Beatrice and Benedick (10 page)

It was said in an undertone, so that Don Pedro would not hear the denigration of his blessed idol, but the stranger to the right of me certainly heard, for I heard him chuckle in agreement.

‘But the victory was yours,' I protested. ‘Do you not deserve a prize?'

‘If I may choose my reward, I would wish only that you admit that I may have more to offer the field of battle than perhaps you previously supposed.'

‘That I will own, with all my heart,' I conceded readily, but he was merciless.

‘Perhaps Don Pedro saw something in me that you did not.'

He was right. Shamed, crumbling my bread between my fingers, I sought to make amends, and thought I knew how. ‘So now,' I said meekly, ‘will you not tell me of your new employment in Don Pedro's army?'

He regarded me with merriment. ‘Ah, but now that you wish to know, I do not wish to tell.'

My humility vanished. ‘Signor Benedick, how you do delight in being contrary. But I must tell you, friendly in your ear, that perversity is no substitute for wit.'

‘Dear Lady Beatrice, I was not attempting to be witty. If I were, you would be laughing already.'

I snorted at his arrogance.

‘I merely came to a conclusion about my new profession which I will lay before you; a riddle, if you like, since there is always wordplay and sport at a wedding. Simply put; my profession is such that if I told you of it, I would instantly have failed at it.'

I sighed gustily. ‘If I am to be so denied, what shall be our subject?'

‘My dear Signor Arcobaleno, as a man you were mum as an oyster, but as a lady I know you never have any trouble in making conversation. You might remark upon the food, the company, the music.'

I was about to retort that there was no music, but as if Signor Benedick had conjured him a lutenist stepped forward. ‘A hymn to the newly wedded,' the musician announced in a reedy pipe.
He struck the gamut and bowed to the couple at their garlanded table, and began to sing before the chord died.

The verses were beautiful and far better than the singer. His reedy voice soared to the coffined ceiling for his final note, and he bowed double as if burdened by the weight of the applause. I turned to my erstwhile companion. ‘What do you think of this musician? Is he superior to my uncle's, for I remember they did not please you.'

Signor Benedick, who had been munching his bones throughout, pointed a lamb bone at the lutenist. ‘That twangling jack? He is worse.'

‘But the poetry?' I persisted. ‘Was it not sublime? Did it not transport you?' I could not believe anyone could hear such words untouched.

He sighed testily. ‘Lady Beatrice. You would have me a soldier, and I became one. Now would you have me be a poet too? If so I must enrol in a college of wit-crackers to learn the metre by our next dinner. But until then I will say simply that I did not hear a word of the verse for it was ill served by an ill singer.'

Now the stranger on my left laughed outright. As I opened my mouth to dispute with Benedick, Don Pedro broke off his conversation with the archbishop and turned to claim his friend. ‘Signor Benedick,' he said, ‘it is time.'

Without the least hesitation Benedick dropped our discourse mid-syllable for the society of his patron. He rose, and, barely excusing himself to me, he went to do his master's bidding, whatever it might be.

Frustrated, I lifted my chin; very well, I too would find diversion elsewhere. I studied the family at the wedding table. The women were separated and pinned either side of their husbands. They sat, as I did, looking about them, glassy eyed, without even each other's society to comfort them.

I wondered whether sisters or female friends had the same bond as men; but I did not think so. I recalled with a pang how
few hours Hero and I had spent together since the Spanish had come to the house. Instead we had spent our days thinking of our new companions Claudio and Benedick, and what little time we had together was spent talking only of them. But this was time wasted. Women did not stand a chance of penetrating these binding masculine friendships. Men were tied together by blood, by their banner, by the garter of their order. ‘Brothers in arms,' I said aloud, scornfully.

‘Yes,' said the stranger on my left. ‘The strongest bond of all.' I turned to look at him, but he was already occupied in writing down either my remark or his reply. He had produced a hornbook with a neat little trimmed quill – heaven knows where he got either of them – and I studied him as he wrote.

His head was down over his scribblings so I could see that his dark locks grew somewhat thin on top. His hair was worn long about the sides, and where it curled over the scroll of his ear I noted that he wore a single drop pearl in the lobe, which shivered as he wrote. His doublet was oxblood brown, and around his neck he wore a ruff in the English style, a fashion that was a little outdated. His fingers were long and fidgety as they spewed the spidery writing.

He must have felt me observing him; for he looked up and it was then that I saw that despite the thinning hair he must be no older than Signor Benedick. He had handsome if slightly weak features, and a little pointed beard and light moustache. Around his neck hung a curiosity; a leather capsa containing a spare small quill and a slick of ink in a tiny crystal bottle. Courtesy fought with curiosity; curiosity won. ‘What is that?' I asked.

He smiled and the expression seemed to lift his slightly sad features. He had been the mask of Tragedy, for his mouth had a downward droop to it and the corners of his eyes folded down. The smile gave everything an upward tendency; his eyes and mouth lifted and it was as if his whole countenance opened up; now he was Comedy.

‘It is the insignia of my profession. Not a regimental medal or a garter, or even doctor's spectacles. Just a pen and some ink.'

I was reminded of my conversation with Signor Benedick. This fellow must be a lawyer, or perhaps a scrivener. ‘And what is your profession?'

‘I am a writer,' he said. ‘A poet and a playwright.'

‘A poet?' I said, diverted. ‘Would I know anything you have written?'

He indicated the lutenist with his quill. ‘I wrote the wedding hymn that your companion so enjoyed.' But he smiled; no offence apparent.

This impressed me, for I had enjoyed the ode whatever Benedick thought. ‘And you write plays too? That must be very … difficult?'

‘Not so long as you follow the rules. In a tragedy, everyone must die. And in a comedy, everyone must marry.'

It could not be that simple. ‘What if some characters expire, and some wed?'

‘That would be more of a problem.'

I thought upon what he had said. ‘I wonder what my play will be.'

He did not reply to this, but just watched me speculatively. I found it unsettling, so questioned him to distract him. ‘And where do you find your muse?'

‘Italy is my muse,' he said. ‘I am a collector of stories. I read Dante, Boccaccio, Bandello …'

‘Bandello!' it was an unmannerly shriek. ‘He came to my father's castle once.'

‘In Verona?' asked the poet, turning towards me eagerly.

‘Villafranca, just outside the city. I am Beatrice Della Scala.'

It was not the fashion for the lady to make the introduction, but I had little patience for such niceties. ‘Are you Sicilian, then, that you wrote this tribute to the couple?'

‘I was born in Messina, but taken to the north for my education. I was schooled in England, then studied in Wittenberg. Then I was court poet to the Danish king in Elsinore.'

‘Then I may truly claim you for the north. I am glad to make your acquaintance, Signor …?' I let my voice drift upwards in a question. It was a hint; for he was clearly as much of a stranger to proper forms as myself. Somewhat belatedly, he held out one inky hand.

‘Michelangelo Florio Crollalanza.'

The name flared in my memory. ‘Then your mother is …'

‘Guglielma Crollalanza.' He pointed across the room. I looked to where the ringleted woman sat beside my aunt, in her favoured flame-coloured silk.

‘And is your father at the feast?'

‘No,' said the poet. ‘He does not enjoy society. He likes to keep at the inn with his books.'

‘Reading or writing?'

‘Both.'

‘And he found the north too hot for him?'

He looked puzzled. ‘How did you know …?'

I smiled. ‘So you are acquainted with the family?'

‘My mother knows the groom's mother well.' The young man had a strange accent, each cadence earned upon his travels like a pocket coin of each nation, collected to jangle together in their own particular music. ‘But I do not know a soul in the wedding party.' He pointed his goose feather to the high table, where the Spanish and Sicilian nobles clinked their golden goblets. ‘What is this constellation of nobility, Lady Beatrice? The dramatis personae have changed since I last saw this play.'

I studied the golden company. ‘You think them players?'

‘We are all players; but that board is groaning with particularly tasty meat for a plot. Politics, ambition, greed; all writ upon these fine features.'

I looked anew at the brave figures on the high table, the
paper kings of the
Scopa
deck all huddled together, and named them for my new acquaintance following his device, as you might read them on the first quarto of a play. ‘Don Pedro, a prince of Aragon.' Benedick hovered at the prince's shoulder, close as a shadow, but I left him off the roll. ‘Ludovico de Torres, Archbishop of Monreale. Next to the prelate is his nephew, Count Claudio Casadei of Florence, and beyond him the viceroy himself.' I pointed to the portly fellow with impressive moustaches. ‘Diego Enrique de Guzman. Leonato Leonatus, my uncle, is beside the viceroy, and the father of the groom – Egeon, was it? – you know. Those are the players. But what are their parts?'

The poet turned his dark eyes on me. ‘That I cannot tell, for I feel they are only in the prologue of their drama. Their story is still in train, their characters mere sketches. On so short an acquaintance I cannot tell you what each man is, but only what he loves.'

‘Say on.'

The poet drew a long breath, and pointed his goose-tip at each player as he spoke. ‘The prince loves himself, too well to admit room in his heart for another. The archbishop loves God and gold in equal measure. The young count loves God only. The viceroy loves his king, but would rather be one. Your uncle, saving your presence, loves his own voice.'

I was intrigued by his words, by him. ‘And what do you love?'

‘Words,' he said, ‘words, words.'

‘And how do you know these men's hearts?'

‘Observation chiefly, and a little catechism,' he admitted. ‘I questioned the count about his home in Florence, and as all conversations about that city must, our discourse turned quickly to art. I asked him if he'd seen Signor Botticelli's
Pallas and the Centaur,
as the subject of Pallas Athena holds a particular interest for me. He admitted he'd seen the painting, but said that to his mind Botticelli's devotional work was superior, and pointed
to the fact that the artist himself, by the end of his life, had denounced his pagan work.'

I thought of what Hero had said when she had met the young count at dinner; that he did not wish to hear tales of love but of the scriptures. The poet had seen into Claudio's soul. I wondered what he had divined of the count's nursemaid?

With a great commotion and clatter all the company stood for the dancing and would soon divide into ladies and men. I had to ask.

‘And Signor Benedick?' I spoke casually.

‘Who?'

‘The prince's companion. The tall blond northerner, hovering at his master's shoulder like a Barbary's parrot.'

‘Ah, now that is easy. He loves
you.
'

And with that, he was gone, with a dramatist's talent for ending a scene.

Struck by what the poet had said, I sought Signor Benedick at once. Could it be true that he loved me, even though he had made denial to Don Pedro? He had given me a priceless reliquary, and a worthless playing card that even now I wore in my dress, under the starburst stomacher. He had rescued me from the maze and saved my blushes at the tourney. Was Michelangelo Crollalanza right? He could be gulling me, of course, but the poet did not seem of humorous bent.

My search was in vain, for Benedick was way out on the Far, standing sentinel a little way from the nobles, and looking as forlorn as a lodge in a warren. So I went to join the ladies, acting, for once, as form demanded; but only because, as Benedick was engaged in the service of his master and Signor Crollalanza had vanished, I had an urge to seek the society of the poet's mother.

My aunt was beside the lady, and the evident closeness of their bond was almost enough to make me reassess my earlier musings on feminine friendships. ‘Aunt.' I greeted my aunt
Innogen with a kiss on the cheek, but Signora Crollalanza, who always seemed to speak candidly, did not waste time on niceties. ‘Lady Beatrice. You look better without your mask.'

She might have been speaking of my disguise as the Queen of
Scopa
at my uncle's masque, but I knew she was talking about my appearance at the fencing match as Signor Arcobaleno.

‘Signora Crollalanza. So do you.' It was true. Her black hair, unornamented as ever, had a nap and texture such as I had never seen.

‘I have been making the acquaintance of your son,' I said.

The jet-black eyes softened. ‘I am glad of it. Michelangelo thinks too much.'

‘Is that possible?'

‘For a woman, no. But for a man, yes.'

‘He seems to enjoy observing others.'

‘He has little to divert him here, so I am glad he is enjoying the festivities.'

I caught her tone. ‘And you?'

She smiled and spoke in my ear. ‘It is more comfortable to observe than to be observed. In answer to your question I am enjoying myself much more
now
, now that disapproving eyes have taken themselves off to the Far.' I looked out to the group of noblemen on the rocks, gathered together like cormorants. ‘I am speaking, you must know, of the archbishop.'