by Lisa Fiedler
“More’s the pity,” he grumbles. “She is far too good for me.”
“Aye, she is.”
“Too good for you too, Benvolio.” He laughs again. “’Tis no secret that you are as shameless a womanizer as I. You, with your doe eyes and ready smile, would surely break her heart as thoroughly as I would.”
“Do not count on it,” I mumble. “’Tis a moot point, anyhow, for Romeo saw her first, and even if she wanted me, I could not betray him in that manner. We are friends, Rosaline and I.”
Mercutio lets out a snort. I smile in spite of myself.
“You must be truly drunk, my friend, for you giggle like a girl.”
Mercutio totters to his feet. “I am truly drunk but not nearly drunk enough. And so let us find that Romeo and go forth to increase my measly inebriation.” He leans heavily upon my shoulder. “Call for him, wilt thou?”
“Romeo!” I holler. “My cousin Romeo! Romeo!”
We listen for his response and receive none but the sonorous echo of mine own shout.
Mercutio sighs. “He is wise and, on my life, hath stol’n him home to bed.”
I shake my head. “He ran this way and leapt this orchard wall. Call, good Mercutio.”
“Nay, I must conjure him.” Again, he snorts. “I conjure thee by Rosaline’s bright eyes, by her high forehead, and her scarlet lip, by her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh …”
I do not like the path his wit has taken.
“If he hear thee,” I snarl, “thou wilt anger him.”
Mercutio looks askance at me, for he knows that it is I who am angered by his bawdy talk of Rosaline. He releases me to stand wavering on his own.
I find that I no longer wish to find Romeo, for I fear I will see in his eyes a reflection of my own fragility. Suddenly, I am eager to get myself home, where I may pine in private. With a show of false humor, I clap Mercutio on the back. He stumbles.
“Come, he hath hid himself among these trees to be consorted with the humorous night. Blind is his love, and befits the dark.” As does my own.
Mercutio agrees, and we begin our journey homeward. As we traverse the cobbled streets, I glance behind me once. Methinks I hear the sound of delicate footfall in pursuit of us. And the swish of a heavy gown?
’Tis impossible. I am only wishful.
ROSALINE
My exit from the orchard through a neglected and overgrown gate places me on the south road, and by some miracle, ’tis there that Mercutio and Benvolio have paused to call for Romeo. When he does not reveal himself, they quit the search and begin their trek homeward.
Keeping to the shadows of trees and dwellings, I follow them at a comfortable distance. There is a looseness in Mercutio’s stride that tells me he is even drunker now than he had been at the feast.
They cross the vacant market square, and soon turn onto a street that winds gently upward. Odd that a rogue like Mercutio should live on such a quiet, homey lane as this. The walls of the buildings have been freshly whitewashed and seem to glow in the moonlight. Above, balconies hemmed with ironwork drip flowers and trailing vines. All but a few of the arched windows are dark. Finally Mercutio and Benvolio halt beside a broad doorway and bid one another a good night.
When the heavy door closes behind Mercutio, Benvolio hesitates as though he senses someone near. I hold my breath until he turns and continues on up the hill and I am alone on this pleasant via. The air goes blossom-sweet as a warm breeze troubles the mass of roses climbing the face of the house toward the upper terrace. A window on the second story suddenly blooms with golden candlelight.
The glow floats onward. A moment later, the balcony doors swing open, and the candlelight wafts softly into the night. Mercutio brings the taper onto the balcony and turns his face toward the silver circle of the moon.
He speaks. “Oh, Romeo …”
Romeo! He looks to the moon and whispers Romeo? My jaw goes slack with surprise, and no small amount of panic, until Mercutio speaks more.
“Romeo, wherefore art thou the fortunate man who first glimpsed and chose fair Rosaline?”
Panic turns to joy! ’Tis me he thinks upon fondly and Romeo he resents for claiming me first! I spring from the shadows to stand beneath the balcony and call out in a whisper, “Mercutio!”
He starts at the sound of my voice from below. “Who is there?”
I step into the pale puddle of light spilling from his candle. “’Tis Lady Rosaline,” I announce as loudly as I dare.
He frowns. “How earnest thou hither, tell me, and wherefore?”
“I came,” I explain, stepping near to the rose trellis and taking hold, “by following you on your wobbly walk homeward.” Testing the tenacity of the tall trellis with a tug, I plant one foot on the lowest crossbar and lift myself. “If thou canst not guess why, then thou art surely more intoxicated than I imagined.”
I reach upward, grasping a vertical slat and hoisting myself higher, placing my foot securely upon a higher lath. The thorny vines snag the brocade of the gown, tearing at my palms and wrists.
“God’s bodkin, girl!” Mercutio bends over the rail. “What in holy hell art thou attempting?”
I continue my ascent, easily scaling the leafy lattice, hand over hand, feeling for the safety of slats beneath my slippers. ’Tis no time before I have reached the balcony. Mercutio and I are face-to-face.
I smile. Mercutio does not.
“You climb this wall like an insect,” he observes.
Of a sudden, I conjure a vision of myself as I must appear to him, clinging to the outer wall of his home upon this rose-festooned trellis. A most preposterous image, that.
I laugh. Mercutio does not.
“But then, a woman can be very much like a spider,” he muses in an icy tone. “Spinning pretty webs in which to trap her victims. Didst thou imagine, Rosaline, that I would tumble o’er the side of this balcony in a lovesick haze to run off with thee into the night?”
In truth, I had hoped something of that very sort might occur, but his disdainful tone has me reluctant to admit it.
“Or dost thou intend to join me here in my bedchamber?” He laughs now. His breath reeks heavily of wine. “Oh, no, that cannot possibly be so, for thou art the chaste Rosaline.” He narrows his eyes at me. “Or … art thou?”
Before I can summon a reply, he reaches forward to grasp my shoulders and pulls me closer to the rail. An unsettling cracking sound comes from somewhere near my ankles.
“Dost thou offer to lie with me, and didst thou lie to my friend Romeo when you told him you were pure and intended to remain thus?” His nose is touching mine. “Innocence is a curable disease, you know. Virtue, like honor, is merely an airy word. Mayhap your favors can be had for naught more than the cost of a promise?”
In the next breath, he has crushed his lips hard upon mine. ‘Tis a severe kiss, a kiss filled with anger. I do not at all like it and am relieved when he releases me at last. His breaths come in shallow gasps. O’er the sound of them, I am vaguely aware of a noise like twigs snapping underfoot.
“Be gone, temptress,” he grumbles. “For e’en if I had use for love, I would still needs keep my distance. Romeo saw thee first.” For a moment, he but stares at me. His next words are colder still. “Away with thee!”
With that, he spins on his heel, enters the house, and slams the balcony doors behind him. I feel the force of their impact vibrate through the stone wall, and now, blending with the echo of the slamming door, comes the sound of splintering wood. The trellis gives way with a succession of loud cracks, separating from the wall, coming apart in jagged splinters. I fall backward, still clutching a handful of spent wood and thorny stems. I squeeze my eyes shut, and a shriek rises in my throat, for I expect to crash upon the cobblestones in a bloody heap.
But that is not to be. For I do not meet the ground.
Instead, I am caught.
Caught and cradled in an embrace both sturdy and sweet.
I need not open my e
yes to see who the catcher is.
“It seems you are a lady who requires more than the usual share of rescuing.”
Benvolio lowers my feet to the ground. When he is satisfied that I can stand on my own, he releases me and takes a step back. “I take it things did not go well up there on Mercutio’s balcony?”
I shake my head, giving him a pinched little frown. “And if you dare to say ‘I told thee so’—”
“Tossed you right over the rail, did he?”
“Tossed me? Of course he did not toss—”
‘Tis not until I see his grin that I understand he is teasing. “No, sir,” I say, smoothing my skirts. “He did not toss me. I jumped. I found I was unimpressed with Mercutio’s sloppy style of kissing, and so I simply dove from his balcony to avoid more of the same. ’Twas a full somersault with a twist. Didst thou not see it?”
“I regret to say I did not. I was too intent on placing my person between your lovely body and these hard cobblestones.”
“Aye.” I nod with mock solemnity. “The landing has always been the part of the trick I most dislike.”
He laughs, and I find I like the sound a good deal. “Come, Lady Rosaline, I shall see you home … again.”
“’Tis too warm to go home,” I blurt out, surprised by how greatly I desire his company. “Might we … I do not know … might we seek out someplace cool?”
Benvolio studies me carefully for a long moment, then he takes my arm and we start down the hill. At the bottom of the street, he heads west.
We discuss the feast as we walk. He remarks that the port was of especially good quality. I tell him I did not have the opportunity to partake of any.
“I did, however, discover that your good friend Romeo and my—”
I stop in my tracks, interrupting my revelation regarding his cousin and mine when I see the place to which he has led me.
“The forest,” I remark, rather stupidly.
“A grove, actually. I often meander here when I feel the need for solitude. ’Tis dense enough to provide concealment, yet not so dense that moonlight may not penetrate its leafy canopy.”
He speaks true. Ribbons of moonglow unfurl from above, casting a shimmering blue radiance into the labyrinth of slender trunks and graceful limbs. I can smell the earthy coolness.
Benvolio indicates a narrow pathway; I duck beneath a low branch to enter the magic of the silent wood and follow the leaf-scattered trail. Together, we weave through streamers of silver light until we reach a fallen tree; by some chance it did land balanced across two large stones, forming a sort of rounded bench.
“Here is my customary spot,” he says, lowering himself to sit gingerly upon the trunk. “Join me?”
Smiling, I do so. The trunk rocks ever so slightly as I settle upon it.
“Pray thee, lady,” he says when I am seated, “may I inquire exactly what ‘style’ dost thou enjoy?”
I look at him quizzically.
“Of kissing,” he clarifies. “Earlier you did mention that you were not particularly moved by Mercutio’s style of kissing, and I merely wondered just precisely what style you are used to.”
I do not open my mouth, for I know I will only stammer like a fool. What an unthinkably improper conversation! I find I cannot wait to hear more of it!
“To my mind,” he goes on breezily, “I prefer soft, slow kisses.”
“Soft, slow kisses?” I repeat haltingly.
“Yes. The softer the better. You know the sort.”
Alas, I do not know. I lift one shoulder, a tiny shrug.
“I suppose you could say I like to linger when I kiss,” he confesses.
“Linger?”
“Mmm, yes. Take my time, savor, enjoy. After all, what cause is there to rush a kiss?”
“None, I suppose,” I reply in a whisper.
“Mercutio, I deduce, is not a lingerer?”
I shake my head, very slowly.
“A shame, that. There upon the balcony, with the enticing scent of roses, and the hot breeze through your hair, it would have been a fine setting for that sort of soft, slow kiss.”
Soft and slow again. I believe I actually feel those words skimming o’er my skin. I remember back at the feast, when Romeo with saintly sweetness did bring his mouth to Juliet’s, brushing her lips with his. And here is Benvolio beside me in this mystic grove, with only the sycamores to see. When did he put his arm about my waist? I wonder, though I have not thought to insist he remove it.
Soft and slow.
Linger …
Enjoy.
My face turns up to his, and a band of moonglow falls across his eyes.
You know the sort.
Alas …
Soft.
And slow.
“Show me?”
“Gladly.”
Benvolio’s hand at my waist presses me nearer to him, and I turn a bit, placing my hands tremulously upon his shoulders. He lowers his face to mine, closing his eyes. I lift my chin …
Alas, before our lips can meet, the tree trunk upon which we sit shimmies once, rolls, then tumbles off its rocky platform, spilling us with a muffled thud.
To the moss we topple backward, falling gently, head o’er heels. Mayhap to land so safely on such softness is the way love truly feels.
ROMEO
Friar Laurence hath agreed to perform the blessed rites in which I shall take sweet Juliet for my wife.
True, the cleric was at first perplexed by my glad demeanor when I joined him so early this morn in his herb garden. He could see I’d had no sleep, but I told him I had no need of it.
“Wast thou with Rosaline?” he asked.
I assured him I had all but forgotten that name and the despair it inflicted. And I confessed to my confessor that I was now in love in earnest, a love whose very definition is the one who inspires it: Juliet. My adored adversary.
Aye, the friar did challenge my claim. He reminded me ’twas only one sunrise past that I wept for another. But he is old and cannot possibly grasp the depth of love so truthful. O, how can he understand? For his youth is a memory long abandoned, but I am in the thick of mine, and youth is a quick, bright thing. This love, I believe, is sanctioned by the stars.
What can it matter that I know nothing of her, other than that she loves me too? I may not know her favorite flower, her favorite ballad, or the day and month of her birth, or whether or not she can read. We have not seen the snow together. We have not even shared the rain. But one hot night upon her balcony has proved enough for both of us.
The friar chided me, and warned me. But, praise the angels, he did at last consent to deliver the sacrament when it occurred to him that our happy alliance might be the only salve sufficient to soothe Verona’s wounds.
Before the sun has set this day, a secret wife fair Juliet shall be
With whispered vows I shall become husband to my beloved enemy.
BENVOLIO
I awaken there upon the mossy ground, Rosaline beside me.
‘Tis nearly daylight. Her satiny cheek rests upon my chest, her hair tumbling o’er my shoulders, her breaths coming in time with my heartbeat. God’s truth, I would stay forever, but a moment later, she opens her eyes and recollects our whereabouts.
She bolts to her feet, inadvertently using my rib cage as a springboard. I utter a strangled “ummph!” and clutch my middle.
Rosaline has gone pale, nearly as pale as I, who am struggling for a blessed breath. I attempt to calm her with a word but can manage only an airless grunt, which she ignores, unaware that she has pounded the wind from my lungs.
“O, Benvolio! What have we done?”
“We have slept,” I manage, rolling over onto my knees and standing slowly. “Prior to that, we but talked. I swear to thee, nothing more.”
She frowns in confusion. “Art thou certain?”
I grin at her. “Art thou not?”
Rosaline ponders a moment. “I remember … falling.”
“As do I,” I tell h
er. In love, I add silently. With you. “We found the moss most comfortable, so we remained there upon it, looking up through the leaves and twigs at the stars.”
The color returns to her complexion, her eyes show relief. “Aye, we talked. Of many things. Of my desire to become a healer. Of Mercutio’s legendary temper and the prince’s politics.” She smiles now. “And of your secret fear of very high places.”
“Which you promised ne’er to mention to a living soul outside these woods.”
“’Twas wonderful talk,” she says on a sigh. “I now know your favorite color is emerald—”
“And I know that you did accept the existence of fairies until the eve of your twelfth birthday, when Tybalt told you they were naught but fantasy.”
She laughs, and the sound fills the forest in a way that makes me wonder if there might be fairies after all.
“I especially liked the story of how you and Romeo once stole a quince tart from the village baker’s shop!”
“We were but seven summers,” I remind her. “And that thievery is nothing compared to what you and Juliet attempted yesterday in Montague’s garden!”
“Thievery?” she repeats, eyes glimmering. “Nay, ’twas just a prank!” Of a sudden, her expression turns sad. “I recall as well that we spoke also of how deeply you mourn for your late mother.”
“I have ne’er spoken of that,” I tell her, “to anyone.”
She steps forward to place a sweet kiss upon my cheek. “I thank you for trusting me.”
We begin to walk, enjoying one another’s reticence. I can hear the sounds of the town in the distance, coming awake, but I pay them no heed. A plot has begun to arrange itself in my mind, a ploy that might, should the heavens wish to smile upon Verona, put an end to the infernal feud that has kept me thus far from knowing Rosaline. If the elders cannot bend in their beliefs, then perhaps ’tis up to us, their progeny, to be the wiser.
We reach the grove’s boundary, stepping into the unshaded daylight, thick with heat. In the sunlight, the blue of her eyes is nearly too pure to be real. Before I reveal my plan, there are two things I must know.
