‘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.’
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.
Act II scene vi
A rehearsal at the Greek theatre
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 t
he 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.
Beatrice and Benedick Page 8