B
y now, the sun has shown itself fully in the east. Another burning morning is upon us. Juliet, ever concerned for her parents' approval, hurries home.
I tarry in the square, taking in the sluggish bustle. Merchants and buyers argue over cost and quality; noblewomen worry o'er the wrinkles the warmth brings to their gowns. At the edge of the square is Saint Peter's, our gracious cathedral. From her steps, peasant children in dusty clothes call out to playfellows, darting hither and yon amid highborn strangers who would as soon trample them into the dirt. I pass a carter, whose cabbages are already wilting in the heat.
The air is thick with the aroma of commerce: I smell onions and garlic, newly cut wood, lamp oil, fresh bread,
and fragile pastries laden with honeyed fruits. The world and everyone in it sweats, and the scent is primitive and divine. The lowly carry the musky smell of hard work, of honest labor, of hope, while the perfumes and powders of the gentry mingle in a way that is false and cowardly. They mop their damp faces as though ashamed of being human.
Tucked away from the main piazza is a small building of stone, liberally patched with earth and sod. A weathered shingle propped above the shuttered window bears a single word, shallowly carved: HEALER.
I rap on the sturdy door, listen for the latch to fall away. When the door pulls back on an ancient leather hinge, I enter the reassuring gloom I recognize so well.
She greets me with a smile. Her long hair is swept into a silver knot at the nape of her neck. Her skin, for one so aged, is smoothâthe effect of a special cream she blendsâand her eyes, startlingly clear, are a calming hue near violet.
“Good day, Lady Rosaline.” She inclines her head. I do the same. âTis cooler inside the cottage than without 'neath the blazing sun. And there is no place I feel more useful, more at home. Indeed, my many experiences within the ramshackle walls of this hospice have inspired me to make the difficult choice I earlier described to Romeo. But my undivided pursuit of medical knowledge is only one reason I choose to keep free of amorous entanglements. For during these many months in which I have acted as
the Healer's apprentice, I have seen with mine own eyes that for the “gentler sex,” love is a most dangerous endeavor. In the course of our practice, the Healer and I have cared for those who have suffered greatly at the hands of their beloved.
I cannot count them, these women young and old who have arrived on this doorstepâsome bruised and bleeding from having been beaten by their husbands, others fallen ill from pining oâer men who refuse to love them in return, their anguish so profound that many hath e'en begged us to administer some evil draught designed to end their very lives and thus their misery. I have observed too that e'en when true love runs smooth, the consequences to a woman can still be grave; for childbirth is a most unpredictable blessing, so suddenly can it shift from miracle to misfortune. Even the most cherished wife has lost her life in the course of an angry birthing.
And there are girls mine own age and younger, unwed, who come to us in mortal shame, asking if there is not a way to rid themselves of the growing babe inside them, a babe conceived in love that they would, under other circumstances, have gladly birthed and raised and loved. The Healer will not commit such surgery; she warns these frightened girls that it could leave them barren. If they persist, the Healer (with a reluctant heart) might send them off to the country physician who performs the act skillfully but in secret. Those who are lucky go on to marry and bear healthy babes. But many, lucky and
unlucky alike, awaken in the dead of night, weeping for that one child they never knew.
That is the condition of women in love. And I refuse to join their tortured number.
Nay! All the poets, all the minstrels, all the Romeos on this earth could never persuade me to fall in love.
M
y lesson with the Healer is disturbed by angry voices in the square.
Stepping out of the cottage I see my cousin Tybalt, removing his hand from the neck of an armed young man whom I know not. Even at this distance, I can hear their irate words, for the entire commons has gone eerily quiet around them.
Tybalt calls the stranger Benvolio and promptly threatens his life.
“I do but keep the peace,”
this Benvolio informs my kinsman.
I breathe, relieved at his assurance. Although he appears to be Tybalt's equal in all outward manner, âtis clear that the one called Benvolio is not near as fiery as my catlike
cousin, but he is every bit as proud. And handsome. I cannot help but admire his broad shoulders and the way those longish locks of rich mahagony-colored hair brush o'er them. In profile, he is splendid, squaring off with Tybalt.
But now, alas, as men so often do, this Benvolio doth contradict his own wisdom. “
Put up thy sword,”
he says in a hot voice. Tybalt does not hesitate to do so. Benvolio hastily amends his challenge, though not from fear, I can tell, rather, from a quick return of prudence:
“Or manage it to part these men with me.”
My cousin would sooner be drawn and quartered than abort a fight! His voice thunders across the silent square.
“What, drawn and talk of peace? I hate the word, as I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee.”
So Benvolio is a Montague. (This vexes me, though I cannot imagine why.)
“Have at thee, coward,”
Tybalt growls, his sword swooping in search of the peacemaker. Benvolio is fleet and dodges the blade.
Of a sudden, the citizens cease their silence. Enraged, they lend their voices to the quarrel, but they take neither the side of Capulet nor Montague. They holler out for peace, e'en as they attack.
Without warning, more of Verona's citizenry enter the square possessed of a deep, collective disgust, their anger surpassed only by their righteousness. They carry
clubs and partisans, and cry out,
“Strike! Beat them down! Down with the Capulets! Down with the Montagues!”
As I watch, appalled, from the Healer's doorway, my uncle Capulet and my aunt arrive in the market square. Soon come the lord and lady of the house of Montague as well, which ignites the turmoil tenfold.
My uncle shouts for his sword (his wife suggests a crutch!) and Montague, bellowing threats of his own, must be stayed by his lady wife.
âTis nothing short of warfare in our fine common! Servants, peasants, the smithy, the cobbler, the cooper, farmers, and masons united in arms to rid their city of this selfish scourge. Swords clash in a sinister symphony; 'tis a steely skirmish, and my cousin Tybalt is as ever in the thick of it. His handsome cheek already bears a spattering of bloodâhis own or an enemy's, I cannot say.
I find myself searching the row for Benvolio, but my eye is caught by a shadow near a high gate, at the far corner of the square.
He is the one known as Mercutio, whose loyalty is with Montague. Frequently I have heard him calling out bawdy flatteries to passing maidens, and have even spied him on occasion when he believes no one about, using the dulled edge of a chunk of coal or calcite to scrawl wicked words upon the stony walls of town.
Perplexed am I to see him with his sword still in its
scabbard, apart from the fight. But even as the scrap worsens, Mercutio does not quit his casual leaning and merely watches the action. This strikes me as verily odd; Mercutio is known to be the most hot-blooded of the Montague camp.
He sees me seeing him, and for a moment, I wonder if he will smile. I expect he has a most dazzling grin. What passes between us is the knowledge that though we bear witness to the same scuffle 'tis with very different eyes.
I count off the seconds, convinced that in the next he will run madly into the melee. But when Mercutio moves, 'tis only to walk near the perimeter of the brawl; clearly he hath no intent to join it. He moves toward the cathedral, still looking for all the world as though he has no personal interest in the fight.
Viewing Mercutio's progress, I notice a small boy on the church steps, no more than four in years and shrieking wildly, though no one near him seems to hear, engrossed as they are in the battle. I cannot imagine how he's come to be left alone: Mayhap his cowardly nursemaid fled at the first sign of trouble, or worse, his lord and father has been pulled into the fray and now lies wounded.
Still shrieking, the tyke begins to make his way down the stairs to the main common. âTis as though he is blind to the battle before him. With his tiny arms outstretched, he sets to running ⦠running into the heart of combat! 'Tis a gauntlet he runs, with swords swinging, fists flying.
As I watch, my heart pounding, I see him nearly trampled again and again.
Keeping my head low, I enter the ruckus. My eyes are on the boy and nothing else. Heaven save us, he has come to the place where the most violent altercation is occurring. 'Tis none other than Tybalt who stands above the child, dueling ferociously with some Montague (having earlier been jostled away from Benvolio by the human tide). Blades collide. One downward swing from either opponent will decapitate the child for sure!
Heart pounding, I shove roughly between two men pummeling one another and lunge for the boy, scooping him into the relative safety of my arms. His screeching is now directed into my ear, but I am still happy to have caught him. My only goal is to remove us both from this mayhem, and swiftly.
Keeping his ringlet-capped head close to my chest, I begin my retreat, ducking when I must, evading when I may, sprinting as would a hunted prey. Even so, I can sense that someone is watching me, though I do not halt my escape to see who. Mayhap if I had turned to determine such, I would have avoided the stunning blow which now meets me hard against the back of my skull.
The pain is like thunder, and I surmise, before the world goes watery, that I have caught the heavy hilt of a badly aimed sword. I stumble once but do not forfeit my grip on the child. I feel no bloodâthat is goodâbut the
ache is fierce. A curtain of darkness closes across my vision but withdraws as quickly.
I am almost to the edge of the square.
Before me, a cruel peasant lad makes ready with his club to thrash an old man who has gone down on his knees to beg the ruffian for mercy. The attacker shows no sign of granting any.
Still reeling, I summon what remains of my resolve and manage to kick the young thug hard in the back of his thigh. The shock as much as the force sends him crumpling to the ground. He drops his club and looks up at me.
My mind swims with pain and terror, and I am surprised to hear myself blurting out an inane reprimand. “Respect thine elders!”
The erstwhile clubber gapes at me, then departs in a hurry.
I must be truly on the verge of death, for I believe I actually hear laughter coming from behind me.
Behind me â¦
I turn.
And the sky shifts, the world slants, I stagger ⦠stumble â¦
But behind me there are arms, strong and sure, taking hold of me round my waist, lifting both me and the child I somehow have miraculously not yet dropped.
My eyes close of their own accord. I am no longer aware of any noise from the battle. 'Tis a mere whisper
compared to the tumult within my skull. I carry the boy; my unknown savior carries me.
Soon the stalwart arms lower me to the hard ground beyond the battle, then carefully reach to relieve me of my precious bundle. Either the boy has ceased his shrieking, or the blow hath made me deaf. I want desperately to open my eyes but do not possess the strength required to achieve it.
A hand brushes against my cheek, then moves to my throat, pressing a thumb tenderly to the side of it to determine if any blood rhythm is evident. 'Tis precisely what I'd have done to a victim in my position. I can only hope the unseen stranger detects a pulse, for I myself am too far gone now to tell if I possess one.
Again, the handâa soothing caress across my brow. Gentle fingers push aside my tangled hair, then return to my cheek, where they linger as the darkness comes to consume me.