Beatrice and Benedick Read Online Free

belligerents, with their respective generals out front to give the parlay.
    The man my uncle addressed was not, out of his saddle, particularly tall or broad but he was dressed magnificently in the scarlet of his pennant. This must be the prince of Aragon, Don Pedro. His sleeves were slashed to show black satin, and the material had the same oily sheen as his short black hair cut close as a cap, and his neatly trimmed beard. He smiled to show white teeth, and to his credit, kept the smile wide for the entire length of my uncle’s windy welcome. Although, at the end of the elegy, I did see the corners of his mouth begin to twitch with fatigue.
    In a heavy accent, the prince said something gallant and brief in reply, hoping that he and his court would be no trouble to my uncle in the coming month.
    My uncle denied any such thought with a shake of his head, and the beard that he cultivated – just beginning, to his delight, to be shot with august silver – shook in agreement. ‘When you come to my house, Prince, happiness rides in your company; but when you leave us, sorrow will occupy your room, for all contentment decamps with you.’
    As he spoke again, I saw a figure behind the prince whom I had not noted before shift restlessly into view, fidgeting.
    The young man was not in uniform, but would have stood out from the liveried company anyway, for he was the tallest gentleman in that courtyard. Southerners and Spanish seem to be pygmy peoples and of the entire company only my aunt or I could look the stranger in the eye. He had the blond hair of the north, the colour of winter wheat. It had a wave to it, and he wore it long enough to curl about his collar, not cropped like the Spaniards’. His brows were darker than his hair but his eyes were green, and although he did not wear a beard, his cheeks had not seen a razor for some days and an untidy stubble darkened his jaw. His attire was beyond reproof, though – he wore the tight-sleeved, knee-length jacket fashionable in Venice at this time, in a bottle-green silk, and his breeches and boots both were black deer-leather.
    I was so busy studying him it was some moments before I realised that he was not alone. He had his hand resting affectionately on the shoulder of a youth beside him; not his brother, from the difference in colouring. These two, alone of the company, had left off the scarlet and half-armour of the Spanish. The youth looked about Hero’s age, had a poll of curly black hair and wore the purple velvet of the Tournabuoni-Medici family, which told me at once that he was both a Florentine and a nobleman of some consequence. As my uncle droned on I sawthe man give the boy a squeeze of his velvet shoulder. The boy looked up and saw, as I did, the man allow his eyes to flutter and close as if my uncle’s droning was lulling him into a sleep. Then he stumbled half a step forward and his eyes flew wide, as if he’d woken with a start. The little play was enacted with great economy of movement, so only his audience of one would appreciate it, and he would not be caught in a breach of manners. But it was done with kindness as well as discretion, and I warmed to the fellow for making the younger man feel less nervous. The youth smiled, and the northerner smiled too. And, as though my own small movement had caught his eyes, he looked straight at me. I saw now his eyes were as light as my own, and very direct. They meant home to me, and I forgot to look away. Then one of them closed, quite distinctly, in a wink. I dropped my gaze, pursing my lips to hide my smile, and shifted behind my uncle so that I was completely hidden, my pulses beating in my ears.
    Finally, when both Don Pedro and my uncle had finished their elaborate ritual, the introductions began; and my aunt, Hero and I were presented. The prince kissed my aunt Innogen and Hero’s hands, and I knew I was next. I shamefacedly presented my inky fingers, hoping he would not