Is Rosaline, that thou did love so dear, So soon forsaken?
The long gallery was so humid that Rosaline felt as if she were one of the violets wilting in its crystal bowl, petals curling and dropping along the table top. The jugs of meadowsweet and Saint Anne’s lace drooped too and silted a layer of pollen like dandruff along the polished sideboard. Everyone’s face looked greased and buttered, ready for the oven. Even though all the windows had been thrown wide, the walls were slick with moisture and the ceiling dripped as if with drizzle. In the cavernous inglenook fireplace a boar orbited on a spit, its ribs stripped bare, flesh guzzled by hungry revellers, the fat and juices sliding onto the coals and making them hiss. The house was suffused with the scent of roasting pig, pastries and spices – cinnamon, cloves and nutmeg – but their fragrance mingled with that of the lobsters and oysters which had begun to stink as the ice they’d sat in had melted. The shellfish floated in meltwater in their capsized shells. Rosaline hoped no one would eat them.
She scoured the gallery for Romeo as dread warred with joy. Would he really venture here into Capulet territory to see her? Suppose the guards recognised him to be a Montague and killed him? The thought was agony. Even now she pined for him, her lips parched for his kisses. Without him, chatter was tedious, music only noise.
In much of the room the ceiling was low and the sound echoed. No one could hear one another’s jokes so the punchlines had to be shouted again and again until they were no longer funny. The music was frantic and in the feverish heat the strings on the lutes and viols kept snagging out of tune. Yet, the dancers did not seem to mind and they thrust up and down the gallery with shouts of glee. Even Livia and Valentio trotted to and fro with eager pleasure.
Rosaline leaned back against the wall beside her father, who surveyed her with approval.
‘Good. Such ribald entertainment isn’t fit for a novice nun.’
‘I’m not a nun yet.’
At the far end of the gallery she observed Juliet partnered with a perspiring man for a lively galliard. He kept reaching into his sleeve for a silken handkerchief to dab his forehead and lip. Her cousin did not smile and her feet scuffed against the floor as she shuffled along the line. Even so, decided Rosaline, she was the most charming of all the young girls there, and in a few years she would be amongst the loveliest of women. Her nurse had curled and dressed her hair and she looked older, except that she’d discarded her shoes and kept fiddling with the lacework on her gown, sporting a most unladylike scowl.
For the first time that evening Rosaline smiled, amused. A moment later, her expression faded as she recognised the man with whom Juliet danced. He was the friend of the Prince of Verona who’d ridden with him into the forest. She tried to remember his name. He must be thirty at least, well into his middle years, and presumably prowling for a wife. Well, let him hunt elsewhere. Paris. Yes, that was his name. Perspiring Paris. He dabbed his chin again. It was too hot. Even Juliet wilted.
Seeing her discomfort, Paris with careful attentions led her from the dancing to find a cooler place, and a drink. He was solicitous and kind but still Rosaline longed to prise Juliet from his hands and take her far from this feverish cacophony.
The music grew louder and more discordant. Angry voices rose amongst the guests at some disturbance and Rosaline looked up. It must be Romeo. Heart thrumming with pleasure and anxiety, she stepped forward, and then saw Tybalt strutting, bawdy with ale, shoving his way through the crowd.
Quickly, she moved towards him, weaving amid the dancers. Waving to him, she drew him away from the other guests and towards an open doorway where there was the wisp of a breeze. Above his eye there was a swelling bruise, and his lip was seeping blood. ‘What happened? You’ve been brawling,’ she chastised.
He glanced around, unfocused, his eyes glassy as a fish’s. ‘I met them on my way back from carrying out your errand. But it began with the Montagues. I could not walk away. I am no coward, Ros. No one bites their thumb at me. I won’t have it said that I lack courage!’
‘Peace! You do not lack courage but sense. Speak quietly now, for our uncle, Capulet, looks this way.’
Tybalt stared about him wildly. Even above the din, revellers had turned to look at them. Rosaline reached inside her sleeve for a napkin and pressed it on his lip as he winced. Aunt Lauretta and their uncle, Lord Capulet, began to mutter together in displeasure.
Rosaline tugged Tybalt’s arm leading him out onto the loggia. They stood outside in the cool, away from prying eyes. ‘And tell me now, did you find me an answer on your errand?’ she asked.
‘I did,’ said Tybalt, frowning. ‘Though I understand it not. I visited every confectioner in Verona. Just one man makes the marzipan roses such as you described, and he only makes them for one man –– Romeo Montague.’
Rosaline covered her face with her hands. She felt lightheaded, and the leaves from the vines above seemed to swirl about her. Taking a gulp of the evening air, she forced herself to ask, ‘How many has he made? One? Two?’
‘I have no idea! A dozen of them for all I know. All shapes and sizes. Red, pink, peach, dark and light, curved and plump. I do know that Montague’s his very best customer.’
A tiny cry escaped Rosaline’s lips and Tybalt gaped at her, puzzled that she could be so distressed by a sweetmeat.
He bowed and offered her his arm. ‘Come, Ros, you look ill. Let us cool our feet in the fountain as when we were children.’
Wood smoke and the smell of roasting pig floated outside and into the night sky. Rosaline looked up at the stars, shattered at the realisation of Romeo’s betrayal. It seemed that she was nothing to him, his love was quickly given and withdrawn, his favours hollow. She was but one in a chain of a girls. He loved us all, then let us fall from his fingers, desiccated as the rose petals on the flowers he had made.
She was porous and exposed, full of holes. She wanted to scream but she stood mute and dumbstruck at the agony of his treachery. He was not the man she’d thought. She loved a ghost.
Tybalt took her arm, pulling her away through the far reaches of the garden toward the rill and fountain. It was smothered in darkness, and the merriment of the revellers grew distant. Discarding her shoes, Rosaline paddled in the shallow water, her dress tucked up, the stones slippery beneath her toes. Tybalt lounged on the edge, skimming stones along the surface of the long pool. They bounded, weightless for a moment, before sinking again. He laughed with boyish glee.
Perhaps if she closed her eyes they could stay here hidden beneath the swaying skirts of willow and not be found. This world was dark and safe. The only scourge was the mosquitos whining in her ears.
‘Ros. Why do you look so ill? What do you care about some marzipan roses?’
Fiercely, Rosaline shook her head, and plucked up a stone to skim it herself, but her fear was in her wrist and it sank at once. ‘No.’ She would not tell. She could not bear to see his look of disgust when he knew what she had done.
‘Ros, come.’ He crouched beside her and, as she turned away from him, unable to look at him, with a quick smile he brought his nose close to hers so that she could not help but stare right into his eyes. Still, she shook her head.
‘Why, Ros?’
‘If I tell you, you will fight,’ she said. ‘And I love you as a brother; nay, you are far more dear to me than Valentio. And I do not want you hurt.’
At this Tybalt laughed. Deftly, he jumped to his feet and plucked out his sword from its scabbard. Shaking a branch of the willow so the leaves swam down to the earth like tiny black fish, he swiped at them with his blade. He danced against the phantom enemy, crying out, ‘Do not be frightened for me! In Padua they called me “The King of Cats”. I might be young, but I’m as swift as Mercury himself.’ He sat down on the ground, grinning and sheathing his sword. ‘And, if it’s my time then nothing can be done. Destiny is unshunnable, like death itself.’
Rosaline chewed her lip and was silent. She did not know whether to laugh or weep at the boy fighting leaves. He spoke with resolve and solemnity, but still she would not have him injured for her sake. She brimmed with affection and fear.
‘Please, coz. I’ve known and loved you all my life,’ he said, coming to sit beside her on the edge of the rill. ‘If you are unhappy, abused, then so am I. If one of us is cursed, then so are we both.’
She considered the truth of this. They had been whipped together as children for mutual crimes: chasing and harassing the unfortunate chickens so that the eggs they laid had no shells; racing the goats amongst the haystacks. Many of these trivial sins had been Rosaline’s notion, but Tybalt had been her eager accomplice, seeking to elaborate upon the wickedness, knowing that punishment was inevitable.
When she had thought Romeo honest and their passion pure, lying to Tybalt had been the poison in the well of their affection. To feel joy, and not to share it with Tybalt, had tarnished it. Now, to be in such agony and not to share her burden with him only increased her pain. Still, she could not confess. He had fought with the Montagues already that day. He had been ill-met by them while carrying out the errand at her behest.
Coming and sitting close beside her, he put his arm around her, and then dropping it, gave her an affectionate nudge in the ribs with his elbow. ‘Don’t make me beg you, Ros. Tis unmanly.’
He stared at her with his brown eyes, and the sweetness of their expression made her look away. Perhaps she had lied enough already.
‘I will tell you then, if you promise not to seek vengeance.’
He grunted in assent.
‘I, I love—’ She could not say the words – not to Tybalt, while he watched her with his guileless expression, full of tenderness and concern. She recalled how he had offered to marry her to save her from the convent. He’d offered her his life, his love. She’d rejected him, easily, running over his feelings like water over a rock. Her hands shook. He waited.
‘I love, loved . . . Romeo Montague.’ She paused after correcting herself, willing this new truth to be true. ‘And I thought he loved me too, but he does not and I am a fool and am disgraced, my honour lost.’
She watched him, waiting for Tybalt to look away from her repulsed, but he did not. He flinched and his left eye began to tick, but still he did not speak. Unable to meet his gaze any longer, she confessed how she came to love Romeo. She sat beside Tybalt, her knees tucked beneath her chin, and she told him of her love and shame.
He listened without interrupting, toying with the hilt of his sword, his brow creased in unhappiness.
‘I thought he was honest,’ she said softly, when she was finished. ‘Men should be what they seem and he was not. His looks were false and I am deceived.’ At last, she looked up at her friend, through lashes jewelled with tears. ‘Now you’ve heard the very worst of it, do you think my virtue entirely blackened?’
His eyes were downcast; his shoulders sagging, utterly dejected. When he finally looked at her, she was almost frightened to see his absolute misery. He looked older in a few minutes; something in him was broken, and she had done it to him. She had shown him what it was to have a friend, someone you loved, lie. Shame trickled through her like cold. She had not known that it was possible to be more unhappy. Yet, she wanted no more secrets, so with humiliation and regret, she told him how she’d been persuaded by Romeo to steal ducats from her own father.
‘Is my soul turned to pitch?’ she asked again.
He reached for her hand and pressed it to his lips. ‘No. Never, sweet Rosaline. I know your goodness. That villain Montague is pestilence. A plague upon him!’
With this he dropped her hand, his anger warming.
Rosaline tried to hush him. It grieved her to hear Romeo spoken of in such terms, however deserved. What a fool she’d been, for listening to a nightingale’s song and taking it as truth. Her self-loathing was rancorous and deep. Her very flesh smelled sour and hot, and every part of her that Romeo had touched now felt polluted. The water of the fountain was cool and she longed to wade into it until it flowed over her head, cleansing her, but there was no water deep nor cold enough to purify her of this.
As Tybalt looked at her, she feared that he could no longer see the girl she’d been, but the whore she’d become. Yet, to her bewilderment, all his anger and his mettle he hurled upon Romeo and not upon herself. ‘I shall find him this very minute and kill him dead! That vile worm. Dishonourable rogue! That hound of hell!’ He stood and drew his sword once more. He cursed the gods above and fiends below.
It took all Rosaline’s strength to hold him back from seeking out Romeo that very moment to declare a duel. ‘You swore to me you would not do this very thing. Do not burn so hot! Be reasonable! For what will come of it?’ She grabbed his wrists and made him look at her.
At this Tybalt swore again, and Rosaline soothed him. ‘You tell me that my soul is not blackened. You must show it to be so by not seeking revenge.’
Like a mad dog restrained, slowly Tybalt became more temperate. He breathed deeply of the night air. Then he spat upon the ground, anger growing once more, ‘As I hate hell, I hate all Montagues.’
‘Do not be so full of hate. Peace, I say.’ Rosaline took his hands in hers. ‘Unfasten your sword, wash your face and calm yourself, for you cannot come back inside until your temper is cooled and your humours restored.’ She looked back towards the house. ‘I must go – we’ve been out here too long.’
She kissed him and then turning, walked back through the gardens, glancing back to look at his desolate figure. She ought not have told him. No good would come of this. Tybalt had too much choler and blood in him. And yet everything that made him intemperate and impetuous also made him loyal. Even Valentio, who had little heart to spare for anyone except himself, was fond of young Tybalt.
Rosaline felt arrow-struck with grief at Romeo’s betrayal. She knew that in the months and years to come, in lonely hours in the convent, she would regret that she had squandered hours with Romeo both in his company and thinking on him when she could have spent them more richly with her true friend. There was to be no escape to Mantua; no marriage spangled with love. Only a life inured as nun. And now there was little time left to spend with Tybalt, the best of friends and the best of men. Her heart was broken afresh.
She slid back inside the long gallery and a wave of heat sloshed over her. Glancing up and down the chamber she tried to see Juliet but could not. The music grew louder. A dog howled.
‘Fair lady, will you dance?’ said a voice.
Rosaline jumped as if pierced by a dagger blade. The voice was Romeo’s.
‘You came,’ she said.
‘If I cannot, then perchance I am a ghost.’ He reached out and stroked her arm, planting tiny kisses along the bare skin of her shoulder, conjuring gooseflesh. Rosaline scrubbed at her skin, despising her body for its betrayal. ‘See,’ he said, smiling. ‘I’m real enough.’
She jerked away from him, turning her head from his beauty. ‘I am not for you, Romeo. No longer.’
He surveyed her, perplexed. ‘Toss those cruel words aside.’
Rosaline glanced about her, but everyone was dancing or eating and no one noticed her or Romeo the Montague.
Frowning, Romeo stepped forward and covered her hand with kisses, only releasing it with great reluctance. ‘Why? Why would you say such a cruel thing, my love?’
‘You lied to me. I know there were others.’
Romeo dismissed her concerns with a wave. ‘Shadows. I did not know love till I knew you. They were such dreams of love as a schoolboy has.’
Rosaline stared at him, wanting it to be true. He smiled at her. Something deep inside her snagged and caught. She was knotted with confusion. He leaned closer; she could smell the honey of his breath.
‘The friar is come. He is here in Verona. Come, let’s from this place to St Peter’s this very moment, and then to Mantua.’
She felt her feet move. Let him take her hand.
‘Leave all these people. They are nothing,’ he said.
At this, Rosaline faltered. Tybalt was not nothing. Neither was Juliet nor Caterina nor Livia. The word ‘Mantua’ was a bell tolling her back to herself. She remembered the dead girl’s room in the convent. The crumbled rose.
She yearned to trust him, and yet she must not.
She shook him off. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘I want to, but you tell such pretty lies, more tempting than sweetmeats.’
‘Stay with me, my darling, and I will love and protect and treasure you always. We will forget this as a bad dream, pressed upon us by Queen Mab.’ He took her wrist, but his fingers as they wrapped around her skin were too tight.
‘No,’ said Rosaline, trying to prise herself free.
He released her, leaving red marks upon her skin.
‘You must leave this place before my kinsmen see you here,’ she said.
‘O, let them kill us both, sweet angel, Rosaline,’ he said, raising his voice loudly enough that other revellers began to turn and glance towards them.
‘You’re a madman to talk thus,’ she whispered.
‘Mad with love! You bewitched me when I first saw you. Do not foreswear to love me now, else I already live in death.’
Until this night Rosaline had marvelled at his exquisite speech, and worried that unpractised as she was in courtly arts, her own tongue could not match his. Now as he spoke she heard his words but, like arrows fired false, they did not hit their mark.
He had spoken thus to a dozen other girls before her. Her love was real and had been sincerely given along with her virginity, but she doubted his affection. It was too easily lent. He would love again and quickly. His talk of love came on like a sudden fever and then moved all too rapidly to that of death and violence.
She swallowed a sob. ‘I will not marry you, Romeo. Not tonight or any night. Your siege is lost.’
‘Love is not tender,’ said Romeo, bitterly, shaking his head. ‘It pricks like a thorn. I only came here to woo you. But instead of wooing, I am full of woe.’
She turned to go, but he blocked her way. She bit her cheek so as not to cry out and draw attention to his presence. But then, to her surprise, he was wrenched away from her.
Tybalt, his face inflamed with outrage, shoved Romeo to the ground, prodding his throat with the heel of his boot. Romeo knocked the foot aside with his fist and tried to scramble to his feet, but Tybalt kept him pinned, his boot on his neck again, pressing it.
‘This must be Romeo Montague. Fetch me my rapier!’ shouted Tybalt, nudging him harder. ‘Now, by the honour of my kin, to kill you, strike you dead, I do not think a sin!’
Each time Romeo tried to rise, Tybalt thrust him down again. Rosaline tried to wrench Tybalt from him, but he shooed her away, lost to anger and, turning, hissed at her to leave.
Seizing the opportunity of his enemy’s distraction, Romeo rolled to the side and leaped to his feet and out of reach, rubbing at the flesh of his neck.
The guests had begun to gather around them, muttering in interest and confusion. Masetto and Old Capulet strode across the room, displeased at the ruckus in the midst of the party.
‘Now, young kinsman, wherefore do you storm so?’ objected Old Capulet.
‘Uncle, this is a Montague. A villain that is come hither in spite.’
Rosaline felt panic rise in her throat in fear that Tybalt, far gone in drink, would tell their uncle and her father too much and reveal her shame – that she had lain with Romeo.
‘Young Romeo, is it?’ asked old Lord Capulet.
‘Tis he, that villain Romeo,’ said Tybalt, chancing another kick.
Romeo darted away again.
‘Content thee, gentle coz, let him alone,’ said Tybalt’s uncle, in a voice that demanded obedience. ‘To say the truth, the Prince of Verona brags of him as a virtuous man. I would not for all the wealth of this town, here in my house, disparage him. Therefore, be patient and take no notice of him.’
Tybalt began to object but his uncle raised his hand. ‘It is my will. Put off your frowns. They are ill-fitting for such a feast.’
‘It fits when such a villain is a guest. I’ll not endure him!’
‘He shall be endured, boy! I say he shall. Go!’
Still Tybalt did not move.
‘Am I the master here or you? Go to!’ cried his uncle.
To Rosaline’s dismay, Tybalt made as if to speak again. Her uncle stared at him, agape in fury. ‘Be quiet and go, for shame or I’ll make you quiet,’ said the old man, raising his fist.
Rosaline looked at her uncle in fear. No one defied the host at his own party. Tybalt’s disobedience strayed close to outright insult. If he lacked all restraint, then she must think for them both.
Slipping her arm through Tybalt’s, she led him away from the melee.
‘This intrusion makes my flesh tremble,’ he muttered.
‘Hush, coz, not here,’ she said. ‘They watch us still.’
She glanced over her shoulder and saw to her relief that Romeo did not move to follow them.
Noticing her gaze, like a horse resisting the bridle, Tybalt yanked to turn back to Romeo and fight again, but she squeezed his hand, hard. ‘If you cannot be peaceful then you must leave,’ she said. ‘Our uncle cannot see you again this night. You know what he is like. Easy enough, but once riled and fixed upon something, he is dangerous. Do not let him fix on you.’
‘I will withdraw,’ muttered Tybalt, the skin of his neck mottled with fury. ‘Even tho it fills me with bitt’rest gall. But I don’t want to leave you here while that villain Romeo prowls the night.’
The very thought of speaking to Romeo filled Rosaline with dread. She glanced around the packed chamber. Dancers were beginning to take to the floor again, moving prettily in a motet. Juliet stood in a corner whispering with her nurse. Up in the minstrels’ gallery, the musicians played on, a viol player leaning out over the balcony to gaze down, clearly having relished the quarrel as the best entertainment of the evening.
‘I’ll slide away up there,’ said Rosaline, gesturing to the balcony. ‘None shall see me. I’ll be well hidden. Now, you must go too. See, Uncle Capulet watches still, and his expression is severe.’
With great reluctance, Tybalt kissed her hand and, after seeing her run up the stairs to the gallery, disappeared out into the night.
On the landing amongst the musicians it was even warmer, the breath and sweat of a hundred bodies creating a summer inferno. The plaster roses on the ceiling mouldings were beginning to slough and turn leprous. Rosaline wondered that the minstrels could play at all – their fingers must slip from the strings.
She perched on a ledge at the far side, where she was happily concealed behind a wooden strut, and peered down over the revellers. There were two boys playing chase with a ball amongst the dancers – someone was about to slip and fall and yes, there tumbled the good widow Vitruvio, while the two miscreants were led out into the yard for a hiding. In one corner, two newlyweds gazed at one another – their fingers linked, noses touching, the night and stars created only for them while, in another, a greyhound relieved itself beneath the table on which rested the trays of cheese and figs and bowl of punch, leaving a yellow puddle on the floor.
Scouring the crowd, she could not now see Romeo. Perhaps he had fled. There was a restlessness within her that was nothing to do with the heat. She searched again for Juliet but could not find her either with Nurse, who lingered gossiping with the servants, nor cavorting with the dancers. There was Paris, alone, picking forlornly at a bunch of grapes and scouring the crowd. If she had to guess, she’d hazard that he was seeking Juliet. Good. Let him seek and not find. Still, she could see neither Juliet nor Romeo amongst the dozens of revellers.
The windows and doors stood open, and Rosaline looked out to the loggia beyond, which was lit with a dozen torches. Then, to her bewilderment, she spied them both: Juliet and Romeo, two figures, conspiring together beneath the canopy of vines. Rosaline caught her breath. She leaned far out over the balcony to make them out better. Juliet appeared so slight beside him, not yet a woman at all. Why was Romeo with Juliet? Were they speaking of her? She could make no sense of it all.
As she saw him, her heart snagged in her chest, and her pulse raced. A treacherous part of her still wanted to run to him, feel the warmth of his arms around her. Then, to her dismay, Juliet appeared to giggle, leaning in a little closer to him. Romeo twined her fingers with his, touched the shining gold of her hair.
There was a pain low in Rosaline’s belly. Jealousy, cool and clear slid into her. For a brief moment she wanted only to be adored again by Romeo, radiant in his affection, bathed in his love. Together, Romeo and Juliet were both so beautiful. Only he was a fiend angelical.
Had he loved her at all? Rosaline’s heart congealed against him. He was neither honest nor good. She felt grim sorrow at his betrayal and a kindling of rage and hurt. She tasted it in her mouth, metallic as blood.
Every part of Rosaline yearned to howl for Juliet to run, run as fast as she could, far away from this man. That he was beautiful malice.
But, even if she did and she yelled so her lungs and throat were raw, her cousin would not hear her above the din.
And, would she want to listen?
Rosaline understood the honied delight of Romeo’s words.
O, could no one else see them? Why was she their only audience? Where was her uncle, Capulet, now?
As she watched in revulsion, Romeo reached for Juliet’s hand. He bent to kiss her.
Rosaline cried out. No one heard.
Her heart skittered with horror. She could bear it no longer. It was no use hiding up here in the gods while he wreaked havoc down below. Skidding on the stairs in her leather slippers, she hurtled down from the gallery. She could not let Romeo near Juliet. She would not. She knew who and what he was. No one had saved her, and now she was filled with mud and dirt and no one would want her. She did not want herself. She was fouled and she would not let him break Juliet too. Only she could keep her cousin safe.
There was a dismal drumming in her ears, her heart thundering a warning knell, as she tried to thrust her way amongst the carousers who grumbled at her, sniping in irritation at her poor manners and sharp elbows. Someone stamped on her toe, deliberate and hard.
Wincing, she rushed to the open door and ran out onto the loggia. It was cooler and smelled over-sweet of jasmine and honeysuckle. Moths ringed the torch flames. For a moment she thought that no one was there, that she was already too late. They had gone.
And, then, she saw him. He stood alone beneath a lilac tree, black in the dark.
She willed herself to be resolute. ‘Do not play with her to spite and torment me,’ she said, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘Juliet is a child.’
‘Juliet! The loveliest name I ever heard. I’m unworthy to even speak it with these profane lips,’ answered Romeo with breathless delight.
‘On this we can agree.’
Rosaline stared at him. His eyes glinted with rapture – whether entirely overwhelmed by Juliet’s beauty or also taking foul pleasure in wounding Rosaline, she could not tell.
‘She is a saint,’ he said.
‘No. She is a girl. Not yet fourteen. Younger even than me. Let her be.’
‘Alas, I cannot. As I kissed her, all my sins were purged.’
Rosaline stared at him in disgust. ‘Your love does not lie in your heart but in your eyes. It is soon forsaken.’
Romeo laughed bitterly. ‘You told me to bury my love for you.’
‘In a grave. Not in my cousin, who is still a child.’
Romeo appeared unperturbed by her rebuke. ‘Did my heart love till now? I forswear it. For I never saw true beauty till this night.’
Rosaline made herself smile at him, in order to remind him that earlier it had been her he’d wanted, to her he’d sworn his love, for her he’d been eager to die. Yet his words cut into her, and she wondered that they did not leave a mark upon her skin.
She took a step towards him, reached out and took his thumb, biting it gently between her teeth. Then, letting his hand fall, she spoke quietly. ‘I will marry you this very night, if you will let Juliet be.’
Romeo surveyed her with contempt. ‘Marry you? I have already forgot your name. I love only Juliet. My sighs are all for Juliet. You are nothing to me.’
Even though she knew what he was, his words still hurt, twisting inside her. He’d withdrawn his love and, to her dismay, she found she craved it still, now that it belonged to Juliet – or appeared to.
He looked her up and down. ‘Juliet is the sun and you are the envious moon, sick and green. And do not tell lies to Juliet. No one likes bawdy whispers and tattle. Get you to your convent and cease to buzz us.’
Her breath caught in her throat, a knot of tears choking her. ‘I will tell all Verona the rogue you are.’
He stood perfectly still, unsmiling – handsome, perfect, monstrous. ‘Remember, no other man will take you,’ he said, softly. ‘Your family will cast you out as a common harlot because you’ve lain with me. They will not pay your dowry to the convent. I’m a Montague, after all. The stain of lying with me is darker than that of being with any other man.’
Rosaline stared at him, unnerved by his cruelty. ‘You would not tell them—?’
How had his love so quickly turned to vengeance? Perhaps it had always been there beneath the surface, like mud and filth beneath the hardened crust on a marsh.
He studied her for a moment and then spoke slowly. ‘Out of old affection towards you, I do not think I could. To see you shunned, no. I do not think I could bear it. But remember – hush, little bird.’
His voice was gentle and he moved towards her. Rosaline refused to flinch. For a moment she thought that he was about to try and kiss her, and then he walked past her and was gone.
Rosaline stood alone under the canopy of jasmine and vines, watching bats skim beneath the curd of the moon. She’d glimpsed the tyrannical soul behind the angelic visage. Had he ever intended to marry her, or had it all been a cruel ruse? She was relieved that he had released her from the prison of his affection and yet, he’d been everything to her. He appalled her, and yet he’d taught her what it was to desire; and, as he discarded her, he took a piece of herself with him.
She felt, as she began to walk back to the house, that she did so on uneven ground, that nothing was as it was supposed to be. Her body was not her own. What or how had she been before Romeo, before he’d taken her apart, sliced her up, rearranged her? Now that he’d forgotten her, despised her, would she simply fade from view?
It did not matter. She must consider only how to save Juliet from the villain Romeo.