A Villa on the outskirts of Fair Verona
50 years after the events of William Shakespeare’s Romeo & Juliet
50 years after the events of William Shakespeare’s Romeo & Juliet
One sunny morning, after dumping the cook’s body at the gate of the villa, not far from where her maid and the stable boy were already rotting away, Lady Capulet suspected someone was in her orchard.
It was to be expected, she supposed. The plague made everyone desperate, and although the Capulet villa smelled of death, it also smelled of an abundance of peaches. Now that she was alone, Lady Capulet knew she would never be able to eat them all, and as long as any thieves kept their distance from the main house she was happy to let them gather what they could. Her own death could not be long off, and rather than fear the coming reaper, she looked forward to oblivion as an expected guest. When Death arrived, peaches would be the least of her concern.
Lord Capulet had already been taken away at the onset of the plague; indeed, he had been one of the first in the city to develop the buboes in his groin and die in agony, vomiting his own blood and calling for their lost daughter in his delirium. Siblings, cousins, nieces, nephews, servants…all around Verona the corpses multiplied. Even the great Prince had succumbed, at which point those nobles who owned property outside the city fled in panic. Lady Capulet had arrived at her villa a week earlier with three healthy servants. Now, only the lady herself stood on the veranda, staring out at the rows of peach trees trying to identify the intruder.
Whoever it was wouldn’t have known the Lady at first glance. She’d been a noted beauty in her youth, and while many said her good looks had passed with the death of her only daughter, she hadn’t faded away entirely as was usually expected of bereaving mothers. Instead, Lady Capulet had seemed to grow more solid, her matronly curves growing heavy and immovable as a boulder in middle- and old-age. There were grim, unlovely lines about her wide face that gave her a sort of toad-like look, but even though her beauty was gone, her skin was still white and blotchless. Her head was free of fever, her limbs free of buboes, and she still had enough strength to drag her servants’ corpses out of her house.
Perhaps the plague was avoiding Lady Capulet just as Death was.
Picking up a long bit of metal that had once been part of a fence, and which now served as the Lady’s primary defense against intruders, Lady Capulet sat down upon the veranda steps, continuing to watch the stranger in the orchard. She would have expected some wandering mercenary or ruffian coming to plunder the villa, but as the figure drew closer she saw it was dressed not unlike herself: veiled and wearing a gown, while leaning heavily on a gnarled bit of wood. A shaking white hand reached up for a peach that was just a fingertip too far away, and pity washed over the mistress of the villa. That an old woman should starve in her orchard for want of a strong hand seemed too much to bear.
“You, madam! If you desire peaches I have plenty to spare,” Lady Capulet called as she got to her feet.
The other woman jumped, unaware she had been spied. “Forgive me, lady. I would not have trespassed if hunger did not force my hand,” she apologized. Seeing Lady Capulet approach, the other woman took a step back when they were still a dozen paces or more apart. “Tell me, madam, is there plague in this house?”
Lady Capulet croaked out a laugh. “There are plagues in all our houses. But all the sick have died, and I myself am healthy yet, though I be the last of the living in this villa. Are you well, madam?” Joy at seeing a fellow woman was soon dissolved by suspicion, and even though the stranger may not have carried wicked intentions in her heart, that didn’t mean she was free of the disease sweeping the country.
But the other woman only shook her head. “Age and grief are all that trouble me,” she answered, and Lady Capulet did not doubt it. The woman wore all black, and while she couldn’t make out her face, her body was thin and crooked as a tree in its final winter. Her clothes had once been of good quality, but like Lady Capulet’s own wardrobe, it appeared they had been subject to many wearings and had grown shabby and stained.
“Still, I think we ought to keep our distance. But if you like, I shall pick a few peaches for you, and you may carry them off where you like,” Capulet remarked, setting aside her bit of iron and reaching for the nearest of the trees. “Have you come far?”
“From Verona,” the other woman said quietly, gripping her stick with both hands as she watched Lady Capulet collecting the peaches in her skirts. They’d been a rich ruby once, but were blotched into a motley of maroon and brown now.
“Indeed! My own city! You do sound familiar,” Capulet said, gently shifting her harvest to one side before pulling aside her veil to look on the other woman. “Do I know you, perhaps? I am the Lady Capulet.”
“And I,” the other woman withdrew her own veil, revealing a pinched white face and piercing eyes. “Am the Lady Montague.”
The peaches clattered to the ground.
“Lady Montague,” Capulet repeated, seeing not the bent crone before her, but an elegant noblewoman on the arm of Lord Capulet’s greatest enemy. Her lips…her son’s lips…both white as a corpse, poisoned to drag poor Juliet from the world of the living into the silent Capulet tomb, never to return. “You live still.”
“I do,” Lady Montague answered. “Though I am the last. I suspect you are as well?” If Lady Capulet expected her old enemy to lunge at her with a dagger, screeching vulgarities about revenge, she was mistaken. Indeed, Montague looked nothing but tired as she leaned against the nearest tree, her eyes full of nothing but indifference.
“The plague took my husband weeks ago,” Capulet said finally. “Our servants as well. Lord Montague…” Memories of a time before the plague slowly began to materialize in her mind. “He was thrown from a horse some years back, if I remember correctly?”
“You do. The new Lord Montague is—was my nephew. Benvolio. You will recall him,” Lady Montague answered.
Oh yes, Capulet recalled him. After the great tragedy that shattered both of their families, the Prince had ordered Benvolio marry the Capulets’ niece, poor Juliet’s cousin Rosaline. Rosaline, heartbroken not only at Romeo’s death but his betrayal of her love, had fled to a convent rather than marry, and had spoken to no one, Capulet or Montague, ever since. Lady Capulet was not sure if she still lived.
“Was it the plague?” She asked Montague, wondering how her almost-kinsman had met his end.
The thin woman nodded. “Him and his young son. His wife passed in childbirth. There shall be no more Montagues when I am gone.” Her voice had broken with grief, and the sun glinted off tears in the old woman’s eyes.
If only she were not a Montague Capulet thought, pity wrestling with rage in her heart. Despite all the woman’s losses, her own still loomed so much larger over her. Juliet, Rosaline…Tybalt. Her beloved nephew had died with bloody hands, there was no arguing that, but it was not Montague blood. Meanwhile Romeo was no doubt burning in hell, with guilt of Capulet murder about his neck. Only son or not…no, she could not forgive the Montague woman now. Nor ever.
“I will not ask for your forgiveness, Caterina,” Lady Montague said suddenly, wiping her eyes and standing up as straight as she could. Lady Capulet jumped a little, wondering if the woman was a mind-reading witch, but her visitor only shook her head and continued. “Nor do I want yours. My life has been long and dreary, and I do not fear the end. I only came here because I was hungry, but I shall take my leave I think.”
Good, let her be gone Lady Capulet wanted to say. But instead she dropped to her knees, creaking as they were, and began to gather up the least bruised of the peaches she’d dropped. “You might still take these with you, Maria,” she said finally. “I would not have your starvation on my head when I go to meet my God. And I cannot eat them all. Wait here and I will fetch you a bag.”
She took her fence post with her, and half expected Lady Montague to be gone when she had returned with a canvas sack for the peaches. But the old woman was still staring thoughtfully at her while Lady Capulet began to fill the sack.
“Is it true,” Montague said finally. “You were pregnant at the time of your daughter’s death?”
Capulet froze, then looked up at her old enemy. A lie was ready on her tongue, but what would be the point now? “Yes. I had a son the following winter.”
“Indeed,” the other woman mused, taking a step forward. Lady Capulet let go of the sack and began reaching for her makeshift weapon. “I thought I heard as much. He lived to manhood, didn’t he?”
“…Yes. He is married now, and lives in Florence with his wife and children. I had hoped to go to him after reaching Verona, but…”
“The roads are unsafe for a woman alone,” Lady Montague nodded in understanding. “Believe me, I know. But at least you can take comfort in knowing he is alive. Along with poor Rosaline, who thought herself too good for our Benvolio. And you had many good years with your husband, didn’t you? How blessed you have been, Lady Capulet.”
Lady Montague took several steps forward, each slow and shaky. Capulet’s hands tightened around the iron fencepost. If her old enemy intended to attack her now, she would not go down without striking at least one blow. Tybalt’s memory was still freshly arisen in her mind, and she could feel his fiery spirit possessing her, demanding she strike down the ancient enemy.
The other woman stopped when she was within arm’s reach. Capulet twitched, desiring to move in either retreat or attack, but there was something so odd in Montague’s eyes. The crooked woman opened her mouth to speak…
…and a wet glob of something landed on Lady Capulet’s nose and mouth.
Montague had spit on her, like a common street whore! “Bitch!” Capulet hissed as she wiped furiously at her face, angry as an alley cat. She raised her weapon to strike the other woman down, unleashing the most unladylike obscenities at the intruder. But the iron felt heavier than usual, and when she swung it Lady Montague had easily stepped back, the most curious smile on her face. She let her own wooden cane fall to the ground, then pushed up the sleeve of her gown, all the way to her armpit, where it appeared she had hidden a rotten-looking egg.
Capulet staged backward. “No…” she breathed, tasting the black death on her lips.
“A plague on both our houses,” Lady Montague smiled, bending over to select the most flawless of the peaches.
Death entered the orchard.