I think there’s an opportunity to give Romeo and Juliet a very satisfying twist. Think on this: How does Romeo’s time alone in Mantua challenge his feelings for Juliet?

Read on.

Act Five, Scene Zero

OPEN: An inn in Mantua. Romeo, the innkeeper, various and sundry patrons.

Freckles! Ye lord, how he missed freckles.

Romeo gulped his ale in an ungentlemanly way, knowing that he was giving the innkeeper a poor impression of the Montague family. Still, Romeo’s letter of credit was authentic. Let him think what he wanted, Lord Montague would honour all reasonable expenses that Romeo incurred.

For the unreasonable ones, Romeo had his pouch of coins, some gold, mostly silver, with a few too many coppers mixed in. The coppers were growing, the gold not so much.

Freckles! He drank a deep toast to freckles. They filled his vision. Rosaline had them, around her nose and on the crest of her chest. If Juliet had any, he hadn’t found them.

He was such a stupid boy. No, a bewitched boy. That made much more sense, bewitched.

Fair Rosaline, a good girl, from a good family, auburn tresses with the slightest hint of sunfire. Surely he could have won her back if he hadn’t fallen under the spell of that Capulet girl.

And now … and now he was married! To her! Betrothed and consummated! And banished! Mercutio, dear, sweet Mercutio … dead. What a vile price Romeo paid, what a condemned fate!

Romeo shook his head, mumbling deeply in his own conversation, knowing that anyone observing him might wonder who he was speaking to. Had they not heard of soliloquies in this blasted town?

Damn you Friar Lawrence for not seeing and exorcising the spell that the Capulet harlot had thrown on him.

Why, oh why had he ever forsaken freckles?

Romeo thumped his mug for another fill, more saking of thirst. The innkeeper shook his head, a burly man with a burly voice. “Too much, young sir. Time yet to walk it off before vespers?”

Romeo staggered out into the streets of the strange city, seeking a public fountain from which to drink. The low sun cast long shadows, making faces hard to see.

Twice, Romeo thought he saw Benvolio walking in the distance.
Once he embraced a man, mistaking him through tears for Mercutio.

Always, he stumbled along, not sure anymore what he was looking for, except … water? Wine? Ale?

No, freckles.

THE NEXT MORNING: A room in the inn

Romeo dreamt of freckles, of citrus scented gloves, of a girlish laugh that was too real to be a dream. He opened an eye, unfocussed, thoughts buried in fog.

Freckles and a warm body pressed against his. Rosaline come to Mantua to save him?

No. He paused. These freckles, far too many, came with curled red hair, darker than he’d seen before, and deep hazel eyes, fixed on his. He fought to focus, eyes and mind.

Not fair Rosaline asleep beside him, though this one too smelt of citrus.

“Good morning, young stud. Did the lark awaken you?” She ran a hand down his body. “Or did I?” She squirmed ever so slightly, while playing her hand just so. “Why so shy? I’ve seen your pouch. You can afford, well, me.”

Before Romeo could confess his confusion, a lack of memory as to how he came to be in this woman’s bed, or even where he was, a knock on the not-too-sturdy wooden door interrupted.

“Romeo? Is this where you rest?” Balthasar opened the door cautiously, peered in. He saw the girl, frowned. “I could have guessed I’d find you thus.”

“I,” Romeo looked from the girl to his friend. “Balthasar? What brings you to Mantua? I,” Romeo gave a dismissive wave towards the girl, “was trying to break a spell.”

“Perhaps you did, then, if I understand the spell you fear,” Balthasar’s face was both conciliatory and stern. “For Juliet is dead.”

“Juliet? I …”

“Who is this Juliet?” The girl tossed her long red locks around her face. “He insisted on calling me ‘Rosaline’.”

“Juliet, his wife of two days. Now be gone, harlot,” Balthasar raised his hand as if to cuff her with the back of it. “You’ve caused enough grief.”

“And joy.” She laughed, “surely, joy.” She pulled a sheet around her and squeezed past Balthasar.

“Marta, come,” the innkeeper’s voice called from down the stairs.

“Marta? What a useless name! Marta no more, I think. I wish to be called Rosaline. Such a pretty name! An expensive name. Rosaline will earn me more than Marta.” Romeo heard her laughing as she faded down the stairs.

“Juliet, dead?” Romeo searched his emotions. “Why am I not freed? Why do I still feel enraptured with her?” Grief hit him hard. “What have I done?”

“Betrayed true love, perhaps?” Balthasar bit back his anger. Why couldn’t his lord be more honourable, less impulsive?

“I must make amends. I must” Romeo stood, fiddling around for his clothes in the pile of bedding. “I must go to her, die at her side. I … Balthasar, I am a fool.”

“A banished fool, my lord.”

Romeo turned on Balthasar, a spark of his former self showing through. “What is the penalty, except what I seek?”

Balthasar nodded. It was going to be a long ride back to Verona.
As they walked out of the room, Romeo wailed. “Oh, Juliet, I have done you so wrong.”

A very long ride, indeed.

Exuent ALL