one would interrupt us again!
Neither Cal nor I questioned this blessing, which we so richly deserved.
In silence and with intent, we went to work on our clothes, helping each other—he unlaced my sleeves, and I unlaced his.
We shed those garments that defined male and female—while he removed his codpiece, tights, and doublet, I untied my overskirt, then my underskirt, then my first petticoat, then …
Then, oh, gentle reader, I looked up, and for the first time in my life, I took in the sight of a naked man at the height of his power and virility.
Cal was, first and foremost, a warrior. Every day he trained with sword and knife and lance, hours at a time, and his shoulders, arms, and thighs showed the effects of tireless exercise.
On his calf, I clearly saw the horrific white scar that marked the place where his bone had protruded through the skin, and the bone itself wasn’t quite straight, the reason for his uneven gait.
I know, gentle reader. Never mind that leg, Rosie. Get to the good stuff.
You know I was in fact a virgin, without the words to describe the edifice I saw. All I know is, if I stretched out my hand as wide as I could, from little finger to thumb, it would not come close to measuring from the base to the tip of that very impressive organ.
Was I frightened?
Of course I was! I know how everything fits together, but that—
Cal chuckled. “The look on your face!”
“Cal, listen …”
Before I could present him with my severe and logical doubts, he sobered. “Give me some credit.”
I narrowed my eyes at him.
“This isn’t my first time. Before I was in the dungeon, I was a profligate young prince. I’m not bragging but trying to reassure you that I had many women and learned well from them.”
“Sounds like bragging,” I muttered.
“You see, I had a goal.”
“A goal,” I repeated.
“I am now and always was a prince. You do your job, the city is peaceful and prosperous, and everyone curses you when you fail, as you inevitably do at least a few times, and applauds you when you succeed, at least while you’re alive.
If you’re lucky, your son takes over and does at least as well as you do, and your name is forgotten.
You’re nothing but a crumbling stone in an abandoned graveyard. ”
Tough. And true. “How did you get so smart?”
“My father told me.”
“That sounds like him.” I hadn’t known Prince Escalus the elder when he was alive, but I did meet his ghost and conduct a murder investigation for him.
“It does, doesn’t it?” Cal took a moment to enjoy the memory of his father before continuing, “I made the decision to become famous for being a fabulous, inventive lover. I decided I wanted to be called the Paragon of Passion.”
I snorted so hard, I had to wipe myself off.
“What do you expect? I was barely fourteen.” He sat on the edge of the mattress. “Actually, I first considered Prince of Passion but thought ‘paragon’ sounded as if I’d earned the title rather than inherited it.”
Made sense. In a youth’s peculiar logic.
He gestured me over. “You’ve tied your petticoat strings into knots. Come here and let me help you.”
Gentle reader, I’m not stupid. I knew he was cajoling me, relaxing me with humorous chitchat aimed at easing me onto the bed and into his arms. I was mostly willing, except for that size issue (which frankly seemed insurmountable,) so I scooted over and stood there while he brushed my hands aside and went to work on the tangled petticoat strings.
I asked, “How did you go about becoming the Paragon of Passion?”
“Girls always say becoming a woman is torturous, because of the monthly cramps and—”
I dug my claws into his hand.
“I wholeheartedly agree young women show strength beyond what is possible for young men.” He pulled my fingernails free from his skin.
“I’d been slapping the salami for five years before I decided I had to find something more exciting than my best girl Palm and her five sisters, and by then, all my noble friends had for years been covering every woman in town. ”
“They were lying,” I told him with great assurance.
“I know that now.” He freed one of the strings and lowered my first petticoat. “At the time, I figured I was a loser, so in secret I pulled together all my coins, took myself to the back door of La Gnocca, and sneaked in to talk to the most important lady of the brothel, Madame Culatello.”
“Madame Culatello is not female,” I advised him.
“I know that now. It didn’t matter. She took my coins, sent me upstairs on an adventure, and it was two weeks before I reappeared in the palace.
Those women”—his voice took on a tone of worship—“they didn’t put up with any young prince’s sauciness.
I said I wanted to learn how to pleasure a woman, and they, by God, taught me how.
” He untied the next knot, and suddenly the remaining petticoats hit the floor, leaving me clad in a bodice and a knee-length shift.
“They are the best in all the Italian peninsula, and they insisted that I do it until I got it right.”
I confess, I was so fascinated I forgot to be conscious of my own near nudity. “Did you ever get it wrong on purpose?”
His lids drooped over his dark, amused eyes. “Only … a few times.”
I smiled, rather pleased with myself for knowing him and his guile so well, and slid my hands over his shoulders to balance myself.
Where the skin was smooth, it was a pleasure to touch, but all too frequently, my fingers encountered the scar left by a knife’s sharp edge or a ripple where heat had burned him.
I touched one ripple, then the one beside his eye. “The dungeon?”
He watched me closely. Waiting for a reaction? Revulsion? “The Acquasassos were not fussy about precision. If they wished to mark my face with a hot poker and bumped my chest on the way, that provided them with more amusement.”
Leaning close, my lips to his, I murmured, “Reminders that we must watch for treachery and care for our beloved Verona.” With those love words, I kissed him.
During all the days since our betrothal, we’d been hemmed in by rules, tradition, religion, watching eyes, and vulgar curiosity.
Now we were alone and married, by the rood, and I could explore the soft, mobile lips that intrigued me, tentatively taste him, and discover notes of sweet wine and warm arousal.
It wasn’t the wine that made my head swim.
It was shared breath and tongues that touched and dueled, and the honeyed intoxication of knowing that on this night, this exploration would be repeated in other ways on this bed and at our leisure.
When I was breathless but wanting more, Cal eased away with small brushes of the lips and with tender touches of his finger.
“Trust me, Rosaline, my love, my wife, as you have been willing to do so many frustrating times before.” He slid his hands up my bare thighs, cupped my bottom, and leaned back so that I was pressed onto him.
Then slowly he toppled backward onto the mattress, and I with him.