by David Blixt
“Morsicato says the best antidote to illness is youth,” repeated Detto.
“Thank heaven it isn't innocence,” replied Cesco, “or I'd be long dead. Hey ho, pincushion. It was very inconsiderate, not dying. Everyone was preparing to mourn you. I hear Valentino wrote a most eloquent eulogy. It was most unkind to cause all that effort to be wasted.”
“He'll have it when it's needed,” answered Detto. “I was just tired of you getting all the attention.”
“So you stabbed yourself?”
“Couldn't manage it. My skin is too thick. See? Your words bounce right off.”
“Are they so sharp?”
“Sharper than a real welcome.”
Cesco grinned. “Wah wah. What do you expect? If I hug you, you'll pop like a bladder.”
“Not from your hugs. They're soft and mild. Almost like your arms held no strength.”
That brought Cesco into a mock scuffle, which ended in an embrace. After more welcomes and banter of sickbeds and stabbings, Benedick said, “While you were in Vicenza, Detto, what did you hear of the Doge?”
“That he is ailing,” answered Detto, wincing a little from the rough play.
“I hear the world is ending,” retorted Cesco.
“Is it?” asked Maddelena fearfully.
“No,” replied her husband with a wink. “I mean to say, don't believe everything people say.”
“Even what you say?” asked Maddelena.
“Especially what I say.”
“Figs,” said the little girl, repeating the mild oath he often employed. Cesco laughed, and she laughed with him. She was growing bolder in her husband's company.
“Still,” continued Benedick, “isn't that bad? Dandolo as Doge? I thought you didn't like him.”
“I don't, but for personal reasons. He was unkind to a friend of mine.” Cesco's step faltered and his lips twitched.
“What?” asked Benedick.
“Just thinking of the qualifications to be Doge. One must be a citizen. Nothing more.”
“So?”
“Cangrande is a citizen. They made him one to honour the Pax Verona.”
The Rakehells were all staring. Maddelena said, “Why did they do that?”
“It is the habit of men to give presents to people who scare them,” explained Cesco. “Cangrande scares the Venetians, so they gave him the best present they could think of – they made him one of them.”
“You gave him presents for Christmas,” said Maddelena.
“I gave you presents, too,” said Cesco. “Because you frighten me so.”
“I do not, silly.” Maddelena pressed her point. “Are you scared of him?”
“I used to be.”
“Why aren't you now?”
“There is no longer anything he can take that I value.”
Though not lost on the adults, this flew directly over the little girl's head. “I'm not scared of him,” she said firmly.
Cesco nodded sagely. “You're braver than I was by far. After all, you married me!” In answer to which, Maddelena glowed.
Just behind them walked the three Alaghieri siblings. Antonia whispered, “Tharwat is where?”
“On his way back to Padua, to make inquiries about Girolamo and Donna d'Amabilio. Someone may remember a Scotswoman.”
“Cesco said the story was finished,” observed Antonia.
“As he just remarked,” murmured Pietro, “don't believe everything you hear.”
“Oh. Did Morsicato go with him? Or did he go to check on Donna Katerina?”
“Neither. He got a message this morning. Esta's unwell again.” Brother and sister shared a look. Hearing the mysterious illness had returned made both siblings wary. Pietro opened his hands. “He sends his regrets. He didn't want to leave.” Especially as he spent the whole night fruitlessly examining a corpse.
“He'll be sad to miss this feast,” said Poco. The doctor was known as a true appreciator of exquisite food.
“Perhaps we could ask for the recipes,” suggested Antonia, “and send them to him to recreate.”
“Recreate?” asked Cesco from before them. “I love to recreate! My favourite recreation is the creation of recreations for miscreants such as these Paduans here.”
“Better a mis-creation than a re-creation,” said Benedick.
“To be sure, it is always better to be original,” agreed Cesco.
“Isn't that what Lucifer said?” asked Salvatore. The Rakehells laughed, though Detto quickly stopped due to his side. Pietro and Antonia did not laugh at all.
Arriving at the palace in good order, the party entered the feasting hall looking fine. Surprisingly, the first to greet them was Giovanna, Cangrande's wife. “Welcome, welcome. Hello, sweetling,” she said, kissing Maddelena on the cheek.
“Such uncharacteristic warmth, Madonna,” remarked Cesco. “Are you quite well? Have you been possessed by the spirit of the season?”
“Another spirit entirely,” she said with an unfaltering smile.
Cesco glanced behind him theatrically. “I sense a sword hovering over my neck.”
Giovanna laughed. “What a wit you have, Ser Francesco. I have always admired that in you. It serves you well.”
“As I don't have murder to fall back upon, I must rely on my wits.”
Even at this her smile did not break. “As I say, very amusing. Ser Alaghieri, Suor Beatrice, Signor Alaghieri – welcome.” She bussed them all on the cheek before moving along.
“That's worrying,” said Pietro.
“It is,” said Antonia, deeply suspicious.
“Be sure to have someone taste your food,” replied Cesco.
Next Cangrande broke away from a cluster of lustrous lords to greet them. “Happy New Year!”
Straightening from his bow, Pietro said, “Lady Giovanna seems happy.”
“As well she might! I have given permission for Ser Paride to journey abroad, in her company. They leave in late March, first for Germany to see her relations, then on to Paris. He has been accepted to study in the University there.”
“Paris in Paris!” roared Poco.
Even Antonia smiled. “How apt.”
“Let us hope he does not marry there,” observed Cangrande. “For a fellow whose very name means 'married to death', it would be an unfortunate doubling of destiny.”
Cesco looked mildly amused. “I thought she had bargained to affix him on the tail of my comet.”
“In light of your comet's current trajectory,” said Cangrande archly, “she seems to have rethought that choice.”
Cesco shrugged. “One less dour face. Nuncle, would you fancy a trip to Paris, too?” Without waiting for an answer, Cesco made to lead his bride to her seat at the High Table.
Cangrande forestalled him. “Dahna, will you see the lady seated? There is someone her husband must meet.”
Curious, Cesco followed the Scaliger back to the knot of lords, who were surrounding a deeply tanned, nattily dressed man. “Ser Francesco, Ser Pietro, allow me to introduce Don Pedro of Aragon. Pedro, my heir, and Ser Pietro Alaghieri.”
“A pleasure!” said Don Pedro, gripping their hands firmly in turn.
Cesco was tickled. “Pietro, Pedro. Pedro, Pietro.”
“Settle down,” warned Cangrande.
The Aragonese prince was unperturbed. His smile was not as glowing as Cangrande's, but quite sincere. “Congratulations on your recent wedding, young lord. I am sorry I missed it, believe you me. Ser Alaghieri, I hear of you from our mutual friend Theodoro of Cadiz.”
This was an alias employed by Tharwat, one Pietro hadn't heard since Dandolo had mentioned it at the double wedding. “None of it is true.”
“You are far too modest. You did not face down the Grand Inquisitor? You did not reveal a viper in the bosom of Avignon?”
“There are so many vipers there,” said Pietro, “exposing one is no great chore.”
“Ha! So there is some truth, at least. I hope you'll take revenge upon him by telli
ng me tales of our quiet Moorish friend. He made a chart for me when I was only a lad.”
Cesco's hand shot out to clasp Don Pedro by the wrist, folding his other hand over it as though consoling one deep in grief. “I am so very sorry.”
“Settle down,” repeated Cangrande.
“I'm wed,” answered Cesco. “Isn't that settled enough?”
Not knowing what to say to that, Pedro continued to speak to Pietro. “We are to be neighbours this evening. A minor prince from Spain doesn't rate, I suppose!” His laugh was full-throated and infectious.
“Far more than a minor knight, I'm sure, no matter who his father was,” said Pietro with equal good humour. “I will be honoured. And who is this lady? Your bride?”
Beside the visiting prince stood a lovely woman in a rather ordinary green panel dress, one that showed a great deal of décolletage. Her hair was free, marking her as unwed. She curtsied. “I could not wish to be so elevated. His grace is too fine for me.”
Don Pedro placed his hand to his heart, a gesture of contrition. “I am remiss! My lords, allow me to introduce the lady Beatrice of Pisa.”
Crowing with delight, Cesco made a series of bows. “Donna Beatrice, Suor Beatrice. Beatrice, Beatrice. Pedro, Pietro. Beatrice, Pedro. Beatrice, Pietro.”
Cangrande cuffed his heir lightly across the head. “Enough fooling.”
“Is there ever enough fooling for a fool?” asked the Pisan Beatrice.
Rubbing his scalp, Cesco hooted. “A hit! Donna Beatrice, you'll fit in quite well. My bosomy lady, allow me to name my bosom friend Ser Bailardetto Nogarola.”
“A pleasure,” said Detto, bowing gingerly.
“Salvatore da Battaglia.”
“My lady.”
“And this is Signor Benedick of Padua. Benedick, Beatrice. Possessor of blessing, here is the bringer of blessing herself.”
Benedick's eyes had trouble settling on her face. “Charmed.”
“I can tell,” said Beatrice drily.
Disgusted, Antonia took Beatrice's arm. “What brings you to Verona?”
Don Pedro answered for them both. “The lady's uncle is a favourite of my father's, and she required an escort back home to Messina, in Sicily. I volunteered.”
“I can see why,” said Benedick with something like a leer.
Beatrice ignored him. “Like Aeneas, we arrive by a rather indirect route. In our case, we travel west to go east, and north to go south.”
The literate in the crowd appreciated the comment. Benedick, however, was bright-eyed, a cocky half-grin on his lips. “Lady, if this is an indirect route home, is there a direct route to your favour?”
Beatrice measured and devoured him in a single glance. “I don't think I shall curtsey to you, signore, until you prove yourself a gentleman.” With that, she turned her back on him.
Detto laughed in spite of himself. “Cut!”
“And bleeding,” agreed Cesco.
Benedick rallied. “You must not know many gentlemen, else you'd be better at conversation.”
Don Pedro flushed a little, but the shaft was not aimed at him. Halting, Beatrice turned slowly. “No conversation is certainly preferable to this one.” Again she turned away, to the admiring hoots of the Rakehells.
Pietro's sister squeezed the newcomer's arm. “Lady Beatrice, I think I like you.”
“Suor Beatrice, I am honoured.”
“How long are you staying?” asked Pietro.
Don Pedro offered a cheerful shrug. “As long as my presence is tolerated. How could I come to Italy and not visit the court of the famous Greyhound?”
“How indeed?” asked Cesco wryly.
Cangrande turned to speak to Castelbarco as Don Pedro pressed on. “I have heard so much of the glorious Palio, I feel I'd be a fool to miss it. I might even run.”
Turning back, Cangrande pressed the Spaniard's shoulder. “You're most welcome. And you, Donna Beatrice.”
“If only to see Signor Benedick laid so expertly low,” added Cesco.
Soon all were seated. Cesco and Maddelena were again near the throne of power, and Detto again placed beside his father, though his brother Val had elected to sit with his new friend Proteus at a lower table. Bail and Detto said a brave greeting, and laughed together, the father solicitous of the son he had nearly lost.
Cangrande teased them both. “If he starts cutting your meat for you, Detto, you know he's feeling maternal.”
The table containing Pietro, Poco, the Prince of Aragon, and the two Beatrices was placed longways against the High Table, so those at the end were directly across from Cangrande. Aiello the Scot was relegated to a far table. He looked put out, until he found his neighbor to be Antony Capulletto, with whom he had wanted to speak.
After prayers from the Bishop and Cangrande both, they set to. Asked his business in Italy, Don Pedro said, “I came to marry. But it did not come to pass.”
“Whom were you to marry?” asked Antonia.
Pedro frowned, as if considering his answer. At last he said, “The lady of Bellamonte.”
Pietro cried out in surprise. “Bellamonte? You mean the lady Portia?”
The blood positively drained from Pedro's face. With a strained croak in his voice he said, “You know of her?”
“We've met,” said Pietro carefully. “On the road back from Venice, the night Detto was attacked,” he added for the others.
Cesco recalled Pietro had been with two women, but his focus had been elsewhere at the time. “Didn't you say she was married?”
“To a Venetian called Bassanio.” Pietro turned to the Spanish prince. “I am sorry if this injures you.”
“Not at all.” Don Pedro managed to produce a smile through his shock. “I am pleased the lady escaped her predicament.”
“Now you have to tell us,” said Petruchio Bonaventura, seated at the next table.
“If she is married, then I suppose the need for secrecy is over. The lady Portia is beautiful, witty and, if I speak truth, a trifle mean-spirited. Though in fairness, her position was an impossible one. Before he died, her father created a test to choose a husband for her after he was gone. Three caskets, one of gold, one of silver, and one of lead. The man who chose the correct one could marry the woman.”
Several men laughed heartily, while their wives looked on, aghast. “Good lord, that's arbitrary!” cried Petruchio. “Hm. I like it. Kate, shall we try it for Vittoria and Evelina?”
“Anything is better than the bartering you did with my father,” said Kate. “I was a pig at market.”
“A fat pig,” said Petruchio.
“Fat!?!”
“Rich! I mean, rich! You judge a pig by its—” He put his head in his hands. “O God, I shall never have a moment's sleep again.”
“On the contrary, husband,” said Kate haughtily. “When you go to bed, sleep is all you will get.”
Amid the ensuing laughter, Cangrande asked the obvious question. “Which did you choose?”
Don Pedro spoke with obvious reluctance. “I swore an oath not to reveal it. Even if she is married, I do not think I can say.”
“I know which casket bore the prize,” said Pietro. “I heard of it after, from Bassanio's friends, and I swore no oath. It was the lead.”
“The lead?” said Don Pedro, puzzled. “A base metal? Truly?”
“It's unlike a Venetian to look at a woman and not think of gold,” said Nico da Lozzo.
Debate started around the room as to the merits of different metals. Under its cover Pietro confided, “If it helps balm the wound, lord prince, Bassanio had help discovering the correct one. The lady sang, and the rhymes were all for lead.”
Don Pedro's mouth quirked. “I'm not certain it's balm or insult. She sang no song for me.”
“You're well out of it, prince,” said Benedick, usurping a seat designated for another. His intrusion was smoothly dealt with by the stewards, who created a new place setting where none was possible before. “Be it gold, silver, or lead,
marriage is a yoke.”
His words were for Don Pedro, but his eyes were all for the lady Beatrice. Who ignored him entirely, enjoying a discussion of poetry with Dante's daughter.
To either his credit or his infamy, the red-headed Paduan did not give up the chase. All through the feast – a religious meal of fish and water with few real delights – he pressed Donna Beatrice for attention. He was each time shot down by a quick barb, but once or twice he gave as good as he got.
Soon their raillery became a focus of amusement. “It is a time of forbearance,” said Beatrice after one particularly feeble assault. “Why don't you honour it by stilling your tongue?”
Wincing, Benedick turned to Antonia. “Tell me, Suora, what is it in the name Beatrice that makes women dislike me? For I swear I've never been this unpopular in my life.”
“Perhaps because it is our duty to bring joy,” answered Antonia, “and if we were to give you your head, your need for it would take up all our time.”
“Well said!” laughed Donna Beatrice, lifting her glass of water in salute.
Before she took a sip, Benedick placed his hand over the mouth of the cup and pushed it away. “I recently heard it was bad luck, saluting with water.”
“Worse luck than your touch?”
“My touch? What's wrong with—”
“It must be the opposite of Midas'. From the state of you, any gold you have must turn to lead.”
“Not to lead, if lead leads to marriage. For lead becomes iron, and I'll not be clapped in matrimonial chains.”
“A dear happiness, then, that no woman is ever likely to imprison you within her walls.” A delicious double entendre that was enjoyed by everyone present.
Submitting to the guffaws with a good nature, Benedick turned to the Spanish Prince. “My Lord, you likely think I'm a vagabond with a wagging tongue. But I can earn my keep.”
“Really?” asked Cesco lightly. “Then I've been remiss!”
Don Pedro was the soul of graciousness. “If you ever lack employment here, come to Aragon and show me. We can always use a good soldier – or a jester,” he added slyly.
“And the Prince scores a touch!” cried Poco.
