Beatrice and Benedick (44 page)

I must have been silent for some time, for Don John, his warning given, bowed and disappeared, taking Conrad and Borachio with him.

I watched the prince; if Beatrice was a star then he was once again the sun, charming all before him, gilding the guests with flattery, flashing his teeth. Don Pedro might have been last year's prince; he was even wearing the same mask, the knave of the
Scopa
pack. Only I could see, behind the eyes, where his sheen had worn away. I observed the prince deep in conversation with Hero, holding her white hand in his brown one, now and again carrying it to his lips. I began to feel uneasy.

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?

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 indifference; 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?