Beatrice and Benedick (6 page)

I began to smile. Don Pedro clapped me on the back, and, as if he had rung my heart in my ribs like a clapper, the great bells chimed behind me in the cathedral. I rose. ‘I am to collect my young charge at twelve bells,' I said apologetically.

‘Claudio Casedei is the young count's name?' It was not really a question. ‘He is of a wealthy Florentine family, I think?' It was spoken very casually.

‘The wealthiest.' I said. ‘The Tournabuoni. And, through his mother's marriage, the Medici too. His uncle Ferdinando is the …' I began, and then stopped. Don Pedro slid his dark eyes to meet mine, and I realised with a jolt that my mission had already begun. ‘His uncle is Ferdinando de' Medici, Grand Duke of Tuscany, and he holds the purse-strings of all Florence,' I said. ‘And Claudio's uncle on his mother's side – whom he is visiting even now, in the cathedral there – is the archbishop of this city of Monreale.' I was sure that this second piece of information the prince knew as well as I; but the first I thought was news to him.

‘I will go with you,' said Don Pedro. ‘Our host Leonato has invited us all to a masked ball in his pleasure gardens tonight, and I must visit the tailors in Palermo for a costume. Why do
not we go together?' He looked me up and down, from my Venetian suit of clothes to my Florentine shoes. ‘And while we are there, as you are to join my cavalcade, we will get you caparisoned like a soldier, and mounted like a corsair. We will visit the barbers too,' he said balefully, eyeing my curls as the Sicilian puppets had eyed the French, ‘for your fleece rivals Jason's.'

I mounted the steps to the church with him, and he stopped in the porch under the shade of an enormous palm tree, and faced me, as if we were to be wed. His mind clearly tended that way too, for he asked, ‘And you are not married, or betrothed?'

The tree did not shade me and the sun was now at his highest; I quailed under his and the prince's eye. In truth, the lady Beatrice had jolted me, and I knew it would take very little encouragement to make me fall in love with her. But under the prince's gaze I felt suddenly sure that I must deny this. I shook my head. ‘I have not yet seen that special face that I could fancy more than any other.'

‘Not even the Lady Beatrice and her fortune?'

So he
had
seen us talk at dinner. I grimaced convincingly. ‘Least of all she. Why would I betroth myself to unquietness? If we were but a week married we would talk each other mad.' Then I realised what he had said. ‘Wait – what fortune?'

‘Her father is Bartolomeo Della Scala, Prince Escalus of Villafranca. He is the kingmaker of Verona, for the other two great families are perpetually at war. She is not the heir at present, though – she has an older brother.'

‘Ah yes, the great quarreller.'

He misunderstood me. ‘Precisely. He does not have the gift of Prince Escalus, to stay out of the squabbles of the Veronese. He may not outlive his father.'

Now I am not a religious man, but this, said so coldly on the hot steps of a cathedral, was a little more matter-of-fact than I cared for.

‘And if he does beat his father to the grave … then she will be a princess and a prize indeed. What do you think now?'

‘I think, Prince, that if you know so much, you have no need of a spy.'

He laughed. ‘Her great wealth does not change your mind?'

It did not. My own father was only a merchant, but he had chinks enough. ‘I swear on my allegiance that I will die a bachelor. Else, what would all the other ladies of the world do? For they all adore me, and I am a confessed tyrant to their sex.'

He laughed once more, showing his teeth. ‘That is well – for single men are single-minded. And you will need your wits about you for the task to come.'

And I entered the church, walking a little taller than when I had left the cloister; and whatever denials I had made to the prince, I had but one thought in my mind; how the Lady Beatrice would greet the new Signor Benedick tonight.

Beatrice:
When I saw Signor Benedick, I laughed till I ached.

I'd had such good intentions too. I was genuinely contrite for the way I'd treated him the previous night at dinner, and had dressed with great care, determined tonight to make good.

The garden was dressed in its best too. The night was still warm and numberless candles, their flames amplified by halos of polished pewter, stood in each niche and rockery like tiny sentinel angels. Strings of lanterns reached from tree to tree, and torches flamed in wavering ranks set into the ground by each alley and walk. Musicians wandered about the gardens in little groups, so that, turning a corner in the maze or bower, you might come across a lutenist or a viol player, running the gamut of your conversation. Castrati, naked except for their loincloths, and painted white like statues, stood dotted around the garden in various attitudes, only to come to life and begin to sing when a guest wandered past, their clear pure treble voices floating up to the stars. The effect was magical.

Hero and I were charged to meet the guests and conduct them to where the masks were waiting for them. Hero had suggested, since at a masque we were supposed to dress as other than ourselves, that she should wear a gown of my favourite blue, and that I should wear a flame-coloured gown of Barbary silk, that had been bought from Tripoli for Hero but was too long. It was a beautiful dress, the bright silk cool and flowing. I wore strings of yellow diamonds and topaz about my throat
which cascaded in a glittering firefall over my bodice, like the lava that spilled from the volcano. A cunning panel at the waist and flare at the hips made my waist seemed tiny. My inward humours matched my gown, flaming with excitement.

My uncle had had dozens of the finest masks conveyed from Venice, and all afternoon his gardeners had been hanging them about the low-hanging branches of the great mulberry trees clustered in the middle of his lawn, for his guests to pluck like fruits. Now, in the darkness, the varnished faces peeped out between the lanterns in their glowing, jewel-like colours; peacocks, lions, columbines, jesters. Here were celestial faces too; moons dusted with powdered pearl, stars sprinkled with glittering diamonds, and suns crowned with gilded rays. I could see, among the masks, faces from the picture cards of the
Scopa
deck, one king, one queen and one knave. I untied the queen and placed her face over my own. I wondered whether Signor Benedick would choose to be the king.

Or the knave.

It was then that I saw him, walking down the ride from the house, flanked by the prince on one side and young Claudio on the other. I began to smile, for he was changed indeed – the green caterpillar had become a brave scarlet butterfly.

He was wearing the livery of St James, with a Spanish doublet, sleeves slashed up and down and double breasts carved like an apple pie. The sleeves, tight from elbow to wrist, tapered like cannons. His hair was cut short around the ears, tamed, combed down with a pomade I could smell from where I stood, parted on the side and styled in a curl plastered on his forehead. He walked with great pride and importance, taller than ever in vertiginous boots with high block heels. The stubble of his face had gone to stuff tennis balls, and only the shadow of a moustache shaded his lip, with a small triangular beard below. He had turned, in short, into Don Pedro.

Hero curtsied to the prince and Claudio, who bowed, and she
conveyed them to the mask tree to choose their identity. I saw my uncle fawn upon them, and cry: ‘Gentlemen, choose your visors!' as he helped them to the tree's most costly fruits. Benedick hung back a little, then walked over to me. He bowed with a complicated flourish.

Although he was not in armour, he was ready, it seemed, for anything; for a rapier hung from his baldric, a dagger peeped from his belt and there were several little Spanish knives stuck into his ceinture, as if it were a butcher's belt. ‘Signor Benedick,' I said, badly wanting to laugh. ‘Have you come to slay me?'

‘I am dressed as befits my new occupation.' He looked about him as if the mulberries grew ears in place of leaves. ‘It is a
very great
secret.' He looked down at me archly, and I realised even his eyebrows had been tamed. ‘Do not you want to know what it is?'

‘To look as foolish as possible?'

He bristled, and I relented. ‘I assume,' I said, ‘from the medal of Saint James about your neck, that you have taken the Spanish dollar and accepted commission for Don Pedro's army.'

‘That is so, but my role will be much, much more than that.'

‘Last night you had no stomach for soldiery.'

‘Does not the appetite alter?'

‘Apparently,' I said tartly. ‘But, Signor Benedick, a soldier's colours are won in the field, and the bravest deeds often wear the meanest clothes.' I walked all the way around him, assessing his attire from all angles. ‘The jay is not more precious than the lark, because his feathers are more beautiful, nor the adder better than the eel, because of his painted skin.' I was back in my place. ‘The battledress alone does not make a soldier, but what is inside it. And your sword,' I touched the cool haft of it with one finger, ‘is as yet untried.'

Signor Benedick raised his chin. ‘I wear my wit in my scabbard, and draw it daily, and it is this the prince has seen in me.
The tongue can open a door to the inner chambers of government better than a key or a cannon.'

‘There we may find agreement. For it seems to me that there are no fellows of action any more; men are only turned into tongues, and trim ones too.'

‘Well, Lady, I had thought to ask you to dance. I was yours for the walk, but now I must walk away.' He thrust out his shorn chin. ‘You did not like me last night, and you do not like me thus. I cannot imagine that there will be any day of the calendar when my presence is pleasing to you.' He turned on his heels and marched away, but the drama of his exit was ruined; he tripped on his foil and stumbled on his boots, measuring his length on the ground. He stood back up too quickly and got himself entangled in his silly little cloak, which swung around to the front. He tossed the thing back, and the lace caught afire a little on the sentinel torches, causing him to beat at himself frantically as if troubled by a wasp.

It was then that all my attempts at politeness left me and the laugh that had been threatening to burst from me during our exchange erupted like Etna. I brayed so loudly that my uncle, busily flattering the prince under the mulberries, looked over. But even with my uncle's stony eyes upon me, I howled, doubled up, beat at my skirts, tears spurting from my eyes. Benedick raised his chin, and righted his cloak, and stalked away.

I was sorry at once, and was about to go after him, when my way was blocked by a woman, dressed in the same colour as me. She wore a golden mask, tricked out with gilt sequins and fashioned like the face of the sun. The sunrays caught the light as she very faintly shook her head and she laid her hand on my sleeve as if to prevent me following in Signor Benedick's path. Then she squeezed my arm once and was gone, with a whisper of her flame skirts in the grass. I peered into the colourful throng. But it was too late. I had lost Signor Benedick.

He had his revenge, for a little later, as the pipers struck up, I saw he had found another lady to walk about with him; some duchess from Catania, who, from the way she was leaning on his arm and laughing up into his visor, had morals as loose as her bodice. I saw, as he turned, that he had chosen for his mask the king of the
Scopa
pack. I studied them for a moment; as he could barely walk in the boots I had not had high hopes for him as a dancer, but had to admit that he danced well. We would have made good partners. Well, I could serve him likewise; I just had to find a man to dance with me, and make sure Beatrice was looking.

Then Don Pedro himself was at my elbow, and asked me to be his partner for the measure. I could not have done better, for he was the highest picture card in the pack, for all that he had chosen for his mask, strangely, the knave of the
Scopa
cards.

‘A knave, Your Highness?' I queried, as the music began and we did reverence to each other. ‘Surely you could have found a more lofty disguise?'

‘What better disguise than the opposite of yourself?' asked the prince. ‘I am a king on working days; may I not be a knave at my leisure? And I see you have risen in the world – for tonight the princess is a queen.'

‘My father still lives, I thank God,' I reminded him, ‘and my brother too.'

‘To be sure, to be sure.' He flashed his white teeth.

‘And in truth,' I said, the mask affording me freedom, ‘you are no more a king than I am a queen – for does not Spain have a king who is an emperor too?'

‘It does. Philip the Second.'

‘Is he a worthy ruler?' I felt daring. ‘For I have heard he is only a king of figs and oranges.'

‘He is much more than that,' he said lightly, ‘for his lands stretch from one edge of the Mariner's Mirrour to the other.'

I tried to imagine such a sovereign. ‘What is he like?'

He flung his hand high; part of the dance, part of his answer. ‘He is the most powerful monarch in Christendom.'

I dismissed such hyperbole. ‘Yes. But what
manner
of man is he?'

Don Pedro considered, as I turned about under his raised hand. ‘A man of contradictions. He will cry cold tears at prayer or contemplation, then warm his hands on a burning heretic.' There was more candour in his answer than I had expected. ‘On Christmas night he will watch the night offices with the monks in the freezing cold, and on Corpus Christi day process in the burning heat. On that day, they offered him shade, but I heard him say: “Today the sun will do no harm.” He commands the very heavens, Lady Beatrice, and sits as far above us as the great golden orb.'