Beatrice and Benedick Read Free Page A

ibat Simois, hic est Sigeia tellus
…’ I droned on like a bee in a casement, boring myself.
    Hero folded her arms sulkily and sing-songed back to me. ‘Here-ran-the-Simois-here-is-the-Sigeian-land-here-stood-the-lofty-palace-of-old-Priam. Beatrice, please! No more dead histories of dead lands. A story of our own dear Italy, and of our times, I beg you.’
    I relented and shut the book. ‘Very well, a tale, but a worthy one, of morality and religion.’ I racked my brain, for in truth I didn’t know any. I dozed through mass, and did not study scripture. So I told a legend that my sea captain had told me on the way through the straits. ‘I can tell you a moral tale closer to home. In biblical times Our Lady herself sent the citizens of Messina a letter, written in Hebrew, rolled and tied with a lock of her hair. Mary praised their faith and assured them of her perpetual protection. Ah, here is some Latin for you; she ended the letter
Vos et Ipsam civitatem benedicimus,
that is …’
    â€˜I bless you and your city,’ interrupted Hero. ‘I
know
this. The letter is kept in the cathedral, and we celebrate the day it came every year. I did not mean pious parables, Beatrice. I want to hear a
love
story.’
    I sighed. ‘I was brought here to instruct you, for soon you may be lying between the sheets of a marriage contract with some young gallant.’
    â€˜Then teach me of love!’ my cousin begged. ‘That can be my education. Beatrice, I
need
to know.’
    I looked at her, her dark eyes enormous with pleading. I sat down on the window seat again.
    â€˜Very well.’ I lowered my voice, in case my aunt overheard us, and told the tale of the Moor and the lady in the dunes.
    I told how they had lain entangled in the still cool shadows of the seagrass, kissing hungrily. ‘And then he pushed her into the dunes, and moved atop her …’
    â€˜No more!’ Hero jumped up from the window seat. ‘Tell me no more. Love, yes, but no farther. My lady mother, Friar Francis, they would not approve.’
    â€˜Friar Francis!’ I scoffed. ‘He likes my tales as much as the next man, despite his holy habit.’ It was true; Leonato’s rotund little friar had become a good friend over the last month I had been in Messina. Partly because we shared a secret – I had more than once seen him playing
Scopa
with the sailors at the docks, the colourful playing cards weighted with pebbles against the wind, resting on an upturned bark. I had seen him there because I played there too, in the early morning when the catch had come in, and I had bought my horn of ink. The friar and I had an unspoken agreement, as our eyes met over the seven of swords or the five of cups, that neither of us would tell my uncle.
    I said nothing of this to Hero now; but I need not have troubled myself, for my cousin had ceased to listen. Her eyes were on the sea road and her forefinger pointed. ‘Beatrice!’
    A distant glittering dragon curved along the sea road, the sun catching on hulme and blade. The dragon was tiny at the moment, but grew and neared as we watched. ‘Your father’s guests for the Feast of the Assumption,’ I said with a catch in my voice. ‘Your mother told me of their coming just now.’
    Hero jumped up. ‘Then we must ready ourselves.’ She fingered her simple surcoat. ‘My father will want us to change.’
    I got up too, more slowly. ‘Heigh-ho. Time for our finery.’
    â€˜And you must wash your hands,’ urged Hero, ‘they are all over ink.’
    I smiled as I turned her round to unlace her. ‘It is not the first time I have seen black cover white today.’
    â€˜What do you mean?’ Hero asked.
    â€˜The lovers. The man is black, the lady white.’
    â€˜He is a Moor? The man on the beach is a Moor?’ She tried to turn, but I pushed her back by the shoulders.
    â€˜Stay