“The interesting ones are always questioned.”
“That is why I offer you the boring ones, my son. Believe me, in the end, they will be a benefit to you, and the interesting ones, as you like to call them, would be a millstone on your back. You’d never live down the gossip.”
“Cruel market chatter, worth less than a goose fart,” I said. “I care nothing for it.”
“You’d care if it came from the mouth of Tybalt Capulet,” she said, with unerring accuracy. “I am trying to protect you, my son. If not the Scala girl, then whom? You’ve already rejected the best candidates I could bring you. Perhaps the Church would suit you better.”
Since one of the core tenets of our faith was “Thou shalt not steal,” perhaps not. “I tried on a monk’s robe recently, and I didn’t favor it,” I said. “Is there no greater match to be made from another city? Or even from your mother country?”
“The last thing I would wish is to burden you with a wife so alien to you, and to this family,” she said. “You bear enough of that stigma already, which I well know. And I wouldn’t wish to exile a young girl so far from her home and family without good cause.”
“Am I not a good cause?” I asked, and I must have put some of Mercutio’s charm in it, because for the first time, my mother truly smiled. It gladdened my heart. She did not often do it; the English are a serious, quiet people, and she always seemed so guarded, even with me. I could well understand why. Love and war are the same in Verona. “I will bow to your experience, Mother, but perhaps a girl from Fiorenza, or Milan . . . ?”
“Perhaps,” she said. “But your grandmother has already made it very clear that you will be married by the end of the year. Your friend Mercutio’s banns have already been posted. She’s busy matchmaking for Romeo as well. Her intent is to see the next generation of Montagues and their close allies well into the world before she quits it, you know.”
“She’ll never quit this world,” I said. “Surely a walking corpse fired by cankerous hatred can’t die. From the feel of her rooms, she already burns in hell.”
Her back stiffened, and her eyes widened in alarm. “Benvolio!”
“She’s no spies here. I can say what I like. God knows there’s nowhere else I’m allowed.” I felt angry and strangely exhausted, and I was glad to see Balthasar ease into the room with a tray of bread, cheese, water, fruit, and juices. He set it on the bed and withdrew to a respectful distance to stand guard at the locked door. “Have you breakfasted?”
“Hours ago,” my mother said crisply. “Before mass, which you should have attended. I expect you will remonstrate with your manservant for allowing you to oversleep the hour.”
“I’ll strap him until he yells,” I lied, and bit into a succulent peach. A lazy wasp buzzed in the window, drawn by the sticky sweet juice, and Balthasar sprang into action to shoo it out again. The battle between swift wings and clumsy batting hands was entertaining, at least. “What news at the church?”
“Nothing definite,” she said. “There’s a whisper of trouble at the Capulet palazzo with one of the girls; they both pled sickness today, though Lady Capulet and her entourage came.”
“And Tybalt?”
“Present, though largely absent, if you take my meaning. He looked as ill as you. There were bruises on his hands. You did not brawl with him, did you? You know the prince has taken a dim view of public disturbances. And, of course, your grandmother would expect a more fatal outcome if you did so.”
“I did not brawl with anyone,” I said, but she cast a pointed look at my knuckles. I looked down, and was surprised to see a faint shadow of bruising there, and a small cut. “Ah. Perhaps I did. My memory of last night is clear as . . . wine.” No, I did remember. I’d punched Romeo for his unforgivable obsession with Rosaline Capulet. In the cold light of morning, and my mother’s judgmental stare, I told myself that it had been purely to defend the family honor. “It wasn’t a Capulet.”
Her gaze was far too sharp for comfort. “The Capulet maidens were not in attendance. Might it have something to do with them?”
“No.”
“You offered them no offense?”
“Have I ever?” I raised my eyebrows and—deliberately—took another bite of my peach.
“Did you see them?”
“If I ever have, I hardly remember. I hear the elder girl is too studious, and the younger too sweet, and not even you would present them as possible brides.” I finished the peach and put the pit on the tray, then yawned. “Are you finished disapproving for the morning? If you are, please have juice; Balthasar has brought too much.”
I didn’t think she would—my mother rarely lowered her guard, even with me—but after a stiff moment she sighed and reached for one of the goblets on the tray. There was a very slight loosening of her shoulders, and now that she was not so fiercely armored I noticed the fine lines around her eyes, and the faint shadow of weariness beneath. Life for my mother, in this house, was a lifetime of living under siege. Romeo had told me the stories he’d had of his own nurse about my mother’s grief and distraction when my father died, but by the time I was old enough to note it, she had moved from tears to a resigned, chilly silence. To me, as a child, she had been as beautiful and unapproachable as the marble Madonna on her fountain—an icon of love, but not love itself.
She sipped juice for a moment in silence, then said, “Your sister has suggested a match for you.” There was nothing to indicate whether she approved of the idea or not, but any mention of Veronica woke deep feelings of alarm in me. “The Scalas’ second girl. Have you a strong opinion on the matter?”
I considered, because—surprisingly—I did not. I knew nothing of the girl in question, save that her name was Giuliana, and she seemed quiet. I could not even give an opinion as to whether she was fair; I’d scarcely noticed her at all, the few times I’d been near. But if dear Veronica put her forth, surely there was a snake hiding in that plain, deceptive grass.
“I would have to inspect her,” I said.
“Something will be arranged. I will expect you to give it your attention, Benvolio.” She replaced the emptied cup on the tray, nodding to Balthasar, and he whisked it away. “These are dangerous times. Very dangerous.”
“For Montague? It’s always dangerous.”
“No,” she said, and her green eyes locked on mine, like on like. “For us, my son. For you and me. I have ever been tolerated within the family, and while your grandmother needs you, she favors your cousin over all. I understand she set you a task.”
“I’m to keep Romeo out of trouble,” I said, and forced a casual smile. “Surely no more difficult than to stop the wind from blowing. Trouble and Romeo are long wedded.”
“That is my point,” she said softly. “It is an impossible task she’s given you, and you should know by now that the one thing she will not forgive is failure.”
I shrugged. “There’s little enough she can really do to hurt me,” I said. “I am the surplus Montague; I know it; there’s no disappointment to be had for my future. I will make my own way.”
“She would not punish you,” my mother said. “But as your mother, I can be cut off, cast out, forgotten. Even your sister stands at risk, though not as much, since she has made a good match for herself. Still, if your grandmother is angry enough, she will ruin me, and Veronica’s future will be tainted as well.”
“Ruin you how?” I had forgotten my own troubles, and even my modesty; I threw back the covers and stood in my thin nightshirt, but Balthasar—good man—was there to wrap a robe around me, and bring me a folding stool on which to sit across from her. “Mother—”
“There are a thousand ways to ruin a woman,” my mother said, with a weary shadow of a smile. “Any hint of impropriety, any whisper of intrigue would be enough. My point is that both your sister and I are vulnerable to such things, even if you are not. So, please, my son, keep this firmly in front of you. It’s not merely that you’re asked to manage your feckless cousin’s behavior; it is that you are asked to protect us.”
“From our own,” I finished for her. “From our own blood.”
“Blood has slaughtered blood since Cain killed Abel,” she said. “No doubt even the Montagues and Capulets will one day interbreed, though it may not stop hatred from festering. It’s only in stories that such happy endings are possible.”
“Peace is made, sometimes,” I said, and reached out to take her hand in mine. Her flesh was cool, pale against my darker; she even had the feel of marble, though soft and pliable it might be. “Mother, I swear I will do all I can to protect you.”
“Will you?” It hurt me that she asked it, but I nodded, and saw a shadow of relief in her eyes. “Then I am much heartened, Benvolio.” She withdrew her hand and stood to twitch her skirts into their correct and proper folds. “I thank you for the promise. I will see about the Scala girl; a few discreet questions in the right ears will reassure me of her suitability before I subject you to yet another bridal inspection. But you must promise me you will consider her fairly. I’ faith, I scarce know what you seek in these girls, but at some crossroads you must choose a path, for good or ill.”
She didn’t wait for my response, not that I could have provided one. I didn’t know what I sought in the girls presented to me, either, save that I craved . . . more. Some challenge. Some spark of intellect or spirit that would warm me in the night when the lights were dim. A comely girl was all that was required to satisfy propriety; a wife need not be more than rich and decorative, though it was useful if she had a certain political cleverness.
I could not shake the image of Rosaline Capulet, face lit gold by a single candle, reading her volume of poetry. No simple facade there, no easy match that would require nothing from me save the duties of marriage. A woman of her type would be nothing but trouble in the end, even leaving aside her impossible bloodline.
