Act I, Scene I: The Prince's Decree
(I'm still not Shakespeare . . . he wrote all the lines; I just added the random emotions and thoughts of Tybalt, and some dialogue of my own, because he is awesome and deserves his own play. Oh, and, by the way, it might come out as if Tybalt has a thing for Juliet. Hey, at least it's better than the 1996 movie where he makes out with Lady Capulet . . . anyway, it could or could not be "a thing"-- he's very into the Capulet honor, but, hey, why not make him jealous of Romeo for taking Juliet? Marriage between cousins, especially back in those days, is not that bad. Of course, it could just be the innocent fondness of favorite cousins; they've grown up together and Tybalt would be concerned for her well-being. In the immortal words of Sampson: "Take in what sense thou wilt.")
There was no fanfare, music, or ceremonial call; he simply marched out into the square and everyone was silenced. I only looked up and acknowledged his presence for a second, but that brief falter in attentions had given my now vengeful partisan friends the chance they needed. One of them clubbed down my sword-- I cried out indignantly that they could have bent it-- while the other seized my upper arm to keep me from retrieving it. The two then held me fast--and swordless-- while the Prince issued his decree, in a fit of dignified rage. I struggled between them, but they held my arms straight on either side of me, locking me in perfectly, forced to watch the Prince. They knew well who I was, and how much I needed to hear his decree. I wonder if they prided themselves on apprehending the glorious Tybalt-- even if it did take three men.
"Rebellious citizens! Enemies to peace! Profaners of this neighbor-stained steel-- will they not hear?" A few of the lingering fighters finally turned their attention to him, silent and somber. The Prince glared at them. "What, ho! You men, you beasts, that quench the fire of your pernicious rage with purple fountains issuing from your veins!"
He had exaggerated; barely anyone was wounded and no one had died. Of course, there had been other times . . .
"On pain of torture, form those bloody hands, throw your mistempered weapons to the ground and hear your moved prince!" Benvolio, in a guilty fit of fear, tossed his sword away as if it had burned him. I gave him a dirty look, which he ignored.
The Prince began his reprimand, scanning over all of us with narrowed eyes. "Three civil brawls," he stressed, "bred of an airy word, by thee, old Capulet, and Montague, have thrice disturbed our streets and made Verona's ancient citizens cast by their grave-beseeming ornaments to wield old partisans in hands as old, cankered with peace, to part your cankered hate."
It was his own fault he had hired partisans. I glared at him, willing him to mind his own business. The Prince already knew me to be an insolent firebrand, so I did not dare speak aloud. He seemed angry enough as it were, and in such a case as this defending the honorable brawl could bring dishonor to the family. I had been to blame for the last fight, and it was only the silence of the Capulet walls that protected me from the Prince's wrath. Still, I knew he suspected-- and he suspected me now, too.
He looked directly at me when he made his condemnation. "If you ever disturb our streets again, your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace!"
A gasp went up among the ranks, yet the Prince was unmoved. "For this time all the rest depart away. You, Capulet," he pointed to my uncle, who blanched with fear, "shall go along with me, and Montague, come you this afternoon to know our further pleasure in this case, to old Free-town, our common judgement place. Once more, on pain of death, all men depart."
The partisan let me go. "You heard, be gone with thee! And trouble not again the streets with thy filthy words and cursed fighting!" he scolded. I picked up my sword, eyes set maliciously on him, and flicked away some of the blood from my arm. Capulet was being led away with the Prince, his head down but his shoulders still square, making martyrdom from such disgrace.
My family also appeared abashed, gathering together quietly in clusters, making their way back to the house. Though the Montagues had been scolded just as harshly, the condemnation before the entire town had been embarrassing. I saw no reason to be chastened, however, and kept my head erect.
"Such a law," breathed Lady Capulet. "Nephew, art thou hurt?" she pointed to my arm.
I drew it out of her sight. "No. 'Twas not a brawl, that; no one was killed. The worst wounds were such as mine."
My aunt took out her handkerchief nonetheless. "There, wrap that about it; stem the bleeding."
I obeyed and soon we reached the house. Juliet was there at the gate, eager to greet us; she had been left all alone, with all the men and her mother off at the square for the fight. Her large, dark, innocent eyes were wide and curious.
She saw the handkerchief. "Tybalt, were thou hurt by a Montague?" she asked, shocked. She was a clever girl, and I could not be sure if she meant to make the wound out to be a glorious battle scare or a symbol of ignominy.
I frowned but only in jest, playing along. "Benvolio Montague, may a pox fall upon his head."
"Which one be Benvolio?" she asked innocently. Juliet had never been out enough to know which Montague is which; she kept in the house, like any fine young women of Verona ought to be. She had nowhere she needed to be, besides the occasional shrift, being an unmarried girl. If ever she had to go anywhere, she was escorted by a male member of her family, usually her father-- or if he was busy, me.
Her nurse often lamented that it was a pity to keep her, such a beautiful girl, locked within walls where no one could see her. She had the distinctive dark, thick curls of all the Capulets, but they were made more beautiful by the contrast to her fair face. My skin is ruddy and tan from the Italian sun, but Juliet, always locked away like a fragile doll, allowed only out into the shady orchards of our garden, has retained the appearance of just that-- a doll. Her face was like porcelain, with only the faintest blush in her cheeks, as if someone had daubed a dash of paint on either of her cheeks and the color had spread and thinned, radiating out from her dainty cheekbones. Her lips were a stunning, deep red, though; so much more bold and adult then her childly pink cheeks. She tucked a long lock of her loose curls behind one ear and waited for my answer, blinking slowly, her impossibly long lashes following gracefully.
I had a dilemma: Tell her the truth of the weak Benvolio, or make up a grand tale of my valiant courage-- or a mixture of the two. I knew Juliet liked grand stories, so I made one for her.
"It was a vile fellow, Benvolio Montague," I said dramatically. She smiled, her eyes shining, not truly believing as she would have those days in our kindred childhood but still enjoying the yarn. "He wouldst not cast away the sword as the Prince asked, and, as I was cornered by two of his own, held fast by my arms," I held them out to illustrate, neglecting to mention that these were partisans and not truly "Benvolio's own"-- "the villain sliced me with his sword, and laughed, I dared I face him. Yet the Prince arrived, and stopped all nonsense. And I shall have my revenge," I vowed.
Juliet's lips were in a tight smile. "Thou always hast thy revenge."
"'Tis the honorable way." I turned to my aunt. "Speaking of honor, didst thou happen to see the way of Petruchio?"
Lady Capulet smiled. "Petruchio be not of as stern stuff as thee. After his sword was knocked away, he dashed off, leaving his sword at the square."
My friends embarrass me.
"Petruchio be the one with the sweet curls, aye?" asked Juliet.
I raised my eyebrows at her. "Thou sweet on him?" I smirked; Petruchio would be pleased at this news. Juliet was a very coveted maid, for her family and her looks.
Juliet blushed, the roses in her cheeks blossoming. "I . . . no . . . his curls are just so like that of a child's," she said quickly.
Her mother smiled at her and then beckoned her away.
Having nothing more to attend to, I wandered aimlessly around the garden, nursing my wound. I would teach Benvolio to cut me like that again, next time . . .
Then it hit me. There wasn't going to be a next time.
I felt restless and resentful at the thought. How could a man defend his honor under such a law? It was inhuman. I had too much energy-- too much choler-- I could not bear it. I wanted to fight, feel the thrill, hear the whistle of the swords in the hissing winds in the air and the clank of metal upon metal.
By and by, Capulet returned from Free-town. He was silent and weary looking. He spotted me and came over meaningfully, cuffing an arm on my shoulder when he arrived. I presumed he meant it playfully, but it felt sharper than I would have suspected.
"Ah, Tybalt," he sighed, gazing contentedly out at the garden. Then he lowered his voice and sent his eyes into mine. "Thou . . . that brawl, today . . . didst thou . . . ?"
He suspected me. I felt my insides constrict in resentment at this false accusation, though I knew he had good reason."No, Uncle!" I cried in histrionic innocence, aloofly hurt."'Twas two servants. I merely came by during the fight and joined in, for their were more Montagues than Capulets. So much like the Montagues--"
He cut my slander of them short. "The prince has made a new law, just as he said this morning. Death to any man that may fight the other. Death to both. A Capulet may not fight a Montague, and the same in reverse." The bright light in his eyes intensified. "That means no more of this, Tybalt. No more. Keep thy sword within its sheath."
"Sir, an a Montague cross us I shall not hesitate to teach him otherwise!" I insisted proudly.
"And death to you an you do!" he furrowed his eyebrows, snapping slightly. "'Tis time to set aside the old enmity, lay the feud to rest. It has been too long besides." He sounded as if the Prince had indoctrinated him. He sighed, "Alas that it must be ceased through force."
"Surely the Capulets shall not allow ourselves to be hindered under such a law as that!" I cried in horror. He was going down willingly? Where was his honor? Where was his respect for the Capulet name? The patriarch of the Capulets himself, bowing to an unjust law!
The Lord Capulet grew stern. "No more of this, Tybalt, no more! 'Tis no longer in my hands. Thou hast always had a fiery temper and a humor fit for fighting that I have humored long enough. 'Twill be thy undoing!" he warned.
I tried to keep myself from being sulky; he had often warned me of the repercussions of my disposition, but I simply could not tolerate this. I was the only pillar of Capulet honor in the entire house-- and I was not even a Capulet. "If I were thee," I said boldly. "I would not put up with such a law."
His eyes were angry. "The Prince makes the laws, and if thou dost not follow and obey, I canst not intervene and save thee."
He tightened his grip on my shoulder, forcing me to cringe and twist into submission reluctantly.
"I understand," I said stiltedly through gritted teeth, "though I be reluctant enough."
My uncle released his grip. "I cannot change thy reluctance, but see to't thou stayest out of trouble."
Sulkily I kept my eyes averted as he looked to the gate, breaking into a wide grin that was quite a foil to his earlier frown. I looked upwards and saw that the County Paris had arrived. He was one of the Prince's kinsmen, but, judging by his attire and his jovial expression, he did not bring bad tidings of the Prince's wrath. He stepped inside the gate with a sweeping bow and a flash of his dashing smile. He had to be the male equivalent of Rosaline; if Juliet blushed for Petruchio, she'd swoon for him.
Paris acknowledged my presence with a stately nod and waited awkwardly as my uncle dismissed me with a glance towards the house. The two most likely wanted to suggest marriage business for Juliet, and I, the bride-to-be's cousin, had little interest or involvement in the affair. It was my business to defend her until she found her husband, but not do the finding for her.
I had no qualms about leaving; Paris was a few years older than I but he had an air that suggested that he regarded me as an unworthy child. He looked at me patronizingly and never spoke to me on equal terms. Perhaps he regarded me more as the Niccolini than the Capulet; he did not speak to my male cousins in such a fashion. He almost seemed to hold a certain puty for me. I hoped he hadn't heard my uncle admonishing me; it would only give him more to pity me for.
I stepped back into the cool shelter of the house and nearly knocked over Juliet, who was in the doorway, peering out apprehensively. I could see her whispered to herself, her bright red rosy lips moving along with her words. It was a habit she had always had, talking to herself. Often she grew so loud that if I did not disturb her I could be privy to all her innermost thoughts. I did not sneak up on her, but she was surprised to find me next to her when her aloud thoughts stopped. She would have seen me coming if she hadn't had her eyes on Paris.
"Tybalt!" she jumped a little when she realized I was there.
I smirked. "Thou shouldst not speak so loud when others be by; thou might give thyself away," I teased.
A flush of deep red color came up in her cheeks. It was a trait she had gotten from the Niccolini side, for I possessed it, too. She swatted at me, but I caught her arm with my swift reflexes. Her eyes met mine for a moment, and she swatted again, with the other hand. I caught it, too, so that she was stuck. She shook her arms feebly for a moment and then tipped her head back and cried in defeat, "Leave off!"
I let go, grinning.
Her countenance fell as she peered back out of the door. "Are they speaking of me?" she asked in a horrified whisper.
Young maids were always so much more fearful of marriage than men.
I grinned at her teasingly and she fidgeted. "Oh, Father must be inviting him to this e'en's party!" she stroked her face with one white hand.
I had forgotten about that. We were throwing a little Capulet masked ball to give Juliet a chance to see and be seen-- and keep up our good society reputation, of course. Juliet was excited, like a flighty little bird, but I had better things to set my mind on. Parties were such feminine things. Well, Petruchio liked them . . . but Petruchio has always been a bit lacking at the summit.
"Dost thou want the County at the party?" I asked.
"He's . . . he's . . . " she faltered. "So handsome, yet . . . so old."
"Thy father's farther in age to thy mother than she is to thee," I pointed out.
Juliet sighed and stared tensely back out at her father and possible betrothed. "'Twill all be down to what Father says, of course," she said truthfully. Juliet had no choice in the matter, after all. She was lucky, in a way; I had no idea where to start with women.
Juliet's nurse shuffled in. "Fie, peeping?" she scolded playfully, adjusting the white wimple that had slid down on her head too far. She spied Paris out the door, elbowed Juliet, and winked. "Ah, the County. Such a man, such a man . . . " she grinned, then turned to me. "Doesn't explain why you're here, though."
I sighed and smiled, feeling myself blush again. Juliet's nurse did nothing but jest.
"Thou wilt have to bid thy cousin good-bye, soon," the nurse sighed, wrapping her arm affectionately around Juliet. "Soon Juliet will be the lady of the house." She looked back to me. "Thou might consider looking forth for ladies at the party this e'en."
I sighed. "Perchance."
I would so much rather seek out Benvolio and wreak on him revenge.
