Beatrice and Benedick Read Online Free Page B

seated next to the daughter of the house as they were of an age, and there was some goodwife between us. He looked at me pleadingly as we sat and I smiled reassurance. At seventeen he was three years younger than myself, but I had grown to like the young fellow on our journey, once I’d discovered that his stiffness concealed a crippling shyness and his haughty manner masked a merry nature.
    So, when we were all placed, the lady Beatrice was seated about six souls away, between her uncle and another bearded fellow who I took to be the governor’s brother. I could hardly see her, even by constantly moving my head as if I had an ague. Every so often I caught a tantalising glance of her long fingers, now cleansed of ink, tearing a piece of bread, or her blond curls lifting and settling as she turned her head. I would have been remiss in my duty to Claudio, were it not for the fact that the little maid of the house was keeping him enraptured with her conversation. Strangely, they seemed to be talking about scripture, and I could clearly hear the lady tell him, in her girlish pipe, some coil about the Madonna and a letter and a lock of hair. I envied Claudio that he could speak with the companion of his choice but not I with mine. Frustrated, I sat through the endless procession of local delicacies, accompanied by strangers and trapped in my chair by propriety.
    The Sicilians seemed fond of marrying foods together that should never even have met. I was served a cheese with a lime inside, pasta littered with raisins, and anchovies stirred with oranges. Leonato had promised us in his welcome food such aswe had never tasted; and he had made good on his promise for I had certainly never violated my palate with a repast like this before. I sighed as the next dish arrived; a pale mass resembling pigswill, wrapped in a fatty filigree of cow’s caul. ‘
Maco
,’ said my neighbour helpfully, but I did not know if she named the dish or warned me against it. My innards rumbled and I would, at that moment, have given all of Don Pedro’s fortune for a dish of doves. In the end, my stomach growled at me so much that I tried a tiny bit of the stew – just so much as I could take on my knife’s point. It was bland and mealy and my northern palate rebelled. I was glad that I had thought to bring a little pouch of fiery Paduan mustard, yellow and hot as the sun, which I discreetly but liberally sprinkled on that platter and every one thereafter.
    In the midst of this parade of strange dishes, I saw my chance, when the bearded fellow beside the lady Beatrice left his seat to speak to one of the servers. I rose and quickly nipped into the seat next to her, twisting into the chair like an eel so that the bearded gentleman, upon his return, almost sat in my lap. I grinned at him; he waggled his head at me in reproof and walked away to the other end of the board, muttering. I turned my smile upon the lady, but she regarded me warily. Close to she was better than ever – her blue eyes very direct, her coral mouth plump like a rosebud, her eyebrows dark and expressive. Her hair fell in wayward curls about her face, escaping from the constraints of combs and braids; not by any means a neat hairstyle, but one that suited her remarkably well.
    As the servers brought new trenchers with another alien concoction, we were necessarily silent and I considered what I would say – rare for me for I usually speak extempore. Giving her the
settebello
card was a good start. It usually worked; ladies were intrigued, flattered, and full of questions. They always asked about the card first, and then I could get on with the serious business of making them laugh.
    But this lady did not wait for me to marshal my wit. She spoke first. And she did not mention the card.
    â€˜Do you travel farther, Signor Benedick, or are you at the farthest?’
    â€˜Lady Beatrice, this very chair is my destination. I came to Sicily with no other