Beatrice and Benedick

by Marina Fiorato

  All of a sudden Beatrice was at my shoulder. I had been charting her course all night, and then she had appeared out of the dark like a stella nova. ‘Did you feast on oranges only when you were in Spain, Signor Benedick? Your expression would turn the milk.’

  I gave myself a little shake, and smiled at her. ‘Do you seek me, lady?’

  Her eyes glittered through the mask. ‘Now, why on earth would I be seeking you? I am looking for your new sworn brother, Count Claudio, at the behest of the prince.’

  I snorted. ‘You will find him hiding under the sedges, like a hurt fowl.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The prince has got his Hero.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said patiently, as if to a child. ‘He has wooed her in Claudio’s name.’

  I was silent.

  ‘You think not?’

  Still I said nothing. I could not voice my suspicions and was dumb with frustration. I had wanted to speak to her all night, and now I had her in my company she had touched upon the very subject on which I was sworn to silence.

  ‘Well,’ she exclaimed, ‘I am not at my leisure to converse with a post. Fare you well.’

  I went to the prince, full of foreboding, for he had linked his arm in Hero’s as if they were at the church door, and she was laughing up into his face. A pox on this wooing by proxy; every man should negotiate for himself, for in the face of Hero’s beauty Don Pedro’s promises had clearly melted away.

  The prince started at my approach, and looked a little guilty. His eyes flickered. ‘Ah, Benedick – where’s the count, did you see him?’

  I decided to speak in defence of my friend. I had sworn allegiance to Don Pedro but I had sworn brotherhood to Claudio. ‘He went in the direction of the willow, my lord. Perhaps to find a switch fit for his whipping.’

  He laughed merrily. ‘A count whipped like a schoolboy! This is a night of misrule indeed.’

  ‘Indeed,’ I said heavily. ‘It is a night when counts can be schoolboys and princes can be knaves. His fault was that of a schoolboy, not a count. He found a bird’s nest, told his friend and his friend stole it.’

  Hero smiled bemusedly, looking from the prince to myself; happily, she could not follow our discourse. But Don Pedro’s eyes were flint. ‘I only teach his bird to sing, and return it to the owner. It is not a crime to entrust an office to a friend.’

  ‘But it is a crime to break that trust.’

  Then Beatrice approached with Claudio in tow, and broke the spell. ‘By my troth, there are some sour-faced gentlemen abroad tonight! Surely wooing is not so serious a subject; you all look so tartly.’

  Claudio looked askance at me, then at the prince, who had his arm entwined in Hero’s.

  ‘The prince and I were just talking of allegiance,’ I said pointedly.

  The prince looked at Claudio, Claudio looked at the prince. Somehow, in that moment, we were back on the Florencia. I hoped I had made my feeling plain. If the prince reneged on his promise to get him Hero, Claudio could tell the world what Don Pedro really was.

  ‘Here, Claudio,’ said Don Pedro. ‘I have wooed in your name, and Hero is won. Name the day of marriage, and God give you joy.’ But he held on to her arm a little too long – she had to pull away and almost stumbled into Claudio’s arms.

  All the assembly clapped and cheered; Claudio and Hero were wreathed in smiles. ‘You see, Benedick,’ Don Pedro said low voiced, his expression naked for once. ‘You can put your trust in princes.’

  I bowed and turned away, and nearly ran into Beatrice.

  She fell into step with me. ‘Did you really think the prince would have betrayed Count Claudio so? He is an honourable man, is he not?’ She asked the question seriously, as if it really mattered to her.

  ‘Oh yes,’ I said with an ironic tone. ‘He is the very best of men.’

  She took the compliment at face value. ‘And even were he the worst of men, he would be better than the best of women? After all’ – her eyes glittered through her mask – ‘you chose him once before, over another. Or is it Count Claudio who commands your loyalty now?’

  I was once more silent, powerless to explain.

  ‘Ah, you are as dumb as a songless bird, but your plumage proclaims for you. I see you are still wearing the livery of the prince’s order. And now Claudio is to be wed, and taken from your company. What a shame there is not enough cloth in your doublet to cut you a kirtle. For then you could marry the prince, and God would give you joy. A double wedding for the single men.’ She stalked ahead into the midnight garden, but turned back halfway up the lawn. ‘Perhaps you could give him the settebello; I’m sure you have a card or two to spare.’ And she strode away into the dark.

  ‘Beatrice … wait!’

  She did not turn again, and it was just as well, for there was nothing that I could say. Her glittering skirts swept the grass, her hem darkening with dew.

  I kicked the same grass savagely as I walked back to the pink and torchlit house. I cursed my vow to Don Pedro, my oath upon an allegiance I no longer felt. At that rate, how could I tell Beatrice how he had parted us, how could I explain that it was the prince who had led me to discover her in the poet’s embrace, he who he had left the Scopa cards for her to find in my chamber?

  It was no use – I must labour for her favour with these innocent sins still at my door, for there could be no explanation without breaking my vow. I must rely on the prince to make all good; like Claudio before me I must trust him to woo for me. But after what I had seen tonight – even though all had ended happily – I did not know if I could do so.

  Don Pedro had recreated himself as the shining hero; he was Knight Roland from the puppet show once more. I wondered how he remembered the voyage of the Florencia in his own head, until someone reminded him of the reality as I had done tonight. I wondered whether, in his memory, he had done great deeds, not cowered in his cabin. In his new image of himself, perfect and pristine, how likely was he to admit to the littleness of his subterfuge, or own that he was a man who had parted two lovers with a pack of lies and a pack of cards?

  Act V scene iii

  Leonato’s gardens

  Beatrice: It was the day before Hero’s wedding, and I wandered the gardens watching the preparations.

  The arrangements for the wedding were taking over both the interior and the exterior of the house, but the provisions were very different within and without the walls. In the house, soft and delicate transformations were taking place – fronds of flowers, wisps of coloured tissue, ribbons and confetti. But about the walls, a rosary of security; Leonato had redoubled his guard at the gates and around the perimeter of the house. And between these burly professionals stood dozens of Messinese peasants whom Leonato had recruited for the Watch. The constables were having a devil of a time pressing these new recruits into shape; the lame, the hobbled, the young, the old, the stupid. Incredibly, this makeshift Watch had orders to stay the prince himself if need be.

  The only decorations outside the house were flags, hanging above the heads of these dolts. Dozens upon dozens of Trinacria flags, determinedly demonstrating Leonato’s Sicilian allegiance, three bended legs wreathed around Medusa’s head. There were no Aragonese flags to be seen, no ensigns of Spain or blazons of St James. Since the affair of the Spanish ostlers, there had been no more overt attacks on the house; but with the return of the Spanish the fear had returned too. I thought my uncle was right to be afraid – for more than once over the last week I had felt a pricking in my thumbs as if I was being observed, and had turned too late to see the watcher in the shadows. The previous night, at the masque, I had had the feeling again; but this time I had glimpsed a hooded figure wearing the mask of a crow. He had watched the assembly like a black raptor, before disappearing into the crowd.

  I dismissed the spectre from my mind and I wandered down the rose walk to trail my hand in the fountain. Yet again I must watch a younger cousin beat me to the altar. I watched the bustle of the gardeners with studied indifferen
ce; not for worlds would I admit that I was hankering after just such a wedding. I had given Paris to Giulietta without a pang, but now to see such lanterns hung and flowers strewn pained me, for now I had the right groom back, I wanted the wedding.

  I loved Hero well, and on my return we had resumed our close friendship as if we had never been parted. I was happy for her that she had the man of her dreams; yet even to Hero I could not admit my feelings for Benedick. But I think she guessed; for every time I happened upon Hero and Margherita, or Hero and Orsola, they were talking, loudly, of how worthy a gentleman Benedick was, and that he was not the unhopefullest husband they knew. But I could not let go of my persona of Beatrice the bachelor, Beatrice the wit, Beatrice the maid who would rather hear a dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loved her. If that Beatrice left me, who would I be? I had to be sure of Benedick – losing him once was the most difficult thing I’d had to endure; losing him again would kill me. Once again he’d come to Messina starstruck by his exalted company; last year it had been the prince, this year the count. And still there was the problem of his bitter words to me when we’d last parted, and the Scopa cards I’d found in his room the previous summer. Neither had been explained, although I had given him ample chance when I chid him about the settebello only the night before.

  We had spoken so many words to each other over the past few days, always in public, always in conflict. I wonder whether he knew as well as I that we were performing, that we were unable to let go of the perception that we were at war. What I wanted more than anything was time alone with him, when I could ask him, with a sad countenance, what had caused him to leave me here. I had given my father my word that I would be back in Villafranca in a month – half of that time had now gone. So while I watched and wandered in the gardens I hoped, as I always did, that I would chance upon Benedick.

  But it seemed I was destined to meet everyone in our party but him. In the pleached alley I came upon the prince’s brother Don John and his henchmen Conrad and Borachio – they were deep in conversation about something, but when they saw me, ended their discourse abruptly and bowed politely. I greeted them, retraced my steps and went the other way. By the espaliered peach trees I saw Hero and Claudio, whispering to each other like billing doves. And, in an old straw hat and smock, Leonato bustled about, directing operations. At last I saw a lone man in the colours of St James come towards me, and my heart stuttered. But it was not he; as the figure rounded the alley of lemon trees I could see that it was Don Pedro. I arranged my disappointed expression into one of deferential greeting. I had always liked the prince well enough; he seemed noble and I knew him to be honourable. I was fair enough not to blame him that Benedick had chosen his service over my company.

  ‘Lady Beatrice.’ The prince bowed, and when he righted himself his face was flushed in a way that could not wholly be explained by him stooping so. He breathed as though he had been running. The day was punishingly hot, so perhaps that explained his discomfiture. ‘Lady Beatrice,’ he began again, more hesitantly than I had ever heard him speak, ‘I have something to ask, and something to tell.’

  ‘Shall we take shelter?’ I indicated the Roman baths, beyond the rose walk, shady green pools as flat as mirrors, sheltered by a loggia of cool stone pillars. We walked and sat by the water, on stones older than the house. My aunt had once told me that the young single men of the house would wash here and take their sport, so it always pleased me to sit in a place where, centuries before, I would not have been allowed to venture.

  Now we were here, the prince seemed in no hurry to begin. Bees drunkenly weaved in and out of the columns, dragonflies were a blue flash darting between lily pads. We watched the servants weaving willow switches into arches over the knot garden before the chapel.

  At last the prince spoke. ‘Your cousin’s wedding is tomorrow, I think?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I said with a windy sigh, making a jest of it. ‘So goes every other soul into the world, except for you and I, Prince. We must sit and watch from this basin of bachelors.’ As soon as I had said the words, I regretted them; for realisation struck me just as they left my lips. Now I understood the way Don Pedro was looking at me, that curious, intent expression. I understood the flushed cheeks, the laboured breathing. I looked at my ringless hands in my lap. ‘That was to be your question.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Will you have me, lady?’

  And there and then, on the lip of those Roman baths, I was being offered that wedding I’d wanted. Just for a heartbeat I imagined my father’s face if I returned to Villafranca with Don Pedro in tow. But I did not hesitate. I had refused a count of Verona, I could refuse a prince of Aragon. I looked into his dark eyes – affecting diffidence, but with a plea at their dark centre. Could it be that even a prince could feel what I had felt this morning, that all the world processed in pairs into the shady church, while we bachelors were left to burn in the sun?

  His eyes were so serious that I felt I must jest. ‘Prince, I fear you have been on a boat so long that you think all creatures must go aboard two by two. My cousin marries your friend, and now we must all take our partners for Hymen’s dance? No, my lord, I thank you.’

  Now it was the prince’s turn to study his hands, and I saw there the yellow and red enamelled blazon of Aragon on his seal ring, a ring which, had my answer been different, would now have adorned my own hand. ‘Could you give me a reason?’

  I could not. I was silent, my mind racing. ‘Then I will supply the objection,’ he said, his lips twisted in a bitter smile. ‘You love Benedick.’ My instinct was to lie, to jest, to make denial. But I felt I owed him the truth. ‘Yes.’ The relief was enormous.

  He saw it. ‘You feel unburdened?’

  I nodded. ‘You are the first soul to know of it.’ Then I remembered. ‘Except … there was one … last summer.’

  He nodded. ‘The poet. Michelangelo Florio Crollalanza.’ He spoke the name as if it was verse.

  ‘How did you …?’ Then I recalled. The horseman on the beach. It had been the prince. I fell silent, suddenly toad cold. ‘You said you had something to ask and something to tell.’ My voice sounded curiously high and flat. ‘What is it?’

  He took in a deep breath. ‘It pertains to that very man,’ he said. ‘Last summer, I led Benedick to believe that you were enamoured of that poet. I brought him to see where you two embraced upon the beach. I knew you consoled him for the loss of his mother. Benedick did not. That is why he rejected you.’

  I stared, unseeing, at the dragonflies. Benedick had been there. He had seen us. Now I understood his strange behaviour at the farewell feast, his bitter and public repudiation of me in the coloured courtyard before he rode away. I needed space and quiet to order my thoughts, but I was not to be granted it, for Don Pedro spoke again.

  ‘And the Scopa cards in his room – the trick deck – they were mine, left there so you should find them. The card he gave you was no cheat’s hand. It was true.’

  The bee’s song hummed in my ears with my blood. ‘Why did you do this?’ My voice was no more than a whisper.

  ‘I wanted him to come with me, to fulfil his obligations to his knight’s vow, and to blessed Saint James.’

  ‘But what of his vow to me?’ The foolish words spilled out before I could prevent them.

  ‘What vow?’

  Now it was my turn to be silent. There had been no vow. There was no pre-contract, no ink set down to bind us. Benedick had broken no indenture. Only the vow made between lip and lip, that night upon the dunes; between body upon body, signed by stars and sealed in sand. I could not speak of this, so instead I asked the prince the question that burned into my mind. ‘Why did you not tell me this first? Before you offered me marriage?’

  He looked at me directly. ‘Would you have considered me then?’

  I did not have to reply. My answer was in the fall of my gaze from his. ‘And if I had accepted your proposal? Would you have ever told me of these other things?’ I looked at him a
gain, and this time his eyes dropped first, and I knew. I would have been the Princess of Aragon, but I would have gone to my grave thinking Benedick untrue.

  I gazed upon the calm Roman pools, my mind in turmoil. I did not know what to think. Whether to be gleeful and thankful that Benedick and I had been gulled, or to be angry that we had been parted with such a fool’s trick. Whether to censure Don Pedro for his ignoble actions of a year ago, or commend him for his belated honesty. Whether to grieve for the year Benedick and I had lost, or to rejoice in the time ahead.

  But before I could speak, a fast rider skidded to the gates, reining his horse in a cloud of dust. As the messenger attempted to argue his way past the guards, Don Pedro stood and hurried to the postern. ‘What is your business?’ he called to the rider.

  ‘A message for the master of the house, my lord.’

  I stood and followed the prince, full of foreboding. ‘I am the Prince of Aragon,’ said Don Pedro. ‘You may give the message to me.’

  The messenger looked the prince up and down, and made his choice. ‘Very well, Highness.’ He knelt and held out a scroll. ‘The Archbishop of Monreale was murdered last night in his bed, sire. Poisoned.’

  Now that there was no bar to our union I would have sought out Benedick at once, but the goddess Fate – with cruel irony and little sympathy for a fellow female – decided that he would be absent for the rest of the day.

  He had accompanied the prince and the count to Monreale, to discover the particulars of the untimely death of Claudio’s uncle. Don John, the prince’s brother, was most solicitous in their absence, assisting Leonato with the matters of the morrow. It did not seem to occur to my uncle to postpone the nuptials – in fact he seemed, if anything, more anxious to speed the business; and Don John was the man to help him. No detail was too trivial for the don; he even wished to know where everyone in the wedding party would be sleeping, and asked me which was Hero’s window, as he desired to arrange for musicians to serenade her. I was surprised that he was such a good steward, for I had heard that he had been such a poor custodian of Don Pedro’s estates that his mismanagement had placed the bad blood between them that his birth had not.