Beatrice and Benedick by Marina Fiorato

is, but only what he loves.’
    â€˜Say on.’
    The poet drew a long breath, and pointed his goose-tip at each player as he spoke. ‘The prince loves himself, too well to admit room in his heart for another. The archbishop loves God and gold in equal measure. The young count loves God only. The viceroy loves his king, but would rather be one. Your uncle, saving your presence, loves his own voice.’
    I was intrigued by his words, by him. ‘And what do you love?’
    â€˜Words,’ he said, ‘words, words.’
    â€˜And how do you know these men’s hearts?’
    â€˜Observation chiefly, and a little catechism,’ he admitted. ‘I questioned the count about his home in Florence, and as all conversations about that city must, our discourse turned quickly to art. I asked him if he’d seen Signor Botticelli’s
Pallas and the Centaur,
as the subject of Pallas Athena holds a particular interest for me. He admitted he’d seen the painting, but said that to his mind Botticelli’s devotional work was superior, and pointedto the fact that the artist himself, by the end of his life, had denounced his pagan work.’
    I thought of what Hero had said when she had met the young count at dinner; that he did not wish to hear tales of love but of the scriptures. The poet had seen into Claudio’s soul. I wondered what he had divined of the count’s nursemaid?
    With a great commotion and clatter all the company stood for the dancing and would soon divide into ladies and men. I had to ask.
    â€˜And Signor Benedick?’ I spoke casually.
    â€˜Who?’
    â€˜The prince’s companion. The tall blond northerner, hovering at his master’s shoulder like a Barbary’s parrot.’
    â€˜Ah, now that is easy. He loves
you.
’
    And with that, he was gone, with a dramatist’s talent for ending a scene.
    Struck by what the poet had said, I sought Signor Benedick at once. Could it be true that he loved me, even though he had made denial to Don Pedro? He had given me a priceless reliquary, and a worthless playing card that even now I wore in my dress, under the starburst stomacher. He had rescued me from the maze and saved my blushes at the tourney. Was Michelangelo Crollalanza right? He could be gulling me, of course, but the poet did not seem of humorous bent.
    My search was in vain, for Benedick was way out on the Far, standing sentinel a little way from the nobles, and looking as forlorn as a lodge in a warren. So I went to join the ladies, acting, for once, as form demanded; but only because, as Benedick was engaged in the service of his master and Signor Crollalanza had vanished, I had an urge to seek the society of the poet’s mother.
    My aunt was beside the lady, and the evident closeness of their bond was almost enough to make me reassess my earlier musings on feminine friendships. ‘Aunt.’ I greeted my auntInnogen with a kiss on the cheek, but Signora Crollalanza, who always seemed to speak candidly, did not waste time on niceties. ‘Lady Beatrice. You look better without your mask.’
    She might have been speaking of my disguise as the Queen of
Scopa
at my uncle’s masque, but I knew she was talking about my appearance at the fencing match as Signor Arcobaleno.
    â€˜Signora Crollalanza. So do you.’ It was true. Her black hair, unornamented as ever, had a nap and texture such as I had never seen.
    â€˜I have been making the acquaintance of your son,’ I said.
    The jet-black eyes softened. ‘I am glad of it. Michelangelo thinks too much.’
    â€˜Is that possible?’
    â€˜For a woman, no. But for a man, yes.’
    â€˜He seems to enjoy observing others.’
    â€˜He has little to divert him here, so I am glad he is enjoying the festivities.’
    I caught her tone. ‘And you?’
    She smiled and spoke in my ear. ‘It is more comfortable to observe than to be observed. In answer to your