Read Online Still Star-Crossed by Melinda Taub - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Melinda Taub
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sick, and will see no one, not even her uncle.”
If Rosaline was sick, he was the Emperor of Russia. “What then? Have the watch discovered who defiled Juliet’s statue?”
“No, Your Grace. Lord Montague has had it cleaned and returned to its former beauty. The Montagues swear it was not they who defiled it, and the watch can find no proof it was.”
Of course not. The watch was incapable of finding anything not hidden at the bottom of a barrel of ale. Escalus pressed his fist between his eyes.
Penlet gave another little cough. “There is more, my lord.”
“Yes? What else?”
“ ’Twas in the market square this morning,” said Penlet. “When the merchants arrived at dawn to open their stalls, they found this hanging from a tree in the center of the square.”
He rang a bell, and a footman came in, bearing an oddly shaped bundle of cloth and rope. At Penlet’s nod, he held it up.
It was a cloth effigy in the shape of a man with a noose round its neck. Scrawled across its chest were the words DEATH TO HOUSE MONTAGUE .
“Fie and fie again!” Escalus burst out. “Who did this, Penlet?”
His chancellor swallowed. “Not a soul saw it happen.”
“No, of course not. But all the merchants saw it hanging there this morn. Which means the whole town knows.” Escalus slammed a fist against his desk. Penlet jumped and suppressed a small squeak.
Damn them all. If this kind of provocation continues, it shall not be long before the two houses are in open war. God only knows what else they’d bring down with them
. “Send runners to Montague and Capulet,” he told Penlet. “Tell them to keep their swords sheathed. We’ll learn the truth of this. And tell old Capulet that if he knows who did this, he’d better tell me now or ’twill go badly for him.”
Penlet nodded and bowed, backing out of the room.
“Oh, and Penlet,” Escalus called, “tell Capulet I want that niece of his married before the month is out.”
Rosaline had shut and barred the doors.
Usually at this time of year the cottage doors were opened to let cool breezes chase the heat from the house. But for the past three days, they had been closed and locked at Rosaline’s order. Any visitor wishing to speak to the sisters would have to knock on the door and wait to be admitted. Which none were.
“I’ faith,” said Livia, putting aside her sewing as the boom of the door knocker sounded through the house. “That’s the third one today. ’Tis certain we never had so many visitors. Thou shouldst flout the prince’s will more often, Rosaline.”
Rosaline finished an embroidered rose with such violencethat the needle stuck into her hand. “Such company we can well do without. Go and send them away, prithee.”
Livia nodded, carefully folding the tablecloth she was mending. “Who think’st thou it is this time? Uncle again, or one of his servants, or the prince’s men?”
Rosaline laughed, hissing a bit as she unstitched herself. Her uncle and the prince had taken it in turns to try to wheedle, cajole, and command her to wed. Luckily, the duchess, the only person with any real power to threaten the Tirimo ladies, had declined to involve herself. Which, given her hatred of the Montagues, was not surprising. “I care not. Only tell them—”
“I know.” Livia threw a hand across her forehead in an imitation swoon. “Oh, my lord, my dear sister is deathly ill. And though she longs—nay, pines—to see the face of her very favorite Capulet uncle who has not spoken three words to her in years, the doctor has strictly forbidden her to see anyone who wishes to induce her to marry, as hearing the name ‘Benvolio’ makes her break out in pox.”
Rosaline laughed and gave her sister a shove toward the door. “Leave the dramatics to the stage players. Just tell him I am sick and can receive no visitors.” This was the reason she gave for becoming a hermit these last few days, and no one would publicly contradict it. Only a
If Rosaline was sick, he was the Emperor of Russia. “What then? Have the watch discovered who defiled Juliet’s statue?”
“No, Your Grace. Lord Montague has had it cleaned and returned to its former beauty. The Montagues swear it was not they who defiled it, and the watch can find no proof it was.”
Of course not. The watch was incapable of finding anything not hidden at the bottom of a barrel of ale. Escalus pressed his fist between his eyes.
Penlet gave another little cough. “There is more, my lord.”
“Yes? What else?”
“ ’Twas in the market square this morning,” said Penlet. “When the merchants arrived at dawn to open their stalls, they found this hanging from a tree in the center of the square.”
He rang a bell, and a footman came in, bearing an oddly shaped bundle of cloth and rope. At Penlet’s nod, he held it up.
It was a cloth effigy in the shape of a man with a noose round its neck. Scrawled across its chest were the words DEATH TO HOUSE MONTAGUE .
“Fie and fie again!” Escalus burst out. “Who did this, Penlet?”
His chancellor swallowed. “Not a soul saw it happen.”
“No, of course not. But all the merchants saw it hanging there this morn. Which means the whole town knows.” Escalus slammed a fist against his desk. Penlet jumped and suppressed a small squeak.
Damn them all. If this kind of provocation continues, it shall not be long before the two houses are in open war. God only knows what else they’d bring down with them
. “Send runners to Montague and Capulet,” he told Penlet. “Tell them to keep their swords sheathed. We’ll learn the truth of this. And tell old Capulet that if he knows who did this, he’d better tell me now or ’twill go badly for him.”
Penlet nodded and bowed, backing out of the room.
“Oh, and Penlet,” Escalus called, “tell Capulet I want that niece of his married before the month is out.”
Rosaline had shut and barred the doors.
Usually at this time of year the cottage doors were opened to let cool breezes chase the heat from the house. But for the past three days, they had been closed and locked at Rosaline’s order. Any visitor wishing to speak to the sisters would have to knock on the door and wait to be admitted. Which none were.
“I’ faith,” said Livia, putting aside her sewing as the boom of the door knocker sounded through the house. “That’s the third one today. ’Tis certain we never had so many visitors. Thou shouldst flout the prince’s will more often, Rosaline.”
Rosaline finished an embroidered rose with such violencethat the needle stuck into her hand. “Such company we can well do without. Go and send them away, prithee.”
Livia nodded, carefully folding the tablecloth she was mending. “Who think’st thou it is this time? Uncle again, or one of his servants, or the prince’s men?”
Rosaline laughed, hissing a bit as she unstitched herself. Her uncle and the prince had taken it in turns to try to wheedle, cajole, and command her to wed. Luckily, the duchess, the only person with any real power to threaten the Tirimo ladies, had declined to involve herself. Which, given her hatred of the Montagues, was not surprising. “I care not. Only tell them—”
“I know.” Livia threw a hand across her forehead in an imitation swoon. “Oh, my lord, my dear sister is deathly ill. And though she longs—nay, pines—to see the face of her very favorite Capulet uncle who has not spoken three words to her in years, the doctor has strictly forbidden her to see anyone who wishes to induce her to marry, as hearing the name ‘Benvolio’ makes her break out in pox.”
Rosaline laughed and gave her sister a shove toward the door. “Leave the dramatics to the stage players. Just tell him I am sick and can receive no visitors.” This was the reason she gave for becoming a hermit these last few days, and no one would publicly contradict it. Only a
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