My only company in the carriage was my cassone, my dowry chest. The thing was enormous, and left no room for even a maid for me. Its contents were so precious that two armed guards travelled beside the driver, and outriders in the Della Scala colours rode behind. The chest bumped against my feet, bruising my toes in my fancy jewelled boots. Plain and unadorned, the casket reminded me of a coffin. The cassone should symbolise a beginning, but it seemed an ending.
As the carriage bounced along the road the contents of the chest bumped about like a wakened body. It was our family treasure knocking to get out – priceless tapestries, garters, jewels, cloth-of-gold. Brass lamps from Byzantium, mirrors from Venice, spices from the Indies, all brought from the four corners of the world to be entombed in this casket. My dowry, my bride price. The thing made me a little afraid.
My heart speeded to keep time with the horses’ hoofbeats, for we were near the city walls. I could see the grove of sycamores near the Porta Palio, and beyond the walls, the looming theatre of the Romans like a great stone ‘O’. Once we’d passed below the shadow of the gate I looked for comfort in the familiar buildings, for, as at home, the Della Scala were everywhere, writ in red stone. There was the Ponte Scaligeri, with the broadest arch of any bridge in the world. There was our family church of Santa Maria della Antica; the Scaligeri tombs, with their ornate canopies, crowded in the little courtyard. I’d used to love coming here, to hear the tales of my ancestors; Cangrande I Della Scala, known as the ‘big dog’ and the first Della Scala ruler of Verona; Cansignorio Della Scala, Mastino II Della Scala. The names were music to me; they made me feel as if I owned the place. Even as a child, the notion that I would one day die and rest here did not trouble me at all. Now, with every red brick I saw, with every ladder blazon wrought in iron or stone, I was reminded of how valuable I was. What a prize. I was not the contents of the cassone. I was not myself. I was this city. Verona was my dowry. Who would not want to annex such a place? It might be harder to dissuade Paris from my hand than I realised. For as we drew into the Palazzo Erbe, with the beautiful frescoes growing on the façades like creeping vines, I realised that the Della Scala ancestral home, the red-stone Casa dei Mercanti, was cheek by jowl with the white Palazzo Maffei, Paris’s home. Our union was literally set in stone.
At the gates, one of my father’s men handed me down, but it took three of them to carry the cassone into the courtyard. The Palazzo Maffei was the last word in elegance, and seemed centuries away from the red-stone castle that was my home. It had many modern improvements made to its elegant, filigree façade; three galleries of creamy stone with an elegant balcony over each arcade, fluted semi-columns and large ornamental plaster masks between the snowy tympani. Indoors the elegance continued; marble columns rose to frescoed ceilings, and porphyry floors were polished like glass. In the atrium a vast marble staircase rose in a helix to the upper floors, twisting in on itself like a nautilus. It made my home’s rough stone and animal skins look primitive and crude.
I was shown to my chamber – a riot of gilt and glass with cherubs on every cornice – by a smooth maidservant, and there on the coverlet I found a white gown cunningly fashioned into a hundred tiny pleats. There was a girdle of gold vine leaves and a coronet of the same gilded foliage for my hair. The maidservant begged me to change at once, for the wedding portrait was to be taken this very afternoon. Journey-tired but compliant, I slipped into the gown and let the maid loose my curls. I followed her back down the grand white stair to the salon, a great frescoed chamber. It seemed odd to meet one’s betrothed for the first time with an artist looking on; but I did not mind for I had no intention of marrying Paris.
There was no one in the room save the artist, who was scratching around with his palettes. But my cassone had beaten me here, and was already elevated on a wooden arrangement like an elongated easel, the plain coffer waiting to be decorated with the traditional spousal portrait of the bride and groom. The thought of such a pictorial statement of intent made me nervous but – I raised my chin – placing Paris and me in a picture no more joined us in matrimony than all those lines of ink I’d witnessed. Contracts could be torn; bonds could be rendered void, wooden chests painted over. I knocked on the casket and it boomed hollow. So the treasure had already been taken, inventoried, signed for. More ink.
I walked around the arrangements that had been placed in the middle of the room – there were plants and Romanesque pillars set together like the scenery of a play, hung about with garlands of flowers and arranged like a whimsical rural fantasia from antique times. I put out a finger and touched one of the plaster pillars – it rocked, for it was hollow; just for outward show.
‘You like the scene?’ It was the artist who spoke, a tall fellow, well favoured for an artisan and dressed in a rustic smock. He was poking at the colours that had been arranged at his easel with a brush; a series of oyster shells, each with a different puddle of colour in the bottom. All the colours that were present in the rainbow, and some that were not.
I turned to him, haughtily; surprised that he should presume to address a princess. ‘Well enough. What is the tableau to be?’
‘The Judgement of Paris, of course,’ said he.
I snorted. The count was clearly an egotist; in most cases the cassone was decorated with some antique allegory, and usually one to do with a wedding – the story of Esther was very popular. But rarely did the groom choose a subject so self-congratulatory, nor with such a direct reference to his name.
‘And now that I have seen you, I cannot imagine anyone else playing the choice of his heart; Helen, the most beautiful woman in the world.’ I ignored the compliment, for it did not seem to me that he was quite of the rank to offer it.
‘And who will pose for the two goddesses he rejects?’
‘Two young Capuletti cousins – Rosaline and Giulietta. But they are stars to your sun; in your presence there could be no other choice.’ His brown eyes raked me appreciatively.
This was too much. ‘You are saucy, sir. You do not know me.’ I backed away. ‘Sometimes our outward shows do not correspond with our inner parts. The most beautiful vessel can be hollow,’ I said, thinking of the pillar. ‘Had Paris actually conversed with Helen of Troy before they wed, he might have found her wanting. He might have wished he had chosen another prize.’
‘I do not think so.’ He came from behind the easel, took my hand, and kissed it. ‘This Paris is very happy with his choice.’
Then I knew. This was the count himself, and my intended. I cursed that I had been caught so off guard. This was a fine start to our counter-courtship. I attempted to recover my poise. ‘My lord! Forgive me.’
‘There is nothing to forgive, for I was at fault. I took advantage of your misprision. I was amusing myself, and I am sorry. In truth I am a keen painter – though with no great skill – and Signor Cagliari, our esteemed artist, indulges me in my interest in his pigments. Ah, here is Cagliari, and he brings the ladies with him.’
A man wearing a velvet biretta entered the room, hung about with cloths and bottles and bristling with brushes. Behind him came two young ladies, dressed in white flowing gowns like myself, with their arms wreathed around each other’s waists as if by sticking together they could combat their timidity.
‘Perhaps I can make amends by making proper introductions this time? May I present Rosaline Capuletti-Maffei, a cousin of mine. And of course, you know Giulietta Capuletti – a fair cousin of yours I believe.’
I might have used the word fair to describe his cousin, but not mine; Giulietta, whom I’d known as a girl, had grown into a plain, sallow little thing, with such a dolorous expression that it seemed she might burst into tears at any moment. However, on seeing me, she broke from Rosaline’s arms and favoured me with such a fervent embrace that she nearly squeezed the breath out of me. I was surprised at such a heartfelt greeting, for I’d never known her well; she’d been too young to be my playmate, and I was always more of a child for a sword than a sampler. B
ut Paris drew me aside solicitously. ‘I’m afraid she has taken the death of your brother Tebaldo very much to heart, and grieves most piteously for her cousin.’
Again, I was taken aback – Giulietta had had even less to do with Tebaldo than with me. And yet – I caught my breath – I had been away for some time; perhaps they had formed an understanding? Perhaps there was to be another wedding before that young Montecchi had taken Tebaldo’s life and got himself banished for his crime. I looked kindly on the little maid – her grief would certainly add conviction to her portrayal of a woman rejected.
For the rest of the afternoon we all stood as still as we could, while the artist painted our likenesses on the broad front panel of the cassone. Paris himself, now clothed in an ochre cloak, reclined in a golden chair and held out a glossy green apple to me. I stood slightly before Rosaline and Giulietta, smiling down on him till my cheeks ached. It was not the most restful afternoon I have ever spent, for Signor Cagliari had me balance my weight on one foot and slightly point the other in a Grecian attitude, and of course I had to reach out one hand to the apple. But happily, Paris and I could converse with each other through the course of the afternoon – if through rigid jaws – and I thought I knew how to begin my assault.
The irony was not lost upon me; I was to play the exact opposite part to my goddess in the tableau. My task was to urge Paris not to choose me.
I had thought long and hard about how to achieve this. I could not risk my reputation by pretending to be loose of morals, besides which, my humiliating examination in the red-stone tower had put my chastity beyond doubt. And I could not pretend to be a religieuse – a Pope-holy dame longing for the nunnery – for a simple enquiry to my father would give the lie to that charade. No; I had to be myself, but even more myself, in brighter, bolder colours like stained glass after the rain. I had always been clever, I had always been outspoken, I had always been well read; I just had to be that. My plan was simple. My notion was that no man wanted a wife who was cleverer than him, and spoke boldly enough to show the world that she was. To this end I had read every book in my father’s library, new texts and old. And one of the stories I’d read repeatedly – in Homer, in Ovid, in Lucian – was this one. The Judgement of Paris.
‘My lord,’ I began, ‘I’m afraid I must begin our acquaintance by correcting you.’
The two Capuletti maids gave a gasp – the first and last sound I heard them utter for the whole afternoon – as if shocked that I would speak so to their noble cousin. Even the artist paused with his brush in the air poised between palette and cassone.
‘Then please,’ replied Paris tightly, ‘tell me how I’ve erred.’
‘You spoke just now of Helen of Troy,’ I said through my teeth, smiling fixedly for the benefit of Signor Cagliari, ‘but Helen was not one of the ladies offered to Paris. There were three goddesses only, Hera, Athena and Aphrodite.
‘The judgement we depict took place at the marriage of Peleus and Thetis, parents of Achilles.’ I looked down at the count, long limbed and easy in his Grecian smock and sandals. ‘Eris, goddess of discord, was excluded from the gathering, and in revenge she threw an apple into the company, inscribed τη καλλίστη; which – I am sure you know – means “for the fairest one”. The goddesses disputed who was the fairest, and asked Zeus to judge them, but Zeus gave the honour to your namesake Paris.’ His smile began to waver. ‘The goddesses attempted to bribe Paris, and Athena offered him Helen of Troy, considered to be the world’s most beautiful woman. Paris chose Athena, and she was granted the apple. And so you see, although I appreciate your compliment greatly, its provenance was quite faulty.’ I had to take a breath.
‘I see,’ replied Paris rigidly. ‘Forgive me.’
‘Do not trouble yourself,’ I said kindly. ‘It is a popular misconception.’
I let a silence fall, just long enough for the models to relax, and assume that my extraordinary lecture was over. But I was not done.
‘A very little study of Collothus or Apuleius would furnish you with the details. I think it is Apuleius who writes: “There and then the Phrygian youth spontaneously awarded the girl the golden apple in his hand, which signalled the vote for victory.”’
‘I am obliged to you,’ said Paris. ‘I will certainly study the passage.’
The apple that he held out to me was beginning to shiver, but whether with the natural tremors of fatigue or annoyance I could not tell.
‘Of course,’ I said pleasantly, ‘strictly speaking, the apple should not be green.’
Only Paris’s evident breeding could mask the sigh in his voice. ‘Why not?’
‘The apple came from the Garden of the Hesperides, Hera’s own orchard. The apples, which conferred immortality, were coloured gold.’
‘Well, let us hope that Signor Cagliari has the wit to change one colour for another.’
A further silence.
‘And some say that the fruit may not even have been an apple.’
This time my intended had no reply.
‘Such “golden apples” were most probably oranges. But in ancient times there was no knowledge of the orange outside of Levantine and Eastern lands, so there may have been a mistranslation.’
I was even annoying myself, and I made a pleasing contrast to our two cousins; silent as the grave, eyes downcast, they were the perfect example of maidenly modesty.
‘I am afraid, at this rate,’ said Paris, ‘that the cassone portrait will be a sad disappointment to you, Lady Beatrice.’ And the count was silent for the rest of the sitting.
I held my peace too, but inside I was singing. My plan was working.
When the sun began to lower outside, Cagliari put up his brushes and Paris released us from our poses. ‘I thank you, ladies,’ he said. ‘Please, take your ease until we feast tonight.’
I thought for a triumphant moment that he was going to leave with no further courtesies, but he turned to me at the last. ‘Oh, and I believe this is rightfully yours, Athena.’ He put the apple in my hand, smooth and round and heavy. I looked at him, and he winked, the ghost of a smile about his mouth.
I stood amongst the false flowers and hollow pillars long after everyone had gone, clutching the fruit, and biting my lip.
I had amused him, not annoyed him.
This was going to be harder than I’d imagined.
Act IV scene xi
The Florencia, Tobermory Bay
Benedick: I woke with a headache.
I located the centre of the pain just above my right eyebrow, and a sticky ooze dripped into the corner of my eye, turning my vision red.
I tried to raise my hand to wipe the blood away; could not. I was tied to the mast and the same hempen rope bound Claudio and the captain. Bartoli was still unconscious, but Claudio was wakeful, his pate broken too. ‘They are doing it,’ he said, ‘they are felling the tree.’
For a moment I thought him light headed from the blow, then I craned aft to see Da Sousa and the others, armed with ship’s axes, chopping at the mizzenmast. As we watched the timber gave and the great trunk fell – the creamy canvas crashed into the sea like a whale’s tail, sending an enormous splash of salt spray high. The lateen sail settled and trailed in the sea, bellying with water as it had once filled with wind. I felt that, as the mast fell, all our hope of getting to Spain and the sun were dashed.
The pilot ran past us without a guilty glance and took the wheel, spinning it under his hand like a cartwheel, turning it hard to starboard into the bay. It was the work of a moment, and we felt the bump and drag of the deadwood upon sand, and a great lurch as the ship ran aground. The timbers screamed, the ropes lashed and snapped and the Florencia lurched perilously before rolling to a standstill. For a moment there was an awful silence, while the ship gently rocked with the wash of the tide, suspended on its sandbar. Then there was a flurry of activity as the mutineers let down the ship’s boats, and, battling the tide, began to row to shore.
‘And now,’ said Claudio, �
��we will see if the Scots are armed.’
But only women and children clustered at the shoreline; the children pointing, the women hiding their infants in their skirts, for I’d heard tell that Elizabeth had told her subjects that the Spanish devour babes. I assumed the men of the village were off fishing, or working in the fields, and I feared for these simple Scots. I wondered at their menfolk leaving them so vulnerable, for there was already a Spanish galliass in the bay. Perhaps the men of the San Juan de Sicilia had already vanquished the local fellows; but I remembered the red wake, thought of our own sorry state of near-starvation, and thought it more likely the Scots would have had the better of the Spaniards.
With the crew gone, we attempted to free ourselves, but in vain. Claudio and I could not reach our daggers, nor each other’s. The captain was still unconscious, and unarmed. I smashed a nearby hurricane lamp with my foot, and desperately tried to reach the shards of glass, but they were just out of my grasp. We tried frantically to wriggle out of the ropes but ended up chafing our hands till they bled, for there was nothing we could do against the captain’s bulk, slumped forward over the ropes. We were trapped, tied like mules, a little trinity alone on this massive hull, with the ship shifting and creaking. If the Florencia had been holed on impact, we would go down with it, and if the crew were not back by high tide, we would be carried away wherever the wind took us, until we starved.
There was nothing to do but watch and wait. I looked first to the shoreline.
In the distant bay our sailors were causing havoc in the little village. One house was on fire. I heard the screams of women, and babes, and the barking of dogs. I saw one sailor chasing a goat down the beach, as hen’s eggs dropped from his pockets and a link of sausages flew from his belt like a pennant. It would have been comical were it not an action so utterly devoid of honour. I could not see that any of them would live out the night; and they were endangering us as much as them, for they were engendering hatred for every soldier of Spain.
Beatrice and Benedick Page 27