Beatrice and Benedick (11 page)

I had formed an unfavourable impression of that prelate on the grounds of his sermon alone, but was surprised that Guglielma should find his attack so personal. ‘Why should he dislike you?'

‘He has many reasons to hate me. One, that I am a woman. That would be enough. But I am free, in behaviour, in dress, in speech. I am part Moorish, and he had pledged to cleanse the island of my kind. I am from a family of slaves, and no one enjoys their freedom quite so much as those who have been denied it. And beyond that, I am married to a Calvinist who
does not share the archbishop's faith and is articulate enough to proselytise. And lastly I am raising a son in the image of his father.'

I was struck – I had never considered any faith but the Catholic Church and had closed my ears to the teachings of the Protestants. Slowly I remembered the poet's education. England, Denmark. Cradles of Protestantism. And Wittenberg, famously the home of Luther's heresy. Guglielma's thoughts had kept step with my own. ‘The sunrays that burned too hotly on my husband in the north were the fires of faith; but I feel, I dread, that they will burn here too.'

I hoped she did not have the gift of prediction. Her words and her prophetic tone gave me an urge to cross myself, but given the subject of our discourse I refrained.

Now she smiled, like a naughty child. ‘Your uncle disapproves of me too. He thinks I am a bad example for his daughter, and lead his wife astray.'

‘And do you?'

Guglielma glanced over her shoulder but my aunt was preoccupied with tying Hero's slipper, for my cousin had little to do, as Claudio, unlike Benedick, had been invited into the inner sanctum of the conference on the Far. And so Hero regressed to the schoolroom, whining and fussing and bothering her mother for ribbons and comfits.

‘Your uncle does not like Innogen to remember her history, but as women our history is part of us. Let me tell you a little of your aunt.' Guglielma took my arm and led me beneath a Grecian arch loaded with ginestra blossom. ‘When they were first betrothed, your uncle gave her a bracelet, the one with the chalcedony stone that she wears every day.' I knew the jewel well – the stone was beautiful, jade and opaque like the eye of a cat. ‘She lost the thing for a time and your uncle thought her untrue; but she pursued him till her good name, his favour and the bracelet were restored.'

I thought of my aunt; so correct, so mannerly. I could not imagine her wantonly pursuing my uncle. Was theirs a happy ending? Had it been a comedy, their story? Guglielma echoed my thoughts, her eyes on her friend, on the jewel. ‘The bracelet has become her shackle. And it reminds your uncle of a time when she was free.' Her honesty robbed me of breath, and as we returned to my aunt's side I could say no more, but I thought much on the price of a marriage which meant giving yourself away.

As the light thickened outside, the gentlemen returned from the Far and joined the throng. Claudio lined up with Hero at once, and she was once more transformed from a mewling child into a young woman; but, to my irritation, Signor Benedick did not seek me out. I saw him, after the first measure, in close conference with Duke Egeon.

Determined to enjoy myself I joined the fray, dancing with my uncle's brother Antonio, young Claudio, several of the Aragonese, and several times with the poet Michelangelo Crollalanza, who was very light on his feet.

Later, much later, in the middle of a vigorous jig, I changed partners to find myself joining hands with Signor Benedick. Flushed, happy and with my hair coming down my back, I was ripe for our next bout. But his mien was frosty, as if an ill wind had blown him back from the sea. His first words told me he had seen my long conference with the poet at the table.

‘Where is your scribbling friend? Does he tire of the dance? Or is he waiting for an ink-a-pace?'

I ignored his poor jest. ‘I suppose you mean Signor Michelangelo Crollalanza.'

He snorted. ‘
Gesumaria.
His name is more of a mouthful than my dinner was.'

‘And where are your costly friends? I hope they had a satisfactory conference on the Far.'

‘I do not know,' he admitted stiffly, ‘for I was charged with guarding the shore path, to see that nobody came near.'

‘Doubtless a very
important
office.'

‘Indeed.'

At this point in the dance I had to walk about him behind his back, and it was just as well, for I had a smile to hide.

When I returned to face him the subject had changed with the tempo and he returned to his theme. ‘Who names their son Michelangelo? Do his parents hope he too will become a dauber of chapels?'

‘You may ask his mother if you like. She is somewhere in the measure.'

I turned around under his raised hand, and caught a glimpse of Signora Crollalanza's flying ringlets. As I peered at her I saw that she was without a partner, but was alone in the centre of the floor, whirling and whirling like a dervish, her flame-coloured skirts flying out to describe a circle. She was the sun in the centre of the sky, and, like sunflowers, many heads turned to regard her. She looked wonderful, and free. I would have remarked upon this singular sight, even though Signor Benedick was being such a crosspatch at present, but events interrupted our measure.

The Archbishop of Monreale made his way through the dance with his entourage, deliberately disrupting the measure. There was confusion as the couples stumbled and stopped, and the pipers struck discords and silenced themselves. The archbishop stopped before Guglielma Crollalanza. She ceased her whirling and met his eye. I felt the weight of an old enmity in their glance.

‘Wives,' he quoted so the whole company could hear, ‘be subject to your husbands as you are to the Lord.'

There was no novelty in his homily, and the text was commonly heard at weddings; but the tone of its conveyance chilled me to the very bone. It did not seem to be generally meant but directed at this woman and this one alone, this woman who was here without her husband, and who dared to dance alone.

But Guglielma seemed sanguine – she merely smiled a little, and then bowed to the archbishop, folding from the waist like a man, as if he had favoured her with a compliment. He looked at her with scorn and then raised his voice to where Duke Egeon was seated in his stone chair on the dais.

‘Your pardon, my lord, but this measure is not to my taste.' And he and his retinue left the place.

Immediately there was a lightening of the mood, and the company looked to their host. The old duke waved his hand and called in his querulous voice: ‘Strike up, pipers!'

Leonato, who had been looking on with a shocked countenance, took his wife from the floor.

As we began to dance again, Benedick was seemingly unmoved by what he had seen, but I had been deeply affected. I gave myself a little shake. My partner looked at me with amusement, and spoke in more friendly tones. ‘You cannot wonder at such a correction, considering the archbishop's sermon.'

I looked at him over my shoulder as the ladies took a turn. ‘You think him right in his censure?' I asked.

He shrugged. ‘A man and a woman should stand up together. We all have our roles to play.'

‘He said that too,' I exclaimed.

‘Who?'

‘Michelangelo Crollalanza. The poet.'

Anger shuttered his face once more. ‘Then if
he
said as much, you will no doubt pay
him
heed, for you have never thought a word of
mine
worth the noting.' I could see he was angered by my mention of the poet, but could not stop, some demon had taken hold of me; I had tried to make him jealous and had succeeded only too well. I tried to mitigate my offence. ‘Come, come, Signor Benedick, let us be friends. You said to me once that I had bid you be a poet and a soldier. Come, tell me what my part shall be, as “woman”; I will study my lines, and speak my speech prettily.'

He stood still, and I stopped with him. We were now the still axis as the dancers revolved around us. ‘Very well. A woman should not fire questions at a gentleman as if they were arrows. A woman should not dance alone. A woman should not fight in a man's attire. And she should not brawl first like a shrew. A woman should be mannerly, modest and sober.'

I stood still too, as if struck. Had Leonato spoken such words, when he married Innogen, and tamed her from a haggard to a household hawk? ‘You do not think these things,' I said. ‘Your new companions have put words in your mouth.' I was spitting with anger and did not mind who heard me. But before our dispute could be marked, the dance ended and it was time for us to make our reverences to each other.

He bowed and I curtsied, just as it should be. But beyond us, heedless that the music had ceased, I saw that Guglielma remained, dancing alone.

Benedick:
I had seen Lady Beatrice little in the few days that had elapsed since the wedding at Syracuse.

For one thing, I had been spending interminable hours in the service of Don Pedro at the viceroy's court in Palermo. There had been many comings and goings and meetings and colloquies, and a revolving cast of noble characters making their entrances and exits. The massive marble halls were worthy stage sets for noble and antique theatre, but sometimes it was more like a farce of the
commedia dell' Arte.
As one grandee left from one door, another, his mortal enemy, entered by another; all the time with neither one knowing their foe was in the palace at all.

So my duties kept me at Palermo, but when I was at Leonato's house, at dinner or at mass, I noted that Lady Beatrice studied to seat herself as far away from me as possible. A few times I thought I had seen her blond head from afar, as she wandered along the beach, or picked oranges with her cousin from the espaliers in the garden. But I had not been near enough to greet her, nor to tell her that I was sorry.

For I was sorry. I had been angry that night at Syracuse. I had not known that that night I would not be at my leisure, but would be at work for Don Pedro. While the grandees gathered on the Far it is true that I had little to do but watch and guard, but after that my pawn came into play. Don Pedro charged me to talk to Duke Egeon, with general friendliness and good
humour, but all the time with the design of discovering the size and dispersal of his fleet. By the time I had leisure to join the couples on the dance floor, Beatrice was well entrenched with that young scribbler she'd met. I was jealous, and my tongue, unbidden, had spoken those bitter words to her that I did not mean.

I do not know whether I had been influenced by the archbishop's sermon, or whether I resented the freedom that her uncle and aunt allowed her – an indulgence in a niece that would not be allowed her as a daughter – a freedom that allowed her to form an intimacy with Signor Crollalanza on so short an acquaintance. A father's eyes, which would watch his daughter as a hawk watches a mouse, could wink at a niece who chooses to dress herself as a knight and fight in a tournament. It had not occurred to me then that the freedoms that allowed her to form a companionship with that poet were the same ones that had allowed her to form one with me. I too had been complicit in that freedom, for I had had my chance to expose her when she fought me in the tourney. I could have lifted her visor and left her to public denunciation and her uncle's wrath. My own inconsistencies were not a comfort to me.

At least, that evening, I had proved myself useful to Don Pedro in my conversation with Egeon. Apparently the duke had a vast fleet of ships, not only at Syracuse but, crucially, a good number of vessels at Marcellus' Road in the south of France. Added to his fleets he seemed to have an argosy in every port upon the map. Don Pedro then wanted me to find out whether his ships were for lease, and where his political sympathies lay. Some local lords, said Don Pedro, were no friends to the Spanish rule, and although their outward shows were friendly and they would have a regiment billeted on their house or invite the grandees to their son's wedding, they would, if given the chance, spring up at vespers with a knife to your throat, and return Sicily to the Sicilians.

At Palermo, as we waited for the Archbishop of Monreale in a vast room of porphyry and gold, Don Pedro asked me what I had gleaned from the Duke of Syracuse. I was able to tell him, with complete honesty, that I thought that the old man would be amenable to anything, and that now he had his sons back, and his wife too, he would listen with a sympathetic ear to any cause that was laid before him which would not require his sons to leave his side. In fact, I thought that, to speak frankly, he would be very much agreeable to the idea of letting his ships fatten his fortune while he stayed at home and enjoyed the society of his reunited family. Don Pedro commended me, but I felt a little shamed at accepting those thanks; for truly I had done little else but what I would always do at dinner, make myself agreeable to my host, crack a few jests and ask him about his business.

Today, however, Don Pedro had me on a mission that I would never usually come upon in the common way. I was charged, with the rest of the Aragonese, with the preparation of a great spectacle for a noble gathering. A Naumachia, a naval pageant, was to be held for the local nobility at the ancient Greek theatre in the town of Taormina. I did not see the purpose in the pageant, as there seemed to be a lot of time and trial given to what was essentially a piece of theatre, and it seemed from the dark hints dropped from Don Pedro's lips that there were weightier matters afoot. But I gave it my full attention for my friend's sake; truth to tell, my first interest in the whole affair was that I knew for a certainty that I would, at the very least, see the Lady Beatrice that night.

The theatre was a beautiful place, and if anything besides the prospect of seeing Beatrice could lift my spirits it would be this aspect. The stage sat in a pleasing natural bowl in the scorched hillside – ranks upon ranks of stone tiers rose in a heartbreaking curve, and beyond the hills, the omnipresent volcano rose out of blue shadow and gently belched white steam.