by Lisa Fiedler
“Good day, my lady.”
She blinks. I imagine lashes as lush as hers would feel exceedingly good fluttering against a man’s face. Or elsewhere.
For a moment, she but stares at me. I have seen that manner of stare before. It means she is aware of who I am, and mindful of my reputation. She is likely thinking that while she may be away from the fight, she is not entirely unthreatened here in my company—for I present a danger of another sort.
“What happened?” she asks me at last. “Where is the child?”
“You were nearly killed,” I state calmly. “As for the boy, he is safe.” I have no intention of confessing that neither her rescue nor the boy’s present safety is due to any effort by me. She continues to stare with those jewel-like eyes; I can almost see her mind working, wrongly surmising what hath transpired, how she arrived here, and how I have come to be hovering above her so protectively.
And now the angel smiles.
Were I not Mercutio, it might indeed remove me from my senses.
“Thank you, good sir,” she says in a voice like a siren’s song, “for seeing fit to rescue me.”
I see no point in correcting her. Rather, I reply with a modest nod. She makes to rise to a sitting position, but I urge her not to.
“Rest, my lady. Any sudden movements will surely have you reeling.”
This counsel, of course, pertains as much to myself as to her.
“You are Mercutio,” she whispers.
“I am.” I take her hand (soft it is, more so than any I have ever held before).
“I am in your debt, my lord.”
She is, of course, in no way whatsoever obliged to my person, but why on God’s earth would I ever dissuade her of such a conviction?
“If you say so, cara mia.”
“Rosaline,” she breathes sweetly. “My name, ’tis Rosaline.”
Beyond, in the square, there is a new commotion. I turn to see that the prince has arrived. His Grace has long opposed this feud and is by no means an admirer of mine. Should he see me here, I know he would blame this day’s dispute on me. Amusing, that, as it would be the first time I am not deserving of such reproach.
“Well now, my lady, I see you are no worse for wear, despite your courageous risk.” (’Tis rare that I am compelled to speak truth to a lady, but that remark is indisputably valid; harsh incident notwithstanding, she is quite perfect to behold.) “Alas, I must take my leave of thee.”
This Rosaline is full of surprises, to be certain, for she reaches up to touch my arm without so much as a blush upon her cheek. “When shall I see thee again, Mercutio?”
“I know not, fair Rosaline,” I say, and that too is honest.
Were I inclined to love any woman, this Rosaline might just be the one.
But love is a dirty trick.
I make a quick bow and hastily depart. Her blue eyes bore into my back as I retreat. I can feel the icy heat of them. Helpless to resist, I turn once more and see them flutter closed again.
Rosaline. Valiant, exquisite Rosaline.
It occurs to me, as I round the cathedral tower and exit the square, that I may have just met the one and only person in Verona who could prove to be even more dangerous than I.
ROSALINE
The sun is bright against my eyelids, but I am wary to open them, for I fear it may all turn out to be a dream. Handsome is not the word for he who hath saved me. He is beyond handsome. He is whatever compliment comes above it—beauteous, perhaps, or stunning.
He is Mercutio.
The pain in my head is eclipsed briefly by a new ache near my heart as I watch him disappear round the side of the cathedral. Were I not plagued with such maddening dizziness, God’s truth, I would chase him down. All of me trembles; ‘tis as though I have swallowed fireflies. Or falcons. I recognize nothing of the girl I was just moments before, the girl who imagined for herself a life of chaste solitude. Aye, this me, this Rosaline, is altogether new, for though I promised ne’er to allow myself the folly of romance, I find myself suddenly overwhelmed with a nameless longing I can only think is love.
Mercutio saved me. ’Tis more than reason enough to love him.
O, by the ecstasy of Saint Catherine, how is it I did ever think him crass? How could I, or any maid, mistrust one so heroic? I tamp down a curl of warning in my middle that reminds me this boy is a devil and a near Montague.
I have forsworn love. Denied it, insulted it, and feared it. Now I believe I am in it. I can only pray that Mercutio will join me there.
Rising on legs that shiver—as much from this remarkable realization as from my recent injury—I see the prince has entered the common. I would hear him reprimand the criminals, but the spinning in my skull is too alarming to ignore. I must return to the Healer’s cottage and bid her see to it at once.
BENVOLIO
I find the child’s nursemaid in the rectory, begging a drunken priest to assist her in locating the boy. A frail old woman she is, who became separated from her charge when the hubbub began. Her worry for the child is genuine, so I take a moment to calm her before rushing back to the scene of the brawl.
My wounded beauty, as expected, is gone.
But the prince has come. Prince Escalus, our noble liege, surrounded by his entourage of soldiers and advisers. I have much respect for our sovereign. He strongly opposes the feud but has until now dealt only gently with those who perpetuate it. From the look in his eyes as he glares at old Capulet and mine uncle Montague, I fear that the prince’s patience has been tried to its limit.
I make my way through the now-subdued crowd to stand beside my kinsman, humbly prepared to accept the prince’s wrath as deserved, for I too fought this day’s battle. The monarch’s words crackle with anger as he hands down his just sentence to the elders.
During the scolding, I reflect upon the girl, how she ran so boldly into the heat of the clash. I had watched her at first not because she was beautiful, but because she was brave. ’Twas only after I’d acknowledged her courage that I noticed her beauty, and dear God, what beauty it was! She had collected the child and was removing him from harm’s way when the heavy hilt of a mishandled sword struck her. God’s truth, I felt the blow upon my own skull. And still she found the strength and spirit to subdue a youthful hooligan before succumbing to the wound.
I am roused from my reflection by the commotion of the prince and the enemy taking their leave.
Now Montague turns to me and demands to know how this fresh brawl began. I explain ’twas initially the fault of Capulet’s feisty servants, which is the truth, and that when I endeavored to end the discord, brazen Tybalt did react, taking out his wrath on my person. The townspeople saw fit to take up their own cause, that being when all hell, as they say, broke loose.
My account satisfies my uncle. His wife, however, has more personal concerns.
“O, where is Romeo?” she inquires of me. “Saw you him today? Right glad I am he was not at this fray.”
I find myself wishing my own good mother had lived long enough to worry after me on such occasions. Eager to calm the lady’s nerves, I report that, indeed, I saw my cousin Romeo earlier this morn, in the sycamore grove. Of course, she is glad for his safety. So too is Montague. He reveals that lately good Romeo hath seemed troubled, possessed of a dark and cheerless outlook, which clings to him like weeds.
I am curious, as I had been in the woodsy grove. “My noble uncle, do you know the cause?”
“I neither know nor can learn of him,” he answers wearily.
’Tis said that speaking of the devil doth summon him. Sure enough, Romeo is suddenly visible lingering at the edge of the common in a shadowy gap betwixt a high wall and the constable’s residence. He wanders as one lost from within, his eyes downcast, his steps heavy and slow as he trudges forth into the sunlit square to cast a long gray shadow of his own.
I suggest Montague take his leave. “I’ll know his grievance,” I assure my anxious lord.
Lady Montague th
anks me with a kiss upon my cheek, and again, as she hurries off, I feel a tug of loneliness for my mother. With a grateful press of my hand, my uncle, too, makes his exit.
“Good morrow, cousin,” I call out.
Romeo lifts his head and offers me a sullen smile. Determined, I make my way across the blood-spattered common to meet him.
ROSALINE
The Healer prepares a tonic for my headache, and I drink it gratefully. She cautions me to forestall sleep until the dizziness subsides.
Stepping again into the square, I find I have missed the prince’s lecture entirely. He has dismissed the perpetrators, and market trade has resumed. The carters’ voices mingle in shouts as they hawk their wares.
The fishmonger cries, “Pesci, pesci!” The woman who spins exquisite silks sings out, “Seta filata, seteria.” Her handmade laces—merletti—are as precise and delicate as winter frost. Nearby, the handsome tanner shows his fine leather goods—articoli di cuoio. They are as soft and pliable as the tanner himself is rugged and strong. When they are not selling, he and the lace maker flirt openly with each other.
A farmer arranges his bushel baskets while his hefty wife boasts of the eggs she gathered at sunup. “Uova fresche! Uova!”
I glance round the square for Mercutio, but he has fled. I also wonder mildly what hath become of Benvolio. The crowd is thick; even were he still about, ’twould be near impossible to spot him amid this multitude.
Passing the gate where the cemetery path begins, I come upon Juliet’s parents, my uncle Capulet, and his wife, my aunt.
“Good morning, Rosaline,” says Capulet in his vigorous way. He is always so jovial. It causes me to wonder if he is hiding something.
I manage a curtsy. ’Tis unsteady at best, given the spinning in my head. “Good day to you both.”
Juliet’s mother gives me a look of strained patience, a tight smile. “Rosaline, you are bold as ever. Visiting the marketplace unchaperoned! Your cousin Juliet would quiver at the thought of it. She does not possess your taste for adventure.”
“Mayhap one day it shall rub off on her,” I suggest, suppressing a grin.
“Never say thus!” Lady Capulet exclaims.
Sayeth Capulet, “We shall see you and your mother, my dear sister, at this evening’s feast, I trust?”
“Most assuredly, my lord. We would not miss it.”
In the next moment, we are joined by a young man I know to be the Count Paris.
“Good morrow, sir,” he says in his rich voice, then bows to me. “And to you, my lady.”
“Paris!” Capulet beams. He claps the fellow heartily on the back. “Good Paris. How dost thou this day?”
Paris is tall and elegant, and many fine ladies would delight in securing his attention for their daughters. Paris is of the royal line, kinsman to the prince, and to my mind, he is duller than dirt. He and mine own cousin Tybalt were fast friends in their childhood, but ’tis no wonder they grew apart, for Paris is now as serious as Tybalt is wild, as cautious as Tybalt is brave.
The two men become engrossed in a discussion. I listen with only a corner of my consciousness, for the reckless spiral inside my head requires all of my attention. From what little I overhear of their conference, I surmise ‘tis a business concern. It seems Paris is interested in obtaining some possession presently belonging to old Capulet, some item my uncle seems quite willing to trade, but not immediately. He recommends the transaction take place two summers hence. ’Tis always such with men; they think only of what they have and what they might attain, all for their own advancement. I see little point in tarrying here, so I excuse myself, blaming the pain in my head, and start for home.
I have ne‘er before attempted walking whilst dizzy. ’Tis rather fun. For the ground seems slanted where normally ’tis not, and the road lies less than level, and the buildings to my left are suddenly at my right. I swirl without swirling, then weave and skip and arch to the sun. I leave the common far behind, the haggling voices of farmers and fishwives fading as the cobblestones trail off to grassy pathways dappled with wildflowers, leading to the outlying villages. ’Tis now well past noon, and the sun is raining fire, governing the day so everywhere unforgiving. My gown, soaked earlier from my spill in Montague’s font, is dry now, and stiff.
Soon I come upon a servant of Capulet’s, a doltish clown called Cardenio, gazing hopelessly at some dispatch; ’tis sure he is unable to read it. Were he any other of my uncle’s staff I would happily help him, but this Cardenio is a snakelike fellow, whom Juliet once caught loitering near the open door of her chamber during her bath.
“Forgive me. You are Lady Rosaline, are you not?”
“I am. You know that well.”
He smiles his reptilian smile and continues in a tone too smug for a servant.
“I also know that your name, which is Rosaline, is clearly writ here on this slip of foolscap I carry upon my very person.
“Dost thou, now?” I narrow my eyes in challenge. “Pray thee, sirrah, show to me which name is mine.”
“Why, ’tis”—Cardenio’s lip twitches—“’tis … this one.” His knobby finger hovers o’er the leaf, then pokes at a name inscribed there. The name is Placentio. Signior Placentio.
“That is the name of a man,” I say shortly.
He studies the leaf again, which I see is a list of guests to be welcome at Capulet’s feast. Indeed, my name is writ there.
“Here,” he says, tapping his thumb beside another name. “Surely these characters spell out the name of Rosaline. See how they roll and curve and link in a way most feminine? Surely these lovely letters can only signify my lady’s name.”
I snort at him. “’Tis Tybalt’s name to which you point.”
Cardenio jerks his hand from the list as though it were on fire.
“Who read this list to thee? I know you are too incompetent to have done so on your own.”
“True, ’twas read to me,” he confesses. “And them that read it made special mention of your name.” His chin comes up, his arrogance recovered. “Two nobles, lady, did decipher this language as a kindness to me. Nobles. Two of them.” He sniffs importantly. “They spoke to me.”
“And you spoke in turn to them?” I ask.
“Aye, and boasted that wealthy Capulet is my master who assigned to me this task—to trudge throughout Verona and locate each and all whose names are written here to inform them of the feast this night.” His chest puffs proudly. “And for their service, I invited the two aristocrats to attend. Think on’t. Two more learned, noble personages present shall there be, thanks to my own self. Lord Capulet will be twice further honored by their attendance.”
“That remains to be seen.” I frown. “You did not ask their names?”
Cardenio squirms under my accusing glare. “Would it be wrong if I had not?”
“Only if they be Montagues,” I say lightly.
“Ah, well.” He beams. “They did not say that they were, so surely they are not.”
He is e‘en more dimwitted than I thought. Without another word, I take my leave of him and amble on, praying the spinning in my head will cease before this evening’s party. I turn my thoughts to the gown I shall don, what slippers, and which jewels. I will laugh with my cousins and eat fine delicacies. The candlelight will spark prisms in the crystal goblets, and Juliet will be shy and mannerly with the beaux who come to admire her. Several will beg a dance with me; I say thus without conceit or pride—’tis merely a fact proven again and again at occasions such as this. Having vowed never to fall in love, I have found such attention tedious indeed.
If only tonight the fiery-eyed Mercutio could be among that number, but alas, being of the house of Montague, he would ne’er be invited to a Capulet celebration. I walk on and lose myself in remembering the warm stroke of his voice. I go on in this manner for some while, until the sturdy wholesomeness of my surroundings thins, giving way to a section of town that is not near so inviting. My preoccupation with Mercutio, combined
with the disorientation caused by my injury, has sent me heading opposite of home, and I have arrived in one of the most disreputable of Verona’s neighborhoods. I have oft been warned by my mother to avoid this place and have gladly obeyed that directive. Until now.
I glance around, shuddering. The roadway is strewn with rotting food and other manner of waste I prefer not to identify. Mean-looking women wearing scanty garb lean lazily in doorways. An inebriated lout lolls in the filth of the street and calls out invitations to the harlots, who laugh raucously.
I am suddenly afraid.
The ancient buildings lean toward one another, forming narrow alleyways off the main road. The shadows of these forgotten lanes beckon coolly, but I dare not turn down one. I envision young ruffians, ensconced in these tunnel-like alleys, plotting awful things.
Dizzy, of a sudden, is no longer fun.
I find myself wishing for an escort, one strong and manly and fixed on protecting my person as well as my honor in this section of the city. I wish for Benvolio.
This thought stops me, midstep. Benvolio?
Nay, ’tis Mercutio I meant. Aye. The one with the dangerous smile. He who saved me.
Benvolio. ’Twas Benvolio who fought Tybalt. Whose hair was a boyish tumble of dark curls, who sought to keep the peace, whose eyes, e’en from across the square, looked deeply kind and honest.
But ‘tis Mercutio I meant to wish for. Aye, he is the rightest rogue for a setting such as this. ’Twas surely what remains of the dizziness that made me think Benvolio …
Heaven save me. Voices approach!
I feel the air lock in my chest. There are two voices, both masculine, drawing closer. The harlots take note and stand straighter in their doorways, puckering their painted lips in hopes of a day’s wage. Panic fills me when I realize that in my disheveled state, these men might very well mistake me for a loose woman too.
For the second time this day, swift concealment is in order, and, praying no worse fate awaits me, I duck into the nearest alley. No sooner am I safe inside the shadow than the men come into view.