Beatrice and Benedick by Marina Fiorato Page A

question I am enjoying myself much more
now
, now that disapproving eyes have taken themselves off to the Far.’ I looked out to the group of noblemen on the rocks, gathered together like cormorants. ‘I am speaking, you must know, of the archbishop.’
    I had formed an unfavourable impression of that prelate on the grounds of his sermon alone, but was surprised that Guglielma should find his attack so personal. ‘Why should he dislike you?’
    â€˜He has many reasons to hate me. One, that I am a woman. That would be enough. But I am free, in behaviour, in dress, in speech. I am part Moorish, and he had pledged to cleanse the island of my kind. I am from a family of slaves, and no one enjoys their freedom quite so much as those who have been denied it. And beyond that, I am married to a Calvinist whodoes not share the archbishop’s faith and is articulate enough to proselytise. And lastly I am raising a son in the image of his father.’
    I was struck – I had never considered any faith but the Catholic Church and had closed my ears to the teachings of the Protestants. Slowly I remembered the poet’s education. England, Denmark. Cradles of Protestantism. And Wittenberg, famously the home of Luther’s heresy. Guglielma’s thoughts had kept step with my own. ‘The sunrays that burned too hotly on my husband in the north were the fires of faith; but I feel, I dread, that they will burn here too.’
    I hoped she did not have the gift of prediction. Her words and her prophetic tone gave me an urge to cross myself, but given the subject of our discourse I refrained.
    Now she smiled, like a naughty child. ‘Your uncle disapproves of me too. He thinks I am a bad example for his daughter, and lead his wife astray.’
    â€˜And do you?’
    Guglielma glanced over her shoulder but my aunt was preoccupied with tying Hero’s slipper, for my cousin had little to do, as Claudio, unlike Benedick, had been invited into the inner sanctum of the conference on the Far. And so Hero regressed to the schoolroom, whining and fussing and bothering her mother for ribbons and comfits.
    â€˜Your uncle does not like Innogen to remember her history, but as women our history is part of us. Let me tell you a little of your aunt.’ Guglielma took my arm and led me beneath a Grecian arch loaded with ginestra blossom. ‘When they were first betrothed, your uncle gave her a bracelet, the one with the chalcedony stone that she wears every day.’ I knew the jewel well – the stone was beautiful, jade and opaque like the eye of a cat. ‘She lost the thing for a time and your uncle thought her untrue; but she pursued him till her good name, his favour and the bracelet were restored.’
    I thought of my aunt; so correct, so mannerly. I could not imagine her wantonly pursuing my uncle. Was theirs a happy ending? Had it been a comedy, their story? Guglielma echoed my thoughts, her eyes on her friend, on the jewel. ‘The bracelet has become her shackle. And it reminds your uncle of a time when she was free.’ Her honesty robbed me of breath, and as we returned to my aunt’s side I could say no more, but I thought much on the price of a marriage which meant giving yourself away.
    As the light thickened outside, the gentlemen returned from the Far and joined the throng. Claudio lined up with Hero at once, and she was once more transformed from a mewling child into a young woman; but, to my irritation, Signor Benedick did not seek me out. I saw him, after the first measure, in close conference with Duke Egeon.
    Determined to enjoy myself I joined the fray, dancing with my uncle’s brother Antonio, young Claudio, several of the Aragonese, and several times with the poet Michelangelo Crollalanza, who was very light on his feet.
    Later, much later, in the middle of a vigorous jig, I changed partners to find myself joining hands with Signor Benedick. Flushed, happy and with