Beatrice and Benedick (21 page)

Hero, being full young, had been spared the proceedings, but as for poor Claudio, witnessing summary justice was to be part of his education, it seemed. He sat two rows before me looking white and pinched and incredibly young.

Don Pedro sat before me amongst his cohorts, and his demeanour was singular. He seemed almost at pains to disassociate himself from the proceedings. He was solicitous and apologetic, but I felt, for the first time, as if he had used me. Although he had not revived his story of the wager he insisted that he had not known of this darker game that the archbishop
played – to catch a spider in his trap. I wanted very much to believe him, for now I had no prospect of marriage it seemed as if I was destined to follow the prince's banner wherever it led. There was no question now of my paying court to the Lady Beatrice – I might as well go and get myself killed on whatever worldly enterprise the don and his king had dreamed up. Whatever Philip's ‘Great Enterprise' was – always hinted at, but never explicitly spoken – I knew, with my newly whetted instinct, that this trial of a local Moorish woman, however small and humble, had something to do with that great design, as the little wheels in the belly of the Vara device turned the greater cogs.

But I did not really care. The nations of the world could blast themselves to smithereens, into as many different pieces as my heart. My chest felt hollow. I felt I had lost Beatrice, and become the dupe of my dearest friend. Had he ever liked me at all? Had she?

My expression must have fitted the doleful proceedings, for no one in the prince's company troubled me for a jest. I usually could be relied upon to lighten any situation, but not today. Indeed, everyone in the crowd wore their Monday face.

The only one in the room who seemed unmoved by the proceedings was the defendant herself. She stood impassive, her Sicilian traditional dress ruined from three days' wear in the cells. The red skirt was torn, the once white blouse soiled and the black waistcoat rent at the lacings. On her dusky wrists, tied in front of her, the cruel marks of the
strappado
told their terrible tale. I knew the ways of the Inquisition and guessed that she would have spent some hours suspended from the ceiling of her cell, her wrists twisted behind her. Her mouth was bruised and blood had settled at the corners of the full lips.

But despite these horrors, her stance was strong and her coal-black eyes looked unwaveringly at her accusers. Abruptly, unwillingly, I began to care about her fate.

The Archbishop of Monreale got to his feet, and the crowd quieted.

His eyes were veiled in his pasty face, and he licked his already moist purple lips as if he was about to break his fast. He read the Edict of Grace in rapid Latin, then switched to his accented Sicilian. Whatever the purpose of this drama, he wanted the citizens of Messina to understand every word.

‘The following charges pertain to the Moorish woman known as Guglielma, whom you see before you here,' he began, pointing a skinny finger at the prisoner. I noted two things – that he called her a Moor without qualification, despite the fact that it was clear from her appearance that she had white blood in her too; and that he did not dignify her with a second name. A family name would humanise her; a Sicilian name would raise local loyalties.

‘You must hear the charges before we proceed to judgement. Have you anything to say?'

Her gaze was unwavering, ‘What judgement shall I fear, doing no wrong?' Her voice was musical and strong, with a song of the south in it.

The archbishop sniffed. ‘You are charged that on the sixteenth night of August, in this year of Our Lord fifteen hundred and eighty-eight, you led a ritual on the slopes of Mount Etna to call forth the Devil.'

A murmur passed around the crowd, and my blood ran cold. This coil was much more serious than I had thought – I had expected them to make some sort of example of her, perhaps the stocks or a public whipping. But the stakes were at the highest – the dame was playing for her life. I hoped she had a good hand.

‘You are charged that you did lead certain ladies of the town of Messina to the foothills of Mount Etna, and there in a dark and godless place you did begin your rituals. Music was played at a tempo forbidden by the church, and rose to an indecent
climax. At that point you danced yourself into a heathen ecstasy, and fell to the floor, crawling and spinning about like a spider, a creature that all know to be the familiar of Satan. You then began to utter your spells and incantations, called upon the Lord to quit your body and the Devil to enter your flesh with his incubus of fire.'

I heard the Lady Beatrice utter a cry; and she half-rose as if to protest, to be pulled back sharply by her aunt, whose eyes were haunted and afraid. Before the archbishop's reptilian gaze could identify the source of the disturbance I scrambled to my feet.

All eyes were suddenly upon me – my mouth was as dry as a powder keg. ‘It was not as you say,' I stammered. I could hear Don Pedro hissing at me to be seated, feel his hands upon me. I shrugged them off. ‘They were performing a dance. A folk dance which became faster and faster. At length they did fall to the floor but it was an ecstasy of music' – I cursed myself for the use of the word
ecstasy
– ‘not of devilry.' I turned to Don Pedro. ‘The prince will tell you. Sire – you yourself spoke of an innocent folk dance.' He was silent, the muscles in his jaw pulsing rhythmically. ‘Tell them. You said that if I witnessed it you would win a wager with the viceroy.'

The prince shifted in his golden chair, and a titter from the crowd showed him his escape. ‘Benedick,' he said, mock reproving. ‘Always jesting.' But his laugh was as uncomfortable as it was unconvincing.

I turned away in scorn. ‘The dames were merely enjoying the music; I was
told
,' this for the prince, ‘that it is a custom with them. And those “chants” were to do with nothing more than men's names,' I swallowed, ‘to banish those men from their hearts.'

‘What do you mean?' rapped out the archbishop.

I looked at Beatrice and she dropped her eyes.

‘The ladies were naming those they no longer wished to love,' I stammered.

‘Like Christ.'

‘No.'

‘I say
yes
.' The bishop thumped the bench before him for emphasis. ‘It is indeed an exorcism, but of God and all the saints. Such rituals are performed so that Christ leaves the body and the Devil may make his home.'

‘But … '

‘
Signor
Benedick of Padua,' said the archbishop, speaking over me. ‘We are grateful to you for your intelligence of this gathering, and you did an admirable job of leading Spain's forces to the mountaintop. But your testimony is not required. The requisite five-and-twenty witnesses, all cavalrymen of the order of Saint James,
and
myself, witnessed the calling forth of the Devil.'

I felt Beatrice's eyes on me still, and wanted to protest; but I could say no more than I had already spoken. Don Pedro tugged at my cope and I sank to my seat.

But as I sat another stood. ‘I must speak,' he said, his tones ringing about the courtroom like those of an actor. Now everyone turned to look at the speaker, as if in a game at tennis, at Michelangelo Florio Crollalanza. The poet descended from his seat to the space before the prisoner and, with an expression which showed the assembly how much the gesture cost him, he knelt on the wooden boards.

‘Now must the archbishop be merciful.'

‘On what compulsion must I?' asked the prelate, unmoved. ‘Tell me that?'

‘There is a meet reason for each of the three of you.' The poet got to his feet and approached the bench, appealing first to the viceroy. ‘You, my Lord Viceroy. Know that mercy becomes the throned monarch better than his crown.' He walked, like a man-at-law, to stand before Leonato. ‘You, my Lord Governor. Know that mercy shows the force of temporal power.' Leonato would not raise his eyes, and Signor Crollalanza walked to stand
before the archbishop. ‘And you, my Lord Archbishop. Know that mercy is an attribute of God himself.'

The court was silent with admiration for some moments, before murmurings of agreement and approbation broke about my ears. I was amazed at the poet's appeal. Not just the eloquence, the erudition of it, but the heartfelt nature of the plea. It seemed that he was near tears. What was the lady to him, or he to the lady? Was he just a champion of social justice, a habit he had picked up from his friend the pamphleteer? But I had to admit, little as I liked the fellow, he made a fine appeal – better than I. Even the bishop admitted as much.

‘Well spoken, Master Crollalanza,' said the prelate, ‘but the law of Spain – of
Sicily
,' he corrected himself hurriedly, ‘admits of no pardon for a crime as heinous as Devil-worship. But,' he held up a beringed hand against the murmuring of the court, ‘the law is equitable. If you, Guglielma, can provide five-and-twenty witnesses to support the innocence of your claim, bring them forth, and you may go free.'

I held my breath; there were at least that number at the dance that night, and surely some of them were in this room. But I suspected a trick – if these women revealed themselves, they would be indicted too. The Lady Beatrice, as I knew she would, went to rise, and it was not the aunt but Guglielma herself who stayed her this time. ‘No,' she said. ‘The fault lies with me alone. No other ladies made the spider.'

The archbishop nodded, as if he had expected this answer. ‘There is yet one path of salvation open to you.' He steepled his yellow fingers together, and fixed his gaze upon the defendant. ‘This is an island of fishermen. Sometimes when a fisherman catches a little fish, and then catches a bigger, he lets the little one go. There is a worse heretic than you in Messina, who writes dreadful slanders against myself, the viceroy, and even the King of Spain himself. Do you know who that might be?'

Now I saw his evil purpose. He would trade a life for information, and who would be proof against such a trade? I looked to the crowd, where the black-clad pamphleteer sat. But the archbishop had reckoned without the courage of the lady. She shook her head. ‘I know no one who writes lies about the Spanish,' she said.

The archbishop snorted. ‘Not even your husband, Giovanni Florio Crollalanza? Or should I say
Cardenio
?'

The pieces fell abruptly into place. The pamphleteer in the black costume was her
husband.

‘My husband is only a poet, Your Grace.' There was a gentle irony in her use of his title. ‘His greatest work is entitled
The Second Fruits.
I am sure Your Grace is well read enough to have perused it.'

‘I am not in the habit of reading heresy.'

‘Oh, but it is not heresy,' she corrected. ‘It is a collection of Merry Proverbs, Witty Sentences and Golden Sayings. My husband preaches humour, not hate. And if you have evidence to the contrary, present it.'

I shifted uncomfortably, thinking of the pamphlet that Don Pedro had taken from my room. If they had not presented the paper in open court, then they had nothing to connect the pamphlet to the man. It seemed they could do as they wished with a Moorish woman, but to indict a white Sicilian man, of ancient name, they needed evidence. He – or his resourceful wife – must have covered his tracks admirably.

The archbishop was silent, but he was not defeated. The defendant's denials spurred him to spiteful vengeance, like a child deprived. He was still for a moment, then his eyes became glass, and shimmered as the tears fattened on his scanty lashes and dropped in crystal runnels down his cheeks. The court was still, mouths agape at the commonplace miracle. ‘This is a sad day. I would be merciful but you have bound my hands as I have bound yours.' His tears, unfelt and involuntary, fell apace
on his cope. ‘The Church jurisdiction cannot take life. Only the state can do so and for that I must turn to the other tribunes.' He suited the action to the words. ‘Viceroy. The penalty for Devil-worship is death by fire. What say you?'

Ludovico de Torres did not hesitate but got to his feet. ‘Guilty as charged,' he said, in his reedy Spanish accent. It was the first time I had ever heard him speak. He would have sat again but the archbishop cleared his throat pointedly. ‘But we Spaniards are but guests on this great island,' went on the viceroy hurriedly. ‘In this matter both you and I, Archbishop, must defer to the local government.'

‘Governor?' The archbishop turned to his right. Leonato looked grey and shrunken; as if contracted under the burden of incalculable age. He was as ashen as the dust of the volcano. Almost imperceptibly, without looking up, he nodded once.

The courtroom erupted. The poet began to shout, his voice drowned out by the cacophony of the chamber. Heads bobbed and boiled like lava. Certain of the women of the gallery, moved to action by the verdict, began to protest, and I wagered they had been there with the lady on that night. I began to shout too, but I know not what I said. I tried to push my way through to Beatrice, almost climbing on the backs of the crowd that impeded my way. Occasionally I had sight of her and could see that she was in the arms of her aunt. Above everything the archbishop brought his staff down on the dais with a resounding crash. As when Moses parted the waves, the crowd fell silent and parted to reveal the one still figure at its heart – the accused herself, chin high, black eyes still undefeated.

‘Silence!' called the archbishop redundantly in ringing tones. ‘I am to ask the condemned if she has anything to say.'

There was a deathly hush now as all eyes turned to the dark lady. The condemned woman looked directly at the Archbishop of Monreale, full in the eye. Her eyes burned like coals in the fire. She spoke, quite clearly and distinctly, and even through
the layers of her strange accent all the assembled could hear what she said.
‘Ti manciu ‘u cori,'
she said. ‘I will eat your heart.' Then she pointed her finger at the viceroy.
‘Ti manciu
‘
u
cori,'
she repeated.