Romeo's Ex

by Lisa Fiedler

  “Speak true, lady. Dost thou still believe thyself to fancy Mercutio?”

  Rosaline nibbles her lower lip. I realize I am holding my breath, awaiting her reply.

  “I do not,” she says at last.

  I would take her in my arms there and then but dare not. Instead, I clear my throat and inquire, “What of Romeo? Wouldst thou think me disloyal if I—”

  “Romeo?” She smiles. “Oh. I did not have the chance to tell you. Romeo’s affections are now engaged elsewhere.”

  “Art thou certain? Why, only yesterday the boy was racked with despair o’er your refusal to love him.”

  “He has met another,” she informs me. “One he loves better.”

  I suppose I am smiling like an idiot now, for this news removes the only obstacle to my pursuit of this celestial creature. I am more confident now than ever in my plan.

  “Get thee home,” I advise, for I want too much to kiss her. “May I see you anon?”

  “You may,” she says. “Then again, you may not.”

  “Now, there is a risk I do not wish to take. Let us confirm a plan to assure me of your company.”

  “Name the place.”

  “The tavern called the Untamed Shrew.”

  “I am not familiar with the establishment.”

  “I did not expect you would be. It is an unseemly sort of pub, not at all suited to ladies of your ilk. But I have conceived of an idea.”

  She smiles, amused and trusting. “Pray, what manner of scheme would lure me to such a compromising haunt as this Untamed Shrew?”

  “You are as eager to end the feud as I, are you not?”

  She nods.

  “My strategy is this—I will bring Mercutio to the tavern around midday. You will arrange somehow for Tybalt to arrive there then as well. At that time, you and I shall make our announcement.”

  She lifts one slender eyebrow. “And which announcement might that be?”

  “That we are affianced.”

  Her pretty mouth drops open at the thought of such a sudden escalation in our relationship. But, thanks be to God, she does not say no to matrimony straightaway! Finally, she finds her voice.

  “Are you …,” she stammers. “Dost thou … is this … a proposal of marriage?”

  “Not remotely,” I reply.

  “And yet you say we are to be wed?” My beautiful, intelligent Rosaline needs only a moment to comprehend. “Ah, yes! ‘Tis a brilliant scheme. If Tybalt and Mercutio believe that we are to be married, they will be compelled to accept that the Capulets and Montagues are family.” She clasps her hands together and beams at me, going on in a rush of understanding and excitement. “’Tis a perfect inroad! The Montagues and Capulets, believing that they are to be united by the holiest of sacraments, will have no choice but to cease their warfare! Indeed, as you and I are enemies once removed, being merely the niece and nephew of the primary combatants, our union would not cause the sort of outrage that would, say, the marriage of Romeo and Juliet, who are the most direct heirs to the hatred. The umbrage to such as that would be insurmountable. However, our union, being peripheral to the heart of the grudge, shall present a case for peace in such a way that neither side will need admit defeat.”

  “Honor demands that family doth not kill family,” I add. “Even Mercutio, who scorns the concept of honor and, moreover, is not of Montague blood, will surely refrain from killing his great friend’s future cousin.”

  “And Tybalt,” says Rosaline, “will likely be too concerned with what suit of clothes he should wear to our wedding feast to consider drawing his sword.” She rewards me with a smile. “Aye, ’tis brilliant!”

  “Then you agree to meet me in the tavern at noon?”

  “I do!”

  Those words from her lips cause my heart to thud. We walk on toward the square, her pretty lips quirked in a thoughtful way.

  “I am curious, sir. Dost thou entertain the idea of a real marriage one day?”

  I nod in reply.

  “How dost thou suppose you would do it?” she asks, in a tone more academic than romantic. “Propose, I mean.”

  “I can tell thee for certain that when I feel worthy enough to ask a lady for her hand in earnest, it shall include a wealth of kisses, moonlight, and myself on bended knee offering a gem of inordinate size and a promise of love to last the duration of my life.”

  Her sweet gasp pleases me much.

  “And what of you?” I inquire, inclining my head to mask my interest. “Surely you wish to be proposed to in a most magnificent and ceremonious manner?”

  To my great shock, the lady shakes her head. “I told you yesterday, I have no wish to marry.”

  Has someone just thrust a dagger into my heart? God’s blood, it feels as though someone has. “You also told me yesterday that Mercutio altered that particular perception.”

  “He did,” she admits. “Temporarily. And look you how such a deviation ended, with me toppling from a balcony.” Her speech slows now to a pensive pace. “And you appearing in time to catch me … our night spent in the grove, a discussion of slow kisses …”

  Again, she shakes her head, this time as though to clear it of such thoughts. Her pretty hair tumbles in the sunlight and she smiles, a bit guardedly. “Our faux betrothal will be more than enough for me. And once the town has forgotten the feud, we shall confess that it was, in fact, only a hoax.”

  That is not the way I envisioned it. I walk on in silence. As we near the market square, I realize there will be enough townspeople already about to warrant some discretion. “’Twould be a severe blow to your reputation for us to be seen together at this hour.”

  “Yes,” she agrees. “’Twould be prudent for us to part company here.”

  But neither of us moves.

  Now something occurs to me. “How wilt thou lure Tybalt to the tavern?”

  “It will be simple.” Her eyes sparkle mischievously. “I will tell him a most outrageous lie.” Before she can explain, we hear the sound of footsteps drawing near. “Anon, good Benvolio.”

  With a wink, Rosaline lifts the hem of her skirt and hurries off She has just rounded the corner of the church when Romeo’s servant, Balthasar, appears.

  He has news for me.

  And it is grave.

  ROSALINE

  I have never considered myself the tavern-wench sort. ’Tis comical, verily, this ploy of mine to bring Tybalt to the Untamed Shrew today. I have instructed my maidservant, Marie, to deliver him a missive explaining that I have, of all things, accepted a position at the disreputable inn, and this very noon hour I shall begin my first shift as a barmaid there. (I am counting on Tybalt’s quick temper to stave his good sense. In truth, there is no logical purpose for a noble-born lady such as I to seek employment anywhere.) I also writ there have oft been known to be hooligans gathered there, and I would be very much grateful for his protection. Marie is to bring him the letter no earlier than a quarter before that hour, which shall ensure his timely arrival.

  Indeed, I wonder what will stun my protective cousin more—the news that I have become a barmaid or the news that I shall become a Montague!

  ’Twill be only an act, of course. I will be no more a wife than a waitress. We will only pretend to be engaged, Benvolio and I. This wells up a strange feeling in me, one I cannot name. But before I can think more deeply on’t, there comes a knock upon my door and Juliet bursts into my chamber, flushed and smiling for all she is worth.

  “Congratulate me, cousin!” she cries, throwing herself into my arms.

  I comply, though I know not for what I am congratulating her. She squirms free of the hug and retreats a step, allowing me to admire her as she spins like a giddy dancer.

  “Do I look changed at all?” she inquires.

  “Aye, most assuredly,” I tell her, for it is true. Juliet this morn appears more … well … more thoroughly Juliet than ever before, though in a way I cannot precisely describe. “Thou hast not changed thy hair. And you wear a gown
I have seen you in at least one time before. Art thou taller—thinner—since last night? Pray tell what brings about this remarkable transformation, for indeed, that is surely what it is.”

  Juliet goes up on tiptoe and cups her hand to my ear to whisper something, but her excitement blows the words out in an unintelligible rush.

  “Buried?” I repeat the word I think she spoke. “Say you that you have been buried this morning? Jules, that is nonsense.”

  She rolls her eyes. “I did not say buried, cousin. I said …” Again, she leans in and whispers.

  And this time I hear her clearly.

  “Married?”

  She nods, her eyes bright with the thrill of it. Her delight proves momentarily contagious.

  “Married,” I gasp in disbelief “To Romeo, I assume?”

  “You assume correctly.” She twirls, laughing. “O, I am a wife! I am wife to Romeo! He is my husband!”

  “Aye. But how … ?”

  “He sent word with my nurse, inviting me to our wedding. Naturally, I accepted and did hasten to the monastery, where Friar Laurence did close our hands with holy words. I am married, Roz! ’Tis full real, and duly blessed. I belong to Romeo, and Romeo is mine!” Again, she twirls.

  I would dance with her, but ’tis now that the magnitude of the situation settles in. Of a sudden, my mouth goes dry, and my heart begins to pump ferociously. A terror rises within me, a panic so intense I can barely breathe.

  “Juliet, you have surely taken leave of your mind! By all that is holy on God’s earth, you have signed a death warrant for us all!”

  Juliet huffs, pressing her fists to her hips. “You exaggerate. Aye, my father will be angry at first, my mother, shocked. And Romeo’s lord and lady will also react badly, but—”

  “If by badly you mean slipping a hangman’s noose round his handsome neck, then, aye, you have hit the mark. They will never accept you!”

  “They must accept us!” Her eyes are glittering with tears now. “I could not bear it if they did not.”

  “What you can or cannot bear will be of no consequence in the face of their fury. I daresay, you and Romeo have gone too far. Hell’s blood, cousin, you are but thirteen. You have known the boy less than a day!”

  “Last night you approved.” She huffs at me, folding her arms across her chest indignantly.

  “I approved of your wanting to love him. Dost thou not recall my warning you to proceed slowly and with caution?”

  I take her by the shoulders and push her into a chair, then pull up another and sit facing her. “Ironical as this is going to seem, Benvolio and I had a similar plan. Ours was perilous to some degree, but this rash, impulsive thing that you have done is nothing short of tragic. Each family will blame the other for such colossal injury. Your father will feel betrayed, as will Romeo’s. The wrath this marriage will unleash is unimaginable.”

  There is a long pause. Then Juliet lifts her chin in a childish gesture. “Well, it is done. Romeo and I have sealed our love, and with it our fate.”

  I consider the news, and I wonder how it will impact the course Benvolio and I had hoped to take. Certainly, our cousins’ truth makes our falsehood unnecessary. I cannot suppress the prickle of regret that comes with this realization.

  “Well, I suppose this marks the sudden end to my career as a tavern wench.”

  Juliet looks at me as though I am mad.

  “Pay it no mind,” I tell her. “’Tis a long story.”

  Now a worried crease mars Juliet’s brow. “Speaking of long stories,” she begins in a tremulous voice, “I was hoping you might explain something to me.” She draws a long breath. “I know nothing of what Romeo shall expect of me on our wedding night!”

  “Nay.” I allow a slight grin. “I suppose you would not.”

  “Canst thou tell me, Roz? Impart to me some understanding of what a man demands and what a lady ought to do … and ought not to do? I know your personal experience is as lacking as mine own. But you are a healer, in essence, a physician. You must know, at the very least, something.”

  She is curious and afraid, and every bit as desperate as she sounds.

  I squirm in my seat, a tad stymied by her request. “I know only—how shall I describe it?—only the mechanics of the procedure in question. The simple physicality. I can tell you what goes where and why. But with respect to romance, and, well, pleasure—”

  “Aye, pleasure. From what little I have heard spoken among my lady’s maids and servants, I suspect there is a good deal of pleasure to be had.”

  “Must be,” I mutter, more to myself than to Juliet, “for so many seem so eager to partake in it.”

  “If Romeo’s kissing is any indication of what follows, then I am sure it will not be entirely awful.”

  A pang of envy strikes me, as I remember Benvolio’s failed attempt upon that unsteady log—a kiss unkissed, and sorely missed.

  “I know this much,” I tell her. “You have done well to stay your desires until after your wedding, for when undertaken outside the sanctity of wedlock, the love act often has dire consequences.”

  Juliet considers this. “I suppose, then, ’tis a good thing that we married so quickly. I daresay I would have been hard-pressed to maintain my virtue otherwise.”

  I recall the sweet surprise of waking up in Benvolio’s arms and know she speaks the truth. “Chances are, Romeo has had experience with this sort of thing.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “He is a man, after all. He is likely an old hand at this mating thing.”

  Juliet is appalled. Instantly, I regret the remark.

  “Then again, he may be as virginal as you and I. You need know only this: If you truly love Romeo and he adores you as deeply as you say and you are already blessed in the sacrament of matrimony, then there is no wrong way to do … what it is you are going to … do.”

  “Will it pain me, do you know?”

  “Yes. Most assuredly.”

  “And will he get me with child on the first try?”

  “Mayhap. That is dependent upon your cycle, upon the level of your fertility at this time.”

  Juliet smiles at the possibility. “A Montague babe in a Capulet womb. Romeo’s lord and my own sharing a grandchild! Would that not put an end to the feud?”

  I do not answer. For I fear it is equally likely that a child of Montague and Capulet blood would inspire enough heartbreak to bring about the greatest violence yet.

  Still she must know what she must know. And so, with cautious candor I impart to her the facts as thoroughly as can one virgin to another.

  Abruptly, I wrap my arms around Juliet in a firm embrace.

  “God be with you, cousin,” I whisper.

  God be with us all.

  BENVOLIO

  Mercutio is in fine form this day. He leads his motley band of fellows through the streets in search of argument. They laugh, taunt, and curse, shoving one another in the name of brotherhood. I imagine Mercutio’s head is spinning still with the dregs of last night’s drunkenness and that his heart is stinging still from having turned away Rosaline.

  “I pray thee, good Mercutio, let’s retire,” I urge. “The day is hot, the [Capulets] abroad, and if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl; for now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.” I indicate the tavern, the Untamed Shrew, a few steps off.

  He looks at me with bloodshot eyes; his mind is muddy. We enter the tavern.

  Within, I immediately search the dusky place for Rosaline.

  She is not present as yet, but I have no doubt that she is on her way.

  My mind returns briefly to the letter shown to me by Balthasar. ‘Twas writ to Romeo by Tybalt, who did spot Romeo at last night’s feast and would now challenge Romeo for the insult. Glad am I that Romeo is not about, for if Tybalt were to find him here at the tavern, he would surely demand satisfaction. But the stars align for us. Romeo’s present absence will allow my plan to play out in peace. Hopefully ’twill be the beginning of the
end of violence in Verona.

  TYBALT

  I have only just come awake—’tis perhaps an hour before noon, by the way the slants of sunlight come blistering into my chamber—when I notice the girl lingering in the courtyard of my father’s home.

  Her back is to me, but I recognize her to be Rosaline’s maid, the one with the remarkable ginger-colored curls and sweet giggle. I admire her a moment before addressing her through the window.

  “Good morrow, pretty one.”

  She spins away from the topiary she’s been examining, startled by the closeness of my voice. (My rooms are situated on the house’s main level. As such, my window is somewhat near to the ground.)

  She offers a curtsy. “Good morrow, my lord.”

  “Marie, is it?” I fold my arms upon the windowsill and smile out at her. “Pray tell, what brings thee to my garden, Marie?”

  She rises from her genuflection, her ringlets bobbing, her deep brown lashes fluttering. “Sir, I am to deliver you a message from my lady.”

  “Are you, now? Well, surely I must remember to thank my dear cousin for sending me a most adorable messenger.” I extend my hand through the window opening, crooking my finger in a beckoning manner.

  Wide-eyed, she draws nearer. Her pretty chin comes even with the window sash. With a wink, I tap my forefinger upon her dainty nose, then catch one of her enticing pink-gold curls gently round my thumb.

  “My lady did instruct me to deliver the message at a particular hour,” she informs me. “’Tis not yet time, which is why I have been waiting here in the garden.”

  “You are as conscientious as you are charming.” Her blush encourages me. I lean farther out the window toward her. “As it seems you have some time to kill, may I insinuate myself into your fine company?”

  Her lips part in surprise. Ah, and then that giggle …

  “I shall take that to mean yes.”

  In moments, I have ducked out the window and dropped into the garden, where Marie obligingly flings her lovely self into my arms.

  ROSALINE