A Stranger in the World

"Thou know’st the first time that we smell the air we wawl and cry."

June 15th

Sitting in the Governors' Chamber for the first time gave Mercutio all the feelings he had expected: anticipation, satisfaction, nausea. Of course, his nausea was nothing to the gut-emptying plague his uncle was currently enjoying. Mercutio felt no remorse. If Antonio didn't drink to the point of hallucinating most nights, slipping in a soured batch wouldn't have been so easy. If he had spent less time reveling in his newly found majesty, Antonio would have had the time to decide on a loyal proxy rather than be forced by sheer necessity to send Mercutio in his place to today's session.

This was Mercutio's carefully chosen venue for his major political debut. He had been gauging his position and his uncle's almost constantly since the beginning of the year. Thus far, Mercutio had discovered he was in good standing with many of the heirs of friendly houses. He was less successful with their parents, the current lords and ladies, though not without hope in most circumstances. One exceptional circumstance was Lord Arlecchino, a firm and traditional Montague ally. Lord Arlecchino was Benedick's uncle as well as the man in whose house Paulina lived, giving him plenty of cause to permanently dislike Mercutio. Working around such a political gap meant Mercutio had to be that much better in another areas. Putting his foot into Governors' meetings was crucial to doing so.

Doing it today was also crucial. The various sub-councils of the Compromise Council, the congregation of lords and ladies overseen and often over-ruled by the mightier Governors, were reformed twice a year. The mid-year reformations were decided today. Along with instructions to keep his mouth shut, Antonio had sent Mercutio with a list of those lords and ladies he wanted retained or assigned to sub-councils relevant to his governorship. The list was currently floating in a few dozen pieces on the surface of the river. Mercutio had sabotaged his uncle as often as possible and also bargained for choice assignments for a few valuable allies. Because the Council could not create new noble houses to replace the extinct, certain families held secondary, lower-ranking seats, most often given to heirs. Mercutio was languishing in one such himself, bored to death by the business of Verona's laughable navy. While he had only achieved half of what he wished, he was satisfied that he was about to secure loyalty from several previously-bored heirs.

The sub-council drafting had occurred earlier, in the general council meeting. The more delicate business of the realm would be addressed now by the Governors in their own session. Although his uncle had refused to give him any issues to raise, Mercutio hoped to be an active participant. He wanted the other lords to see him as a man they wanted to conduct business with. And if he could show up Lady Capulet at the same time, all the better.

Lord Nowell was last to arrive. As he was Senior Governor, it was his prerogative to make the other three wait. The Senior Governor was the title given to the longest-serving Governor. While the Governors of the Sword, State, and Purse had a double vote in their particular matters, the Senior Governor had a tie-breaking double vote and authority to call or end sessions at his or her discretion. Mercutio remembered his grandfather, who had not been Senior Governor, had never wanted the position anyway, swearing he would rather be Sword than Nurse. For himself, he saw opportunities in the position, but he doubted he would ever hold it. Not only would Mercutio be the most junior of them all whenever he became a Governor, but Andrew Fitzwilliam would succeed Lord Nowell and was only nine years older than Mercutio. He would have to content himself with being on time to meetings.

"Let's make this a long one, my lords and lady," Orsino said as the door shut behind him. "My castle is full of wedding preparations and my son-in-law's sister." He glared at Andrew, as though he was personally responsible for Lady Catherine. "If the damn ceremony wasn't next week, a man could lose his mind." As he sat down, he looked at Mercutio. "You are a stranger to our meetings, are you not?"

"I am, Lord Nowell."

"You aren't as ugly as your uncle, which is a treat for those of us who have to look at him. Are you any brighter?"

Mercutio knew this had to be a test. If he wanted to sing his own praises, it would have to be done in harmony with praises for he who deserved none. "Too bright to think my house could be in better hands than those chosen by my grandfather, who was both better looking and brighter than his descendants."

Orsino smiled. "But perhaps not as clever."

During the beginning rounds of Governors' business, Mercutio struggled to pay attention. He had done well, he believed, but he had to continue doing well. Somehow, he had to show himself to be the superior of his uncle without being disloyal to his house, of which Antonio was, unfortunately, the sworn and sovereign lord. As the meeting progressed, he became more at ease. It wouldn't last.

"I have an issue to raise," Goneril announced in a low, scraping tone that curled around her words like snakes lying in wait. "It's an old issue with new information. The village of Lammast has been attacked."

Andrew was visibly lost for a reason to care. "We knew that."

He didn't even rate a flicker of Goneril's eyes. Her sights were locked onto Mercutio. "This is not about the previous reports from my agent and then from my nephew. I have now had the indignity of receiving a letter from my nephew's servant," she spat, "to tell me his master and nearly a dozen other men were grievously injured defending the emergency rations. Enclosed at my nephew's insistence was this." Goneril threw a blood-stained cloth onto the table. The few unsullied patches showed the cloth was once a distinct shade of teal with elaborate bronze-gold embroidery. "Horse-cloth of a Montague vassal, is it not?"

It was, quite obviously, but he didn't answer right away. Mercutio couldn't help enjoying the thought of Tybalt bleeding half to death in the dirt, dragging himself like a cripple to find something to bandage a ruined limb. Remembering the pain of his own bone-setting, he wished that on his enemy as well. When he realized the other three were still staring at him, waiting for an answer, he scrambled for a witty and loyal answer. "I have no reason to believe that isn't pig's blood, and I have no care for your pigs, Lady Capulet."

"There are no pigs in Lammast, my lord, as your peasants stole or killed them all in an earlier attack. The most recent marauders, those left alive, admitted to belonging to Lord Montague upon interrogation." Goneril challenged the newcomer with her worst glare, hoping to find him raw. "They also informed us that the earlier raids were the work of the peasants of Moyretin, your own people. The people of Moyretin have been taxed most of their livestock for half-done repairs to their own village. It was made known that their noble lord would protect them from retaliation if they simply took what they needed to survive." After another sharp glare at Mercutio, she withdrew the cloth.

Mercutio clenched his fist beneath the table. It was a basic Montague philosophy that the family's peasants were of utmost importance. That their people were well cared-for was a great point of Montague pride. For reasons Mercutio couldn't understand, Antonio had turned his back on tradition and even common sense to ensure otherwise. As far as he knew, even the Capulets didn't risk their peasants starving to death (though he was certain it was only because a dead peasant was an unprofitable peasant.) It was an illogical, ignorant action. And now, Mercutio had to defend it. What is there to gain from desperate peasants and a petty skirmish with a nobody like Tybalt? Oh, God in Heaven, tell me it's not this... "Perhaps they were taking back what was theirs. Half of what you call Lammast belonged to our people previously."

"Eighty years ago," Goneril scoffed, "and it was legally bought. There was no proviso in the contract that prevented your buyer from selling land and lordship to us."

"Can we get to the point, please?" Andrew tapped the table impatiently. "You can argue contracts with him on your own time, Goneril."

"My point is that my house will not stand for this. If my nephew or the people of Lammast come to harm again, I will repay the favor in kind."

"Why a threat, Lady Capulet?" He grinned. "Surely the good people of Lammast won't go without, even if your nephew can't swing his sword at their hungry neighbors anymore. Why, with gold pouring out of every orifice, from your font of generosity-"

Orsino banged his fist on the table. "Enough! Lord Mercutio, a Governor of Verona will be afforded due respect in this chamber. Is this understood?"

Shit. "Perfectly understood, my lord."

The Senior Governor's eye turned to the other guilty party. "As for you, Goneril, show a little mercy. It's not the boy's fault that his grandfather whipped you from here to Maerdilean and back again on your first day."

She shrugged off the jab with her shoulders, her eyes never moving away from her prey. "Upon my honor, I do not desire war. I would rather see that my people do not starve come winter. However, my patience has been exceeded. Tell your uncle that if so much as a chicken's feather comes to harm again in Lammast, he will sorely regret it."

"I will convey your message, my lady."

"Moving on," Orsino said in his most authoritative voice, "I believe we still have the issue of Lady Amantes' taxes."

Mercutio's ears perked up at the name. Lady Amantes was Paulina's elderly grandmother. "What is the issue?"

"Non-payment, of course. What else?" Unsympathetic to the newcomer, Andrew rolled his eyes. His body didn't know whether it wanted to climb the walls or drop dead from the antics surrounding his niece's wedding and his wife's impending lying-in. "She hasn't paid her taxes in two years and most likely won't pay this year's either."

"Do we know what her finances are? Her prospects?"

"Worried about losing an ally, are we?" Goneril simpered. "The Purse moves that we issue a formal demand that the taxes, in coin or in land, are paid in sixty days or she faces the dissolution of her house." Although Goneril took extra joy in a motion that caused a Montague pain, it was the typical course of action. Unpaid taxes had unraveled other houses in less time.

Before Andrew could second the motion, Mercutio made a counter-offer. "The Sword proposes that we sell the ships and cargo seized from the pirates last month and use the profits to excuse the loss of five years of Lady Amantes' taxes to the Crown."

"Absolutely not!"

Lord Nowell quieted Goneril. "An interesting proposal, but why should we give up the profits from those ships?"

"It's the most financially sound course. If Lady Amantes can't afford her current taxes, she may fall out of the next class before she recovers. Her land will certainly stagnate and her peasants may have to be supported or even relocated. Five years of leniency would give her time and means to tend her holdings and refill her coffers so she can pay taxes again. The captured ships are unexpected income. If we invest them in keeping a family at the noble rate for generations to come, the profit is much greater than what we gain from a one-time sale of a windfall."

Orsino pursed his lips. "I doubt your uncle would agree."

"My uncle isn't here. I speak for our house."

After deliberation, Lord Nowell moved for Mercutio's motion to be studied further. Lord Fitzwilliam agreed. Lady Capulet formally abstained, unwilling to have it said that she ever agreed with something a mere Montague proxy said in Chambers. Her vote was worth two on financial matters, but it made no difference today. She duly noted for herself that Mercutio was not so nearly as stupid as his uncle and that keeping Antonio in place would be good business for her.

Shortly thereafter, a servant meekly interrupted the meeting. Disturbing the Governors was akin to surprising a vicious dog. It wasn't something to be done if one had any attachment to one's limbs. In generations past, pages and servants who had interrupted at the wrong time had come to sticky ends. When one had no power or might, it was dangerous to know too much, even accidentally. Head down, she hurried over to Lord Fitzwilliam and relayed her message in hushed tones. Her response to a query of 'how long?' was equally low, uttered in a rush before she was dismissed.

Andrew looked over at his father-in-law, who needed only to voice Maria's name to know the entirety. "Well, I think that's enough business for today." Orsino stood up from the table. "I call this meeting to a close. Andrew, go home to your wife. Your backside had better be in a chair near her door when I get there, and there had better be another for me. Firstborns take their time, and I'm too old to stand." The others offered their sincere best wishes for Lady Fitzwilliam's lying-in. Goneril and Andrew left immediately. Mercutio felt caught halfway between leaving and waiting until Lady Capulet had cleared out of the corridor.

"Not a married man, are you?"

After discerning that Lord Nowell was indeed talking to him, Mercutio shook his head. "Not yet."

Orsino leaned himself back against the table. "But there is someone - someone related to old Lady Amantes, I'd wager." He smirked at the younger man's puzzlement. "The pirate ships, my boy. How did you know about the seizures? Those are not public knowledge."

"Pirate ships are the only interesting news to ever come across the navy sub-council's table."

"True. I'll grant you, it's a clever solution - Lady Amantes saves face and money, and most of us ate up that bit about the future profits. But even the best men don't waste clever thoughts on basic politics too often."

It took all of Mercutio's fortitude not to observe out loud that Lord Nowell was wasting one on him at the moment his daughter was in jeopardy. When he had the attention of the Senior Governor, there was such a thing as being too clever for his own good. "I admire her too much to let her share the fate of my mother or my aunt. She is better off as she is - safely anonymous."

"That's young man's rubbish," he muttered. "I've lost three wives and three children. I wouldn't have had some at all if the earlier ones hadn't died. I never wished any of them dead, and they didn't die because I couldn't protect them. They died because that is what we were born for. We come into the world screaming, and, if we're lucky, we go out screaming. All anyone can do is make the most of it, not waste it sitting on your ass like a damn coward. The rest is out of our hands. Now," he exhaled, "if you will excuse me, I have to go talk to my son-in-law out of the other side of my mouth."

June 16th

"Wake up, you jackal!"

Andrew sputtered to a start. Before yesterday, he would have considered it impossible to sleep through childbirth at this proximity. The screaming was simply too loud. Yet, he had managed just that about an hour ago. The ears were a truly flexible appendage. "Huh? God Almighty, that... wait." He looked around as if the halls could tell him anything. "Why isn't she screeching?"

"It stopped about twenty minutes ago. You're a father now. Look lively; try to smile. Don't make my grandbaby's first thought be regret that it can't go back where it came from."

The all-important door opened just a few moments later. The sight of Mary Nowell elicited the most sincere smile Andrew had ever produced. It was sure to wane a bit if the babe was a girl, but it was robust enough to still exist even then. "What is it?"

Mary betrayed nothing. "Your wife is very well. She did spend several hours wishing to name the baby Cinnamon Toast, but she has come around to Scott instead."

"Scott?" Andrew asked.

"Her mother's maiden name, if you recall? She wants to save Frances for a girl."

The smile didn't diminish. It grew. Andrew rushed past Mary, into the room, and immediately to the cradle.

His son didn't disappoint. He was a nice, healthy size and color. The eyes, when they peeked open, were Maria's own. Andrew did always like that color. The hair, what little there was of it, was quite dark. Orsino could and would take credit for that, but Andrew would let him have it. Scott was his, his very own perfect, tiny heir. "My lady, you are a marvel. He is absolutely perfect."

Maria, who felt about as marvelous as she believed she looked, tried to force up the corners of her lips. If this was what the midwife called a normal birth, she wanted nothing to do with an abnormal one. "Yes, dear."

"Perhaps you could marvel more quietly," Mary suggested, full of sympathy for Maria's exhaustion.

"Take him to see his grandfather," Maria requested. Her eyes were fluttering shut. "I know he won't come in to see him. Take Scott out to my father, Andrew, please."

Lady Catherine, whose presence no-one could precisely explain, objected. "Absolutely not! We cannot have the Fitzwilliam heir catching his death of cold in a corridor."

Orsino banged on the door. "We didn't get that lucky with you, Catherine, did we? Andrew, bring me my grandson before he needs his mother again."

The baby wiggling in Andrew's arms lowered the riotous scene to a a dull roar in the background. Scott wasn't old enough to do anything yet, but his father would swear he caught a look of commiseration from him. "Hello there, son. Welcome to Verona."

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