"The bow is bent and drawn."
Content Warnings: Click here for warnings (Possible spoilers)
July 27th
As midnight approached, the wind rattled the ornate glass windows in Goneril's study. While beautiful, the decorative glass had strategic value. An onlooker from the garden could have seen the glow of the fire in the room but not the faces of the two sisters staring into it. Nearest the window sat the lady of the house, dressed in rich reds and the silver ornament that kept her thin hair tightly pulled. She had no pretensions to beauty; she knew her sisters, her mother, and her daughters all were her superior in that regard. Finery, like the glass, was strategic - the mark of an important lady. It was also her due as firstborn and heiress of Contessa Capulet, Lady Capulet and Governor of Verona. Goneril always demanded her due.
"Claret salt?" Regan's voice cracked the long silence.
Goneril nodded, her eyes trained on the fire. "After the party tomorrow night, in his bedside wine."
"But if he doesn't drink it..."
"He only needs to drink one glass, and he's taken a glass of wine before bed all his life."
Regan bit her lip. Four months ago, the debate had been whether to engage Lettice Carey or kill their traitorous father themselves. Then, the argument had devolved to the choice between smothering or poison. Of the two, Regan had favored smothering. It was the more certain method and would ensure their father died knowing the fate of traitors. Goneril agreed but had recently changed her mind. "Goneril, is your courage is failing?"
"My courage is what it ever was, else we wouldn't be doing it at all," Goneril lied. She had and would have courage enough, but she would do it even if she was pissing herself in fear. Her father had betrayed her.
Some small, stupid part of her had hoped her father would relent. How could he fight against his own daughter, his firstborn daughter? Her mother's passing fancy about Cordelia had been proven to be just that. No-one had known to expect anything but Goneril's succession because that was the true and rightful way. Birth and education placed the crown of their family on her head.
But he had not relented. To his last day, he would work to deliver the family into the hands of a stupid little girl who was happier to bear sons for her husband than daughters for herself. Worse yet, that stupid little girl would have an angry, careless brother and a sneaky bitch of a sister whispering in her ear. Goneril's father would risk their legacy on a mere suspicion about an incongruity that ought to have been swept aside the moment the will was read. Like a mad dog, he had means to injure and no scrap of sense left to him. He had to be put down. "If a stranger we send is caught, if he resists or is bruised in a struggle, what then? The house will be crawling with other guests." That Goneril had to find an excuse to be in her rightful home burned in her heart. "No, the claret salt is our best option. No-one will question an old man dying in his sleep."
Regan nodded slowly. "I suppose it's a miracle that he didn't die sooner, when he never truly recovered from that fit. Who could be surprised if he died on the brink of the shame and disaster he has brought upon us all? If he wasn't such a danger-"
"Or a traitor," Goneril spat.
As midnight approached, the wind rattled the ornate glass windows in Goneril's study. While beautiful, the decorative glass had strategic value. An onlooker from the garden could have seen the glow of the fire in the room but not the faces of the two sisters staring into it. Nearest the window sat the lady of the house, dressed in rich reds and the silver ornament that kept her thin hair tightly pulled. She had no pretensions to beauty; she knew her sisters, her mother, and her daughters all were her superior in that regard. Finery, like the glass, was strategic - the mark of an important lady. It was also her due as firstborn and heiress of Contessa Capulet, Lady Capulet and Governor of Verona. Goneril always demanded her due.
"Claret salt?" Regan's voice cracked the long silence.
Goneril nodded, her eyes trained on the fire. "After the party tomorrow night, in his bedside wine."
"But if he doesn't drink it..."
"He only needs to drink one glass, and he's taken a glass of wine before bed all his life."
Regan bit her lip. Four months ago, the debate had been whether to engage Lettice Carey or kill their traitorous father themselves. Then, the argument had devolved to the choice between smothering or poison. Of the two, Regan had favored smothering. It was the more certain method and would ensure their father died knowing the fate of traitors. Goneril agreed but had recently changed her mind. "Goneril, is your courage is failing?"
"My courage is what it ever was, else we wouldn't be doing it at all," Goneril lied. She had and would have courage enough, but she would do it even if she was pissing herself in fear. Her father had betrayed her.
Some small, stupid part of her had hoped her father would relent. How could he fight against his own daughter, his firstborn daughter? Her mother's passing fancy about Cordelia had been proven to be just that. No-one had known to expect anything but Goneril's succession because that was the true and rightful way. Birth and education placed the crown of their family on her head.
But he had not relented. To his last day, he would work to deliver the family into the hands of a stupid little girl who was happier to bear sons for her husband than daughters for herself. Worse yet, that stupid little girl would have an angry, careless brother and a sneaky bitch of a sister whispering in her ear. Goneril's father would risk their legacy on a mere suspicion about an incongruity that ought to have been swept aside the moment the will was read. Like a mad dog, he had means to injure and no scrap of sense left to him. He had to be put down. "If a stranger we send is caught, if he resists or is bruised in a struggle, what then? The house will be crawling with other guests." That Goneril had to find an excuse to be in her rightful home burned in her heart. "No, the claret salt is our best option. No-one will question an old man dying in his sleep."
Regan nodded slowly. "I suppose it's a miracle that he didn't die sooner, when he never truly recovered from that fit. Who could be surprised if he died on the brink of the shame and disaster he has brought upon us all? If he wasn't such a danger-"
"Or a traitor," Goneril spat.
"Just so. If he didn't deserve this death, this would be a kindness compared to letting him live with himself." Regan yawned as the late hour caught up with her. "You ought to leave him only enough wine for one glass. It would be best not to leave anything to be examined, if the mixture does not hold."
Goneril tapped her fingernails against each other. "As it happens, I had a bit less of it than I thought - enough for one potent glass, no more."
"A shame. So useful, but so difficult to come by these days. I suppose you'll have to do something else to Albany when the time comes." Regan's gray eyes lit up with the possibilities for her brother-in-law's demise.
"One revenge at a time, sister."
July 28th
Consort woke to an empty room.
To be sure, it was not devoid of objects. The usual furnishings were present alongside anything he might need on those days when leaving the room did not appeal. Candles were kept lit in glass jars and lanterns to ward off the darkness that so strained his eyes. Even his ears had company, as the crypt's small bell tolled twice in the distance, sounding the early hour.
And yet, the room was empty. It had been empty for five years.
Are you here, Contessa?
By God, I hope not. I hope death gave you the peace life never did. I hope you've slept since we sealed you away. I hope you've not seen what's become of us all.
But, Contessa, if you are here, give me a sign. If you have been with me, tell me if I've done the right things. Tell me I've not misremembered it all - your haunted face, your hesitation, how hard you prayed the night before we gave the order. When did you ever need God to tell you who your enemy was?
I've made enemies out of our daughters now. I chose your memory over our living daughters. Do you remember how clever our Goneril was, how proud of being a Capulet? She wouldn't have traded her blood for a kingdom. I thought she needed a husband who wouldn't stand in her way, just as I thought Regan needed the Dane boy's estate to give her independence. I counseled you to approve, God forgive me. You did. You never blamed me for what our bright, strong girls became. They do. If they ever could have forgiven me, they won't now. Tell me I was right, please.
Predictable silence followed. Consort looked over his shoulder at a jug of wine, but he had no stomach for wine. It wouldn't fill up this room. Instead, he neatened up the bed and hoped that settling down to 'rest his eyes' would lead to sleep as it so often did in other places.
But what could a thousand hateful daughters be to me, if you asked it? None of Cordelia's children are your equal on their own, but I think Juliette will grow into it. Even if she does not, she and her siblings together will live up to your example. God alone knows if I'll see our other grandchildren again. Would that I could at least lay eyes on Miranda's child once. I'm a world away from half my grandchildren now. I cleaved our family in two. Maybe if I had stopped this years ago, if I hadn't let Goneril taste power... but I couldn't stop thinking of that look in your eye, those prayers, and what reason a woman so thorough as you would have to leave her legacy so vague. You were waiting for something, Contessa. If you were waiting for Cordelia's children to grow, to make sure they did grow, tell me. Tell me I didn't break this family for nothing.
"Dear heart."
Consort flew out of his bed, flowing through the air like water in a river. He stopped at a touch. The touch was neither warm nor cold, but it was soft. Her palm rested on the back of his hand, her fingers curled over the side and under. Consort closed his grip on them with the affection of five years spent longing for the forty he had lived beside her. "You heard me?"
"I've heard you all along. You didn't think I'd go very far without you, did you?" Her smile shined in the half-lit room.
"If this is death, I wish I had died every day of my life." His wife was again at the height of her beauty, her skin refreshed and her silver hair restored to lush gold. This was not the girl he married but the woman with which he newly shared four children. Beauty had never eluded her in his eyes, it had merely shifted sources. But these were the years when youth mixed the regal elegance that no fresh face could touch, when she had become a queen - his queen.
"So do I, if it took death to make you say sweet words."
Then he truly was dead. Consort looked back at his remains. The body would give no-one any undue shock to find it, and the position was dignified enough for a corpse. The timing was, perhaps, unfair - Juliette so near to the battle he pushed her toward, Miranda almost delivered of her child... but when was it fair for an old man to die? He had outlived his youngest child and his other children's love for him. "Did you come become I asked? Because I've done all I ought?"
Contessa's mood drifted into the shadows. "Your time was upon you. I came because I wanted to take you myself."
"Five years, Contessa. Five years, I've only been able to hope I did what was right."
"And I longer than that. You did all I could have asked for. I believe more than ever it was right, but it's beyond our help now. Life is for the living." Her hands warmed as the room around them faded. "And I couldn't let you be part of them for one more day."
"You aren't sleeping at your post, Brook?"
The drowsy snapped back to life. "No, captain. Good morning, captain."
Gregory Gower had been captain of the guard at Capulet Manor for six years, before which he had been a guard or a page for as long as he could remember. He, like many of the longtime guards, had a fondness for old Lord Capulet. Guards formally sworn to a noble house were subject to the whims and justice of that family. Under Consort Capulet, the guards had never been unfairly treated, and Gower had been happy to return the favor during his lord's decline. Gower waking him personally each morning meant Lord Capulet could confine any potential indignities to one trusted servant and spare his pride a great deal. The guards that stood watch overnight were under orders to wake Gower for any trouble. This hour, when the first streaks of dawn were gracing the sky, was a bit earlier than the usual, but it was to be a busy day. The Manor would be bursting with guests by dusk.
"You're relieved," Gower told Brook. "I'll take the key." Lord Capulet, despite his granddaughter's protests, kept his door locked while he slept. Gower knocked on the heavy wooden panel as Brook gratefully left to get some sleep. "Lord Capulet? It's Gower, m'lord. May I enter?"" Silence persisted through several more inquiries. "M'lord, I'm coming in." He lifted a small part of a panel and turned the heavy lock with the key.
"M'lord?" He inched closer in his boots, not wanting to startle the old man. Only then was he close enough to notice the stillness... and the two gray eyes, open and unseeing.
Next Post: "We mean to build... and when we see the figure of the house, then must we rate the cost of the erection."
Goneril tapped her fingernails against each other. "As it happens, I had a bit less of it than I thought - enough for one potent glass, no more."
"A shame. So useful, but so difficult to come by these days. I suppose you'll have to do something else to Albany when the time comes." Regan's gray eyes lit up with the possibilities for her brother-in-law's demise.
"One revenge at a time, sister."
Consort woke to an empty room.
To be sure, it was not devoid of objects. The usual furnishings were present alongside anything he might need on those days when leaving the room did not appeal. Candles were kept lit in glass jars and lanterns to ward off the darkness that so strained his eyes. Even his ears had company, as the crypt's small bell tolled twice in the distance, sounding the early hour.
And yet, the room was empty. It had been empty for five years.
Are you here, Contessa?
By God, I hope not. I hope death gave you the peace life never did. I hope you've slept since we sealed you away. I hope you've not seen what's become of us all.
But, Contessa, if you are here, give me a sign. If you have been with me, tell me if I've done the right things. Tell me I've not misremembered it all - your haunted face, your hesitation, how hard you prayed the night before we gave the order. When did you ever need God to tell you who your enemy was?
I've made enemies out of our daughters now. I chose your memory over our living daughters. Do you remember how clever our Goneril was, how proud of being a Capulet? She wouldn't have traded her blood for a kingdom. I thought she needed a husband who wouldn't stand in her way, just as I thought Regan needed the Dane boy's estate to give her independence. I counseled you to approve, God forgive me. You did. You never blamed me for what our bright, strong girls became. They do. If they ever could have forgiven me, they won't now. Tell me I was right, please.
Predictable silence followed. Consort looked over his shoulder at a jug of wine, but he had no stomach for wine. It wouldn't fill up this room. Instead, he neatened up the bed and hoped that settling down to 'rest his eyes' would lead to sleep as it so often did in other places.
But what could a thousand hateful daughters be to me, if you asked it? None of Cordelia's children are your equal on their own, but I think Juliette will grow into it. Even if she does not, she and her siblings together will live up to your example. God alone knows if I'll see our other grandchildren again. Would that I could at least lay eyes on Miranda's child once. I'm a world away from half my grandchildren now. I cleaved our family in two. Maybe if I had stopped this years ago, if I hadn't let Goneril taste power... but I couldn't stop thinking of that look in your eye, those prayers, and what reason a woman so thorough as you would have to leave her legacy so vague. You were waiting for something, Contessa. If you were waiting for Cordelia's children to grow, to make sure they did grow, tell me. Tell me I didn't break this family for nothing.
Consort flew out of his bed, flowing through the air like water in a river. He stopped at a touch. The touch was neither warm nor cold, but it was soft. Her palm rested on the back of his hand, her fingers curled over the side and under. Consort closed his grip on them with the affection of five years spent longing for the forty he had lived beside her. "You heard me?"
"I've heard you all along. You didn't think I'd go very far without you, did you?" Her smile shined in the half-lit room.
"If this is death, I wish I had died every day of my life." His wife was again at the height of her beauty, her skin refreshed and her silver hair restored to lush gold. This was not the girl he married but the woman with which he newly shared four children. Beauty had never eluded her in his eyes, it had merely shifted sources. But these were the years when youth mixed the regal elegance that no fresh face could touch, when she had become a queen - his queen.
"So do I, if it took death to make you say sweet words."
Then he truly was dead. Consort looked back at his remains. The body would give no-one any undue shock to find it, and the position was dignified enough for a corpse. The timing was, perhaps, unfair - Juliette so near to the battle he pushed her toward, Miranda almost delivered of her child... but when was it fair for an old man to die? He had outlived his youngest child and his other children's love for him. "Did you come become I asked? Because I've done all I ought?"
Contessa's mood drifted into the shadows. "Your time was upon you. I came because I wanted to take you myself."
"Five years, Contessa. Five years, I've only been able to hope I did what was right."
"And I longer than that. You did all I could have asked for. I believe more than ever it was right, but it's beyond our help now. Life is for the living." Her hands warmed as the room around them faded. "And I couldn't let you be part of them for one more day."
"You aren't sleeping at your post, Brook?"
The drowsy snapped back to life. "No, captain. Good morning, captain."
Gregory Gower had been captain of the guard at Capulet Manor for six years, before which he had been a guard or a page for as long as he could remember. He, like many of the longtime guards, had a fondness for old Lord Capulet. Guards formally sworn to a noble house were subject to the whims and justice of that family. Under Consort Capulet, the guards had never been unfairly treated, and Gower had been happy to return the favor during his lord's decline. Gower waking him personally each morning meant Lord Capulet could confine any potential indignities to one trusted servant and spare his pride a great deal. The guards that stood watch overnight were under orders to wake Gower for any trouble. This hour, when the first streaks of dawn were gracing the sky, was a bit earlier than the usual, but it was to be a busy day. The Manor would be bursting with guests by dusk.
"You're relieved," Gower told Brook. "I'll take the key." Lord Capulet, despite his granddaughter's protests, kept his door locked while he slept. Gower knocked on the heavy wooden panel as Brook gratefully left to get some sleep. "Lord Capulet? It's Gower, m'lord. May I enter?"" Silence persisted through several more inquiries. "M'lord, I'm coming in." He lifted a small part of a panel and turned the heavy lock with the key.
"M'lord?" He inched closer in his boots, not wanting to startle the old man. Only then was he close enough to notice the stillness... and the two gray eyes, open and unseeing.
Next Post: "We mean to build... and when we see the figure of the house, then must we rate the cost of the erection."
Rest in peace, Consort. Goodness knows no-one else in Verona will have any peace for a while.
ReplyDeleteTeam Juliette's reactions are up in the next chapter. Team Goneril (willing and not) will likely have to wait for Miranda to give birth (not that long) to make any sentiments known.
Well, lack of a Consort testimony could make work a little more difficult for Lady Iden. :S
ReplyDeleteConsort looked over his shoulder at a jug of wine, but he had no stomach for wine. It wouldn't fill up this room.
So... this was a natural death after all, then? I wonder how Goneril will react to learning she could have saved those salts for Albany after all. I hope the afterlife for Consort doesn't include the knowledge that that jug of wine was poisoned all along.
Team Juliette might gain an edge in the eyes of any scrutinous legal parties by virtue of being shocked and grieved over the loss of Consort, since I doubt either of the two true members of Team Goneril will manage much of an act. My money's on Miranda ending up as Team Juliette's spy, if only for love of Hermia. I'm guessing that Goneril's younger three and Kent don't have much of an opinion at this point? I wouldn't be surprised if Cornwall is secretly Team Juliette for the mere sake of not being Team Goneril.
It might. Lack of Consort's experience/knowledge will make things harder going for Team Juliette to be sure.
DeleteIt was a natural death, but that wine wasn't poisoned. This all happened in the same night. The next night's wine would have been poisoned, after the party that won't happen now. I think I erred too far on the side of making things suspenseful rather than clear, sorry!
Contessa came to save him from dying that death. If she can save him from knowing about it, she will. (Unfortunately for Albany, Goneril still has those salts now. Uh-oh.)
No-one will doubt Team Juliette the more sincerely mournful party, but... well, more on that later ;).
Miranda is ready to pop and won't have much to do for a while but sit around and hear interesting things, so that's not a bad guess for her, and you're right about Cornwall. Kent is Team Goneril because he loves Regan and resents the shit out of his father. The other kids... Hal is old enough to pick a side, and with him being at home for the summer, he might. Desi is old enough but I think she's going to be pretty weighed down with all the domestic slack that Goneril and Miranda are going to be leaving her, and Ariel isn't old enough to do anything but hate that everyone is fighting.
Thanks, Van!