Beatrice and Benedick (46 page)

I smiled. ‘Then which of my faults drew your notice?'

‘Ah, that is simple. Your conceit, your disdainfulness, your wilful pride, your stubborn nature, your runaway tongue.' He smiled too.

I would rather hear such insults from his tongue than a thousand compliments from any other. ‘We will never be civil to each other, will we?'

‘Never,' he said. ‘And in that cause we will ask the friar tomorrow to bind us when he binds my brother and your cousin. Then we can be unpleasant to each other every day for the rest of our lives.'

It was the second proposal I'd received that day upon this spot, and I knew, this time, that everything was as it was meant to be. Benedick had righted the skies again. Hero's wedding would be mine too, just as I had wished.
‘Yes,'
I said, and that single frugal syllable was worth more than all my spendthrift wit. My happiness was complete. I could have nestled against him for ever.

Much, much later, I was struck by a thought. ‘You call Claudio your brother?'

He breathed in and out again audibly. ‘It is an oath we took on board ship,' he answered, his chest rising and falling beneath my cheek, ‘once we knew we would live.'

I wriggled out of his arm so I could look at him. ‘What happened out there?'

He avoided my gaze but looked up, now, at the stars in the sky; as if he did not want to look upon water. ‘Deeds that should stay there, where we left them. All I can tell you is that there was little glory in the action, nor nobility nor bravery. But I did find nobility in Claudio and courage too. True courage.' Again, he did not mention the prince. ‘Claudio and I held each other up, above the water.'

‘And he brought you back?'

‘No,' he replied. ‘You did.' He pointed to Cassiopeia's chair. ‘You once showed me a little star, and told me that you were born in the same hour. For when everything else went awry, that star stayed true, as true as I now know you to be; for the prince admitted all to me too.'

A little cloud passed over my happiness; for should he not have trusted me for myself? Should he have needed to be told of my innocence by his patron? Then he laid his hand on my cheek and I forgot my doubts. ‘Your star was my guide. I kept my eyes on it from dusk to dawn, each night from Scotland to Santander.'

‘I am glad,' I said. ‘So glad I could do you such an office. I
would have stowed on the ship if I could, then I could have been with you.'

‘You were with me every day,' he said. ‘And now there will be no more sailing by the star.' He took my face in his hands. ‘I am home.'

It seemed that we kissed for hours, and the dark pool turned paler, bluer, like the layers of my starlight dress. Now the stars were not diamonds upon velvet, but milky pearls on Mary's cloak. ‘I have to go back,' I said, regretfully. ‘Hero will go to church in a few hours, and I have barely slept.'

We walked back through the night gardens and in the coloured courtyard I kissed him. ‘One last time as a bachelor,' he said. He had been wrong;
his
eyes were the brightest stars of all.

I passed Borachio on the stairs – on another night I would have questioned his presence, for that stair led only to Hero's chamber. But that night my heart was full of Benedick and me. When I climbed the stairs Margherita was curled upon her mat once more – her cheeks flushed, her eyes screwed tight, her breathing even, feigning slumber.

I hesitated, standing over her. She had clearly been about some mischief for she was no more asleep than I. But if I allowed her counterfeit, she could ask me no saucy questions. Striding over her confidently into Hero's chamber, I let her lie.

Benedick:
As Claudio's groomsman I was charged with getting the count ready for his wedding.

Claudio stood naked in a pool of sunlight in the middle of his chamber, his brows stern, his face thoughtful. I joked with him, employing those timeworn jests that men have broken against grooms since antique times – but he did not respond. I was in tearing spirits myself; after my night among the stars with Beatrice, the future seemed paved with diamonds. I had not slept, but I was bursting with joy. I wanted to confide in Claudio, but his demeanour was so forbidding that I left him to his thoughts. I imagined that he was not just apprehensive of the ceremony ahead, but that his spirits were much depressed by our trip to Monreale to visit his uncle's corpse.

When we'd arrived at the beautiful hilltop town the day before, we had been invited to view the archbishop's body, for the constables had charged that it not be moved. So we trooped into the vast, sand-coloured palace and entered the prelate's velvet-draped chamber.

The archbishop lay with his eyes open, a black trickle falling from his mouth and his accustomed tears still standing in each eye. I had no love for the man, could not forget how he had condemned the dark lady to the fire; but I knew it must have been a rude shock for Claudio to see his kinsman so. He had planned, I know, to come here to ask the archbishop to officiate at his wedding; now he must arrange for his uncle's burial.

The sergeant-at-arms of the archbishop's palace gave us a cup of Rhenish in the gatehouse before we rode. ‘‘T'was a lone assassin,' he said, ‘a hooded man. He was dressed in the habit of a monk, but scaled the walls like a monkey.'

He grunted at his own jest, then straightened his face at Claudio's stern glance. ‘We have heard tell of a hooded assassin who goes by the name of Cardenio, the Ragged One. In the last year his legend has grown.' The name jolted me; for that had been the signature upon the pamphlets I'd seen at the Vara. ‘The poison is Mantuan – most parts mercury. Have a care, gentlemen,' he said as we drained our stirrup cups. ‘And tell Lord Leonato to do the same at his daughter's wedding. These brigands are getting bolder.'

I had forgotten the warning on the road, for by then the stars were kindling and my thoughts were only of Beatrice. But now I guessed that the archbishop's murder, and the threat of some disruption to the day, hung heavily on Claudio's mind. For indeed, he did not resemble a man on his wedding morn.

The groom of the stool guided me through the elaborate dressing process, for I had never performed such an office before. I chafed Claudio's body with a linen rubber – gentle on the breast and back, then vigorously on the limbs until a ruddy blush stood forth upon the skin. Then I held out the little vials of perfume and the pomades to sweeten his scent and he took them and applied them as if in a trance. I helped him into his suit of clothes; the purple that he always wore, the purple of the Medici. This attire was a statement of wealth woven in cloth, for a year earlier, when he was more of a boastful boy than a man, he'd told me it took thirty thousand whelks to make the dye for just one ounce of this cloth. He wore his inheritance on his back, and when he was dressed I looked at him with pride; my new brother was a comely fellow; if only he would smile. I coaxed him to grin once, so that I could pick at his teeth with a toothpick made of the quill of a feather, and polish them with a
toothcloth of stripped linen. But his smile was more of a grimace. Lastly I held a silver basin while he swilled his mouth with white wine, and gave him a handful of cumin seeds to chew. ‘Must keep your breath sweet for Hero's kisses,' I said. He snorted; not the reaction I had expected to such a jest. I led him down the stair and through the courtyard as if he sleepwalked.

The little chapel was packed with a press of people and was dressed in its best for a feast day. The pews were bright and brave with ginestra blossom, the pillars hung about with garlands. Likewise, the stained windows transformed the workaday sunlight into a rainbow of colours, the panes dazzling prisms splitting the light. Even those of the congregation who had come in their simple fustians were painted such brave colours they might have been wearing velvet.

At the altar stood the bride in cloth-of-gold, a veil of gilded filigree thrown over her face. And by her side, a vision that eclipsed her as fully as May does December: Beatrice, in silver tissue, with diamond stars pinned in her blond curls. Natural order was inverted, as Beatrice's stars eclipsed Hero's sun. My heart raced – for these good people who ranked the pews thought they had come to see one wedding, but they had come to see two. By the time I left this holy place, I would be Benedick the Married Man.

In my role as groomsman I walked beside Claudio, who was as silent as a stone. I jostled him slightly and smiled, but his face was stern. No matter – when the formalities were done, we would raise a cup together, husbands both. A wake for our bachelor days.

Don Pedro walked before us and stood next to his brother Don John. Today the prince looked as tartly as his brother did, and said just as little. I thought that I could better interpret
his
moody silence; he must watch his protégé take a prize which might have been his. And yet today I had reason to love Don Pedro. Despite my misgivings he had kept his word; he had told Beatrice of her misprision, and wed her to me in all but law. Opposite the dons stood Leonato and his brother Antonio, two noble greybeards mirroring the princes, and showing them their futures in old age.

Friar Francis stood forth. I had not seen Father Francisco Maurolyco since the night he had dragged me out of the Mermaid tavern in Messina and brought me home; the eve of my departure a year hence. Then he had listened to me rail against Beatrice. Today he would hear me swear to love her unto death.

The friar raised his book, and began to speak the Latin of the wedding mass, but Leonato, as if an assassin were at his very gates, hurried him along. ‘The plain form, the plain form, Father,' he urged, mopping his perspiring brow with a silken kerchief. ‘You may recount their particular duties later.'

I might have thought him rude and peremptory on any other day; I might have thought him indelicate to disrupt his daughter's moment. But today his haste pleased me; it chimed well with my own impatience to complete Claudio's nuptial so that we might proceed to mine and have the business speeded as soon as we might.

‘Very well,' said the friar, his disapproval just audible in his voice. ‘But you know, sire, that the law requires a certain form of words.'

‘Yes, yes.' Leonato waved his handkerchief at the friar. ‘Proceed.'

The friar cleared his throat. ‘Who giveth this woman to this man?'

‘That do I,' said Leonato.

‘A moment, Friar.' Claudio's voice rang out; young, strong and confident. ‘Let me see this
precious gift
.'

He took Hero's veil and flicked it back over her head; not tenderly, but as one who had bought a picture and wished to see the likeness. Hero smiled bemusedly; for tradition held that the veil should have been taken up at the end of the ceremony, not the beginning. Claudio did not smile, but appraised her coldly. The congregation was silent, waiting, and after some moments Claudio turned away from his bride and mounted the altar steps until he was level with the friar. ‘Give me leave a while, good friar.'

Friar Francis, bemused, stepped down and Claudio was left standing over us, for all the world as if he was officiating as his uncle the archbishop had so many times.

‘On our recent voyage, on board the gunship
Florencia,
we suffered greatly,' he began, surprising us all.
‘Greatly.'

I looked swiftly to Don Pedro, wondering, as I am sure he was, what the count was about to say of our dread voyage. It was in my mind to break in with a jest; but before I could interrupt Claudio, Leonato did the office for me.

‘We all know of your heroism, Count. But perhaps such war stories may be told at the fireside later?'

‘I will not try your patience much longer,
Father
,' said Claudio with biting emphasis. ‘Think of this in lieu of a sermon, if the good friar will indulge me.'

I recalled his sermons upon the ship; that clear voice, that benign devotion. This was different.

‘We had a barrel of oranges to keep the men in health. You have oranges in Spain too, my lord?'

‘We do,' said Don Pedro sternly. ‘In great number.'

It was then I knew that I had been wrong about the prince; whatever Claudio was about to say, Don Pedro was complicit in it, and anticipated every word.

‘On the day we went “north about”, we divided the rations of the men. There was a barrel of oranges in the hold. I took one out and held it up in my hand – it looked beautiful – round and
gold as the sun.' He mimed the action, and I swear that his voice was so musical and persuasive that we all saw the orange. ‘But I pushed my finger through the skin – inside it was black and rotten. The next one was the same, and the next. We had to throw them away, all of them, for though a sound orange might have saved a life, a rotten one can kill an ailing man.'

Claudio now looked at Hero, as though this lesson was only for her; but again, he addressed her father. ‘Leonato,' he said, ‘we have been your honoured guests last year and this. You have feasted us royally, offered us delicacies from Tripolis and Ragusa and Oran. I ate more at dinner last night than I ate in a brace of months on the
Florencia.
Have you ever, in all those repasts, offered us anything spoiled?'