Rachel Caine - Prince of Shadows

He sent me a sideways look, clearly shocked; I was not joking, and he knew it. This was no lark now, no May Day jaunt that we would laugh about later. This was deadly earnest.

“Lead them away,” I ordered him and Mercutio. “Go toward Ponte della Vittoria; you should be able to lose them and turn back toward the palace. On no account let them take Romeo.”

He nodded, grabbed Romeo’s sleeve, and hauled him off in that direction.

I veered in the other. “Where is he going?” I heard my cousin ask plaintively, though Mercutio would have little idea of my destination. I had only just decided on it, and poured on speed through darkened, narrow streets, lit here and there by glancing blows of moonlight. I could hear pursuit’s baying cries behind, but it seemed Mercutio and Romeo were drawing them away. That was good. I needed time.

The avenues took on menacing edges at night, and twice I narrowly avoided the grasp of cutthroats lurking in shadows for victims; the watch did a lazy business at this time of night, and the assassins knew it. I avoided one ambling set of guards, ducked down a narrow, fetid alleyway, and came out next to the Chiesa di San Fermo, where I knew I would find a friendly ear, and a safe harbor.

I slipped through the open doors, suddenly aware of the sweat soaking my body, of the pounding of my heart, and the heavy, silken silence within the thick walls. Only a few candles glowed, painting the arches overhead as I stopped at the font to pay respects. I bent knee to the altar and hurried as fast as propriety would allow to the front of the church, where a plump, tonsured monk was praying, or perhaps pretending while resting his eyes and snoring.

I leaned close to him and whispered, “Rise up, dear friar; I call you to glory.”

His eyes flew open, blinked, and widened in what I suppose might be taken for religious ecstasy—or, more likely, horror. He scrambled awkwardly to his sandaled feet, staring at the silent altar and the crucified savior, and then turned and saw me.

“Rogue!” he roared, and then remembered he was in the house of the Lord, and amended it to a hoarse whisper as he clapped me on the side of the head hard enough to make me see a glimpse of angels. “Villain! Sly-tongued devil of infamy— Oh. Forgive me, sir.” He’d realized who I was, after his first outburst, and cleared his throat to try to restore himself some dignity. “What is this, young master? You come into the house of God with such nonsense? You stand before the holy presence and—”

“Have you been into the sacramental wine again, Friar Lawrence?” I asked. He had been; it was obvious indeed from the eloquence of his breath. “Is that not a greater sin than a shoddy trick on an old man?”

He shook a fist at me, but kept his voice to a hissing whisper. “Old man, am I? Not so old that I cannot teach you manners again, as I did when you were just a tender child! What mean you, coming here at this hour?”

“I come in earnest,” I said. “Forgive me, but one of your flock is in danger, and I can only think you as shepherd must rush to the rescue.”

“Flock? Have I sheep to tend now, at this hour when the devil stalks?”

“Rosaline Capulet,” I said. “Her brother means to beat her, perhaps worse. If you might visit tonight, perhaps seeking after her well-being . . .”

“I have misheard,” he said, and cupped his ear toward me. “Did you say Capulet ? Surely not, with such worry in your tone. What would stir you to such instincts, to betray your own?”

“I betray nothing,” I said, and now there was an edge to my tone, not the worry he’d claimed. “It’s none of my affair. Should it be any of yours, a timely visit might save the girl’s looks, if not her life.”

“She’s bound for cloister, my boy; looks are no great asset for her.” Still, he pursed his lips, and then sighed. “I go, then, but what shall be my excuse? How heard I her cries from here?”

“Why, good friar, surely God came to you in a dream,” I said. “And wished you to deliver his good tidings to his would-be bride of Christ.”

“If you prove to be God, young blasphemer, I shall need a great deal more sacramental wine than exists in Verona,” he said, but nodded. “Leave it to me, then.”

“So you may slip back into your wine-drenched prayers? No, Friar, I will come with you.”

He barked out a sharp, harsh laugh that ran around the empty church like a too-bold child. “I scarce think a Montague would be welcome,” he said.

“Monks have no family but that of Christ,” I said, and attempted to look saintly. “And a hooded robe conceals all else, so long as I keep my face humbly lowered.”

“Humble is not a word I think of when I consider you,” the friar said, but he was not objecting. One thing I knew of him: He liked his little intrigues. “But you, Benvolio, you have a cold eye. Swear you will not betray yourself once we are within!”

“What profit would it be if I did?” I asked him. “Trapped within the jaws of those who’d delight in my bloody slaughter? No. I seek only to see the thing done. I’ll take no risk. See you take none either.”

The friar was only a few moments rummaging for a spare, poorly patched habit; it fit me very badly, which was all to the good, as novice monks frequently were handed the rags. Belted soundly with rope, it swaddled me in heavy, smothering folds that smelled of incense and ripened sweat.

“The sword,” Fra Lawrence said. “You must leave it here. Even beneath the robe, it is too easily seen. You must exchange your boots for plain sandals.”

I did these things without complaint, though shedding my weapon caused me to feel more naked than removing any amount of garb. I had worn steel since I was old enough to be allowed out in a pack with my cousins to roam the streets. Tonight I was defenseless.

I am but a humble monk , I reminded myself. God is my defense.

That, and the reeking tent of robes I wore as disguise.

Fra Lawrence examined his handiwork and pronounced that I would do, if I remembered to keep my head decently downturned. “And never, never look up,” he lectured me sternly, or as could a monk who weaved side to side from the effects of stout wine. “You are simply there to look devout. Any hint of arrogance and I will be embarrassed, but you will be beyond any such concerns.”

I tucked my chin down, folded my hands in the voluminous sleeves, and tried to forget a lifetime of training to be a ruler of men. It was, I found, surprisingly restful.

We walked through the streets unmolested. One cutpurse slid greasily from the shadows, only to look us over in disappointment. Fra Lawrence made the sign of the cross to him with great good humor, and we padded on our way without further offense being offered. The robes seemed to weigh on me like armor, though it would undoubtedly be far less useful to turn a Capulet sword. I began to wonder whether perhaps I was being a bit too bold, but the chance to tweak Tybalt’s nose yet again was irresistible . . . and I needed to see that Rosaline had not suffered overmuch for my failings.

Though I would not admit that, to her or—God forbid—anyone else. I could only hope that Friar Lawrence would keep his silence—which, considering that his earthly family owed mine a debt, seemed safe enough. No one wished to risk the wrath of the Montagues, and particularly La Signora di Ferro. The thought of my grandmother descending from her chair like a decaying, shrieking devil was enough to lock anyone’s throat to silence . . . even a gossiping, ever-lecturing busybody like the friar.

Or so I had to hope, for the sake of my life. My grandmother would likely hiss and remind me that even a churchman might suffer a drunken tumble down narrow stairs, for the safety of the family. I was not quite so ready to resort to such tactics. I just knew they existed.