Chapter 12: Verses and Farewells

The next morning the Doctor arrived at Rosalind's scriptorium to find it empty. He felt a moment of panic before he realized that in the flurry of excitement surrounding their conversation of the day before, they had not set a specific time to meet. She would probably arrive soon. He surveyed the room. However unsettled she had been by his proposal, she had found it in herself to finish the job of cleaning her room. There were no more stacks of parchment sheets scattered about and only a slight shadow on the flagstone floor showed where the ink had pooled. Rather, back on the slanted work surface of her desk was a neatly copied sheet of a manuscript. It appeared to be one of her half-completed tasks, as she had several large sheaves of written pages stacked on the top of the desk. This text seemed to be in verse. He picked up the first pile and flipped it over, looking at the beginning of the text. The TARDIS, even at a distance, translated for him: "Arms and the man I sing…" Ah yes, The Aeneid, the great Roman epic of warfare and of love. And how far had she gotten? Putting down the pile of completed folia, he scanned the page on which she was currently writing. Book four, it would appear. He read the lines she had copied most recently:

"Will you to grief your blooming years bequeath

Condemn'd to waste in woes your lonely life

Without the joys of mother or of wife?"

His reverie was interrupted by a soft voice behind him. "A sad passage."

He turned and could not help but smile. She was dressed in green today and, in his eyes at least, she glowed. She seemed to have been struck by shyness, however, and kept her eyes on the page. She brushed her fingertips over the inked letters when she spoke. "Queen Dido's sister tries to persuade her to steel herself against Aeneas's betrayal, not to drown in grief. It does not work, of course."

"No."

"He leaves her, despite her wishes and her pleas, and she kills herself. With his sword." A small smile played on her lips. "A questionable hero, Aeneas, to treat his love so."

"I suppose he had greater cares than romantic love."

"Indeed. But still interesting that the poet would have chosen to write Dido as such a heart-wrenching figure. When she begs him to stay…it makes Aeneas seem cruel, despite his grand concerns—or perhaps because of them." She paused and closed her eyes, drawing on memory, then quoted, "'I beg you by these tears too truly shed/By the new pleasures of our nuptial bed;/If ever Dido, when you most were kind/Were pleasing in your eyes, or touched your mind…'" She broke off. "But he leaves anyway."

"This may be another case in which we see different things in the same text. I find myself sympathizing with Aeneas too. The necessity of making painful decisions for the greater good, at the expense of one's heart's desire. It is something with which I am familiar."

"You're right. It is a lonely thing, I would imagine, to carry so many people's fate on one's shoulders."

She still looked away from him, and he was not sure if she referred to Aeneas or Philip. Certainly she did not mean him, the Doctor, and yet he felt a surge of recognition at her words. He yearned to overcome this sudden shyness of hers and so he grasped her hand, bringing it to his mouth, and then spoke again, "But in this case, my heart wants the thing that is best for my kingdom. I feel doubly fortunate."

Now she met his gaze. "I would not blame you if you regretted your offer in the cold morning light."

"Not at all."

"And my father agreed willingly?"

"Donna told you?"

"And gave me your note. I…thank you." She blushed.

Warmth suffused him, but he strove to focus on her original question. "Your father did indeed give his permission. Of course, he was as rude as possible about it."

"Yes. Will told me he threatened me with Thomas of Norham." She gave a shudder.

"I hear Sir Thomas is not young."

"Not young? That's the least of his faults. His previous wives, both now deceased, had a tendency to arrive at celebrations here at court with black eyes and bruises. Not a gentle man in any sense of the term."

The Doctor felt a surge of anger that the earl would even suggest such a man for his daughter. But no matter. "And you, my lady? Do you feel regret this morning?"

She looked up at him. "None. Even if my father did not hold the good Sir Thomas over my head, I would still wish to come with you. I meant what I said yesterday. I…admire you very much, my lord. It would be an honor to be your wife."

"In that case, please call me Philip, from now on."

She bowed her head in assent. "Then I am Rosalind to you."

"You are indeed. My Rosalind." He bent his head and kissed her, marveling again at the feel of her mouth. This may have been only her—what?—fourth kiss, but she was a fast learner. Not that he was surprised by that, of course. She gasped for air against his lips and without thinking he used the opportunity provided to inveigle his tongue into her mouth. She froze for a moment, clearly surprised, but at the gentle touch of his tongue to hers she moaned softly and began to respond in kind. He wrapped his arms even more tightly around her as the kiss became heated. After another full minute they both seemed to come to their senses and began to separate, albeit slowly. They ended with foreheads touching, both breathing heavily and with shaky legs. Finally he pulled his head back and regarded those glowing brown eyes that he loved so.

She smiled at him, tongue between teeth. "It would seem you are my Philip as well."

There seemed to be no appropriate response to that but to show her how completely hers he was.

She was the one who broke away this time, stepping deliberately back from him and keeping a palm flat on his chest to prevent him following her. "It's difficult to stop once we start, isn't it?"

He laughed. "That pretty much sums it up."

She took a breath and strove to focus on the other questions she wished to ask him. "Have you told your sister?"

He had, in fact, spoken with Blanche the previous evening. She had been surprised, certainly, but accepting of his reasoning about preserving the alliance. She had asked, "Will she travel back with us, Philip?"

He had answered in the affirmative and asked, "Can you help her, Blanche? Paris is going to be a big change for her."

"Of course, brother. She is a shy girl, it seems, but very intelligent. She will learn."

He related a short version of this conversation to Rosalind, who nodded. "I will be glad to have Blanche's guidance." She wrapped her arms around herself. "I don't quite know how I am going to do this."

"You will learn."

"Philip, about Donna." She paused, then spoke in a rush. "I want her with us. I don't want you to send her away, just because we are marrying."

He stared at her for a moment before the reason for her concern clicked into place. He had a tendency to forget the cover story that he himself had concocted—that Donna was his mistress. But Donna had explained to him the night before what she had told Rosalind about their relationship. So now he echoed that. "Rosalind, Donna and I are very close friends, but that is all. I know it is unconventional for a man to have a friend who is a woman, which is why we persevere in the fiction that she is my lover."

Rosalind nodded, seeming to accept this with ease. Then she asked, "Do you have other mistresses?"

Bugger. He had not plumbed Philip's mind on this question before. Were there established mistresses waiting back at the court in Paris? He dove desperately into the king's memories, trying to sort through them in order answer her. Rosalind, however, mistook his silence and began to stammer nervously.

"My lord…Philip…I did not mean…I would never expect…I just wanted to know their names so that I didn't make any gaffes when we get to court. I'm sorry," she finished, blushing hotly and looking at her shoes.

Happily, he had completed his survey of Philip's memories and was able to reach out and lift her chin to face him. "I would be lying if I said there were never women since my wife died. But I can tell you truthfully that I have loved no one since then, until you."

"So…your Rose was before your wife?"

"Yes." He had already resolved to make Rose an adolescent paramour in Philip's mind.

She nodded. "Thank you. I may be young and…unworldly but I am not naïve. I understand how these things work. But I would always rather you told me the truth, even if it might be painful."

"I promise to do that." He thought of his conversation with Donna the night before, and he silently amended his vow to exclude those things that would make Rosalind think him insane.

Philip stood—for the last time, he hoped—in the corner of the earl's meeting room. The week that had passed had seen a flurry of activity as the French party packed and assembled supplies for the journey back to the west coast of England, where ships waited to take them to the Continent. Philip had spent much of the time in discussions with the earl and his clerks, hammering out the details of the alliance and approving the text of the charter that both men had affixed with their seals and their signatures. Copies were tucked away to be stored in the chanceries of each. Whenever possible, the Doctor had also spent time with Rosalind, as she prepared to leave her home, probably for good. In general, she seemed in good spirits, excited about the journey. Many satisfying hours had been spent organizing and packing her books, which took up many trunks. More difficult had been visits to Robert's grave at the cathedral and to the scene of his death in the meadow. He had objected to the latter trip, fearing it would upset her too much, but she had been unmoved by his words and he had eventually relented. In both cases she had seemed serene after her tears stopped, and he was gratified that she had allowed him to accompany her on these emotionally charged visits. Although she had not yet told him that she loved him, he felt increasing confidence that her feelings for him—for the king—were deepening by the day.

Now she had asked him to be with her for what was, in some ways, the most fraught moment of the departure: the farewell to her father. They planned to leave early in the morning of the following day and so on this morning they had gone together to Edward's chambers. The earl had not yet finished dressing, so they stood in the outer chamber, the Doctor leaning against a wall, Rosalind standing in front of the window, twisting her fingers together in what he now recognized as a sure sign that she was nervous.

He considered her appearance. Along with packing her writing room, much of her time had been spent with Blanche. It appeared that Rosalind, so careless about her dress and hair for so long, had thrown herself with her usual vigor into the task of learning to groom herself like a great lady of the French court. Donna had told him that Blanche adored the role of mentor in this regard, and that her maids had been hard at work on Rosalind, softening her skin with lotions, plucking her eyebrows, showing her different ways to dress her hair. She was roughly the same size as Blanche, and his sister had been generous in sharing her gowns. Now Rosalind wore one of Blanche's: the dress, fitted down to her hips and then flaring into a sweeping skirt, was made of silk of a delicate dove grey, with a rounded neckline and large pendant sleeves revealing an inside lining the color of ivory. The dress was subdued in tone—none of the women had resumed wearing bright colors since Robert's death—but made of such rich fabric that it stood out nonetheless. Her only adornment was a long gold belt cinched around her waist, the ends trailing down the front of the dress. As an unmarried woman, much of her hair was left loose down her back, but the top was elaborately braided to hold it back from her face. She looked lovely and elegant in the light from the window, although he felt a pang of nostalgia for the unpolished girl he had first met.

Finally, the earl emerged from his bedchamber, looking down as he pulled on a riding glove. Rosalind turned from the window and when her father looked up at her he froze. The two regarded each other silently for a few moments before Edward stepped toward her and brought his still ungloved right hand up to stroke her cheek. Even from across the room the Doctor saw tears start into Rosalind's eyes at the unexpected tenderness of the gesture. She whispered, "Father, I…"

The earl jerked backward at the sound of her voice and seemed to recover himself, looking suddenly angry, although it was unclear whether with himself or with her. "Rosalind. You… Dressed like that, you look so very much like your mother. For a moment I thought…" He drew a breath. "You startled me."

"I'm sorry, Father. But I'm glad I look like her, that I carry something of her with me."

He did not respond to this. Rather, he said, "So you're off tomorrow, then?"

"Yes."

"And where will you meet your ships?" He directed this question to Philip, who described the planned route. While he was speaking, the Doctor noticed Rosalind begin to tremble slightly with emotion and he stepped toward her, not looking at her but allowing her to slide her arm around his elbow and grip him for support.

When the conversation died away, Edward looked once more at his daughter and her future husband. "Well, then," he said. "I'm going hunting. We will probably stay at the lodge tonight, so I will say farewell now. I hope you find safe passage across the sea."

And with that, he turned and left the chamber.

The Doctor could not help feeling relief that the meeting had not ended in shouting or other impropriety on the earl's part. He realized quickly, however, that Rosalind had not taken it so well. Tears streaked her face when he looked at her, and she began shivering in earnest.

"Oh, my dear…" He turned and wrapped her in his arms. She clung to him for several minutes, weeping, before she recovered herself and stepped back. He offered her his handkerchief, which she accepted gratefully.

"I'm sorry," she said, in a slightly choked voice.

"Don't be," he replied.

"I was so concerned he would find a reason to shout and rage at me. I should be relieved he didn't. But it suddenly struck me. He's my only living family, and he doesn't care that he'll never see me again."

She looked so desolate. He drew her to him again. She did not weep but she once again held onto him, her face in his shoulder.

He pulled back from her after a moment. "You have a new family now. Myself. Donna. Blanche. We will not leave you."

She shuddered. "That's what Rob said. That he would never leave me. You can't promise that, Philip."

He leaned in to kiss her mouth and she responded hungrily. When they separated, breathless, he said, "I can try my damndest. I don't want to be without you. Come to France with me?"

Now she smiled at him. "Tomorrow. A whole new adventure."