Chapter Text
"Gentlemen." Don Pedro's return to the courtyard interrupts Benedick and Claudio's conversation. "What secret has held you here, that you followed not to Leonato's?"
Benedick stalks to him, thrusting an accusing finger at Claudio. "He is in love."
The Prince looks to Claudio, the youth's bashful face confirming the truth of Benedick's words. Don Pedro grins. "Amen, if he be in love. Who is the worthy woman?"
A plan is already forming in his mind. Perhaps he can assist with the match. He owes Claudio a great deal for their recent triumph in battle and he would like to honour the young count beyond riches.
"Hero," Benedick answers, his voice dripping with scorn. "Leonato's short daughter."
Don Pedro's smile falls.
:-x-:
Earlier
Don John stands a step behind his half-brother as the Governor of Messina welcomes them to his home.
"Good Signior Leonato, you are come to meet your trouble," Don Pedro declares with a smile. To the gathered witnesses it sounds like a jest but Don John knows it is he who is the trouble.
Eight months earlier, he had stood aboard a ship, scowling out across the azure sea. Another may have looked over the glittering expanse and seen freedom, but Don John knew it for the banishment it was. Following the sudden death of their father, the newly crowned Don Pedro had wasted no time in arranging for his bastard brother to be sent far from Aragon and its throne. He was to cross the Mediterranean Sea to the island of Sicily, where he would be deposited in Messina, a small but prosperous port town, and taken to the home of its governor, Signior Leonato.
Don John wondered which of his half-brother's advisors had suggested Messina as the perfect place to dispose of the bastard prince, with its far away shores and loyal governor whose daughter had just reached marriageable age. What better way for Don Pedro to rid himself of that fraternal thorn in his side than to bind him in marriage to a small and distant land?
The match had been agreed without Don John's knowledge; his fate sealed in a letter sent to Signior Leonato formalising the engagement before he was even told of it. When he discovered the plot, he was mutinous. Don Pedro insisted the match had been arranged by their father before his death and had the nerve to suggest Don John might be pleased by it.
"Pleased?" He sneered. "To be exiled from my homeland and bound to a woman I have never met!"
"Signior Leonato is a wealthy man and his daughter is his only heir. Besides, I thought you would like to live in Sicily. Your mother having been a Sicilian herself."
The mention of his mother did it. Don John lunged at his half-brother and would have throttled him if the palace guards had not intervened.
For his remaining time in Aragon, he had raged against the match, fought and threatened, torn the palace apart and been confined to his room until his temper cooled. It did nothing to calm the flames of his wrath, but it did give him time to plan.
Don Pedro assured his half-brother, as he was escorted from his room by armed guards, that he would thank him one day. Then Don John was marched aboard the ship that would carry him to the stranger who was to be his bride. Aragon had not been much of a home to him since his mother passed, however it was the only one he had ever known. After losing his father too, his tyrannical half-brother had all but exiled him from his home and country, signing away his future in the process. As Don John stared out across those roiling waves and reflected on all Don Pedro had taken from him, he reckoned it was only fair that he take something in return.
There were those within Sicily and its neighbouring lands who were not happy being ruled by a Spanish monarch so far across the sea. Don John already had contacts among the discontented. When his ship made port in Sardinia, it was simple enough for him to slip his guard and board a new vessel belonging to his allies. Thus he forsook the chains of marriage awaiting him and seized his chance at freedom as a rebel against the crown.
In the months of warfare that followed, he thought little of the bride he left waiting. He assumed the match to be broken and when he was dragged bound and beaten before his half-brother after one final, deciding battle, he expected execution to be his fate. Instead Don Pedro had speared him with a cold stare that he had inherited from his mother and declared him overdue in Messina.
It seems his half-brother still sees him as a useful pawn to be played; better in the game than out of it. After the territories' revolt, the Prince needs to strengthen the alliance between Aragon and Sicily and so here they are in quiet Messina.
Don John regards the scene with contempt as Signior Leonato gushes to Don Pedro. "Never came trouble to my house in the likeness of your grace."
How does his half-brother expect this old fool to keep leash of him?
"You embrace your charge too willingly," is Don Pedro's glib reply before he turns his smile onto Leonato's nearest companion. "I think this is your daughter."
He says it with a markedness designed to prick Don John's attention and it does. Until then Don John has avoided looking at the lady standing beside their host, however now he is obliged to. She is a woman, just; there lingers a girlishness to her features. Her stature is slight and her hair falls in dark corkscrews around her face. Amongst Aragon's court, she would be unremarkable, but here in this rural seaport town, he imagines she is considered a beauty. She puts him in mind of a summertime maiden, the sort that bards lose their hearts to before marriage and motherhood makes a winter of their desire.
She offers the Prince a demure smile but her curious gaze flits to Don John. He inhales, an iron pike through his lungs. Until now he has only thought of her in the abstract, another of Don Pedro's political machinations, an attempt to collar him. But now here she is, in the flesh. The sunlight streams onto her fair face, a blush blooming in her cheeks. She is real and his betrothed and he realises… he does not know her name.
"Her mother has many times told me so," Leonato answers Don Pedro and though he smiles as he says it Don John observes a shadow cross his daughter's features.
"Were you in doubt, sir, that you asked her?" Count Benedick of Padua chuckles and Don John's lip curls.
"Signior Benedick, no. For then were you a child."
Laughter comes in a deep rumble from the men of the courtyard. Don John watches the lady as she slips her father's grasp, darting to the side of another gentlewoman who has curls of flaming bronze and a few years on her.
"If Signior Leonato be her father," Benedick prattles on, even as Don Pedro and Leonato turn to other conversation, "She would not have his head on her shoulders for all Messina."
"I wonder that you will still be talking, Signior Benedick. Nobody marks you." The set-down comes from the bronze lady.
Don John watches with mild interest as Benedick rankles, puffing out his chest and answering with his own riposte. The two go back-and-forth and it is evident from their sparring that they have a past.
As the Prince's soldiers mingle with the governor's household, Don John hangs back, watching from the fringes. At last, Leonato appears to remember his existence and approaches him with a practised smile. "Let me bid you welcome, my lord. Being reconciled to the Prince, your brother, I owe you all duty."
Don John recognises the conditions set. He is welcome only because he is kin to the Prince. He wonders what riches Don Pedro had to bestow on Leonato for him to accept the traitorous bastard into his home. He feels Don Pedro's gaze boring into him and remembers his warnings to behave, the promise of punishment if he does not. His back throbs, still healing from his recent lashing.
He forces his features into a polite mask, extending a hand to the man who is to become his father-in-law. "I thank you. I am not of many words… but I thank you."
Some of the frost melts from Leonato's face and he shakes his hand. There is subdued applause then the governor returns to Don Pedro. "Please it your grace lead on?"
Don Pedro gives his royal smile. "Your hand, Leonato. We will go together."
Don John thinks he is forgotten but before he departs Leonato instructs his daughter, "Hero, please show Count John into the house."
Don John is still as she approaches, her eyes rising shyly to his own, speaking with a dulcet voice, "My lord, please follow me."
Hero, it must be her name. Hero, like the tragedy.
His limbs have turned to lead but he manages to nod, following her like a tin soldier. They walk from the courtyard into the main house at a faltering pace as each adjusts their strides to match the other's.
"You must be tired from your journey." Hero breaks their silence and Don John feels the ears of the house straining around them. "We have prepared a room for you. I shall take you there now."
The thought of his own private room after weeks under guard eases a splinter of the tension from his shoulders and almost causes his whole body to collapse. All he can offer in response is an intelligible murmur.
Hero leads him through the villa; progress is slow as she pauses to point out other rooms of interest and introduce him to each of the passing servants. They return her greetings with smiles of their own and nod politely to Don John, welcoming him to Messina. If thoughts less favourable cross their minds, they hide it well.
At last they reach a door and Hero leads him inside. The chamber is spacious and comfortably furnished, with a four-poster bed that looks so inviting it makes his bones ache. There is also a large window through which the sunlight pours. He crosses to it, assessing his distance from the ground, how possible it would be to scale the wall below. Gazing ahead he can see across the blooming garden to the green of the vine rows, in the distance there are the terracotta roofs of the town and beyond that the faint ripple of blue that marks the sea. He blinks and his vision ruptures, blood splatters across the peaceful scene as armies clash, men and horses fall, cannon blasts ripping apart the green fields in a crescendo of screams.
"My lord?"
His head whips around and he is back in the bedchamber, staring at Leonato's daughter, at his wife-to-be.
She is watching him, her expression uncertain. He wonders how wild he looks, a wolf in gentleman's clothing. "Is… is the room to your liking? It is one of our best. If there is anything we have not provided please let us know."
"It… is fine," he says before she can further fluster herself. It is better than anything he has had since he left Aragon. "Thank you."
She offers a timid smile, hands lacing in front of her. "I hope… you will be comfortable here. You shall find… in that chest there… your belongings were sent ahead."
Don John looks at the chest she gestured to, recognising it as the luggage he brought with him when he sailed from Spain and then had to abandon when he made his escape in Sardinia. It must have been sent on to Messina without him. He reflects on that, his betrothed awaiting his arrival, receiving a chest instead of a husband and a message that he had turned traitor. What must she have thought of him then? What must she think of him now, with all the wicked things she is sure to have heard of him?
He looks at her. She is as much a pawn of her father's ambition as he is Don Pedro's, the sacrificial lamb given to the wolf. He opens his mouth to offer her — what? An apology? What can he say? He would not do anything different if he could do it again and he does not want this marriage.
He grits his teeth.
She is well-mannered enough not to let the silence linger. "You will want to rest before supper. I will leave you to settle."
She glides towards the door, as graceful as any lady of the court. Don John knows he should say something but loathes to speak.
Still, she pauses, glancing back at him as if he had spoken. Her lips part in a sun-warm smile. "It is… lovely to meet you, my lord."
She leaves in a swish of dark curls and Don John is left in a scatter of thoughts. She sounded sincere, like she was truly pleased to meet him. This he finds hard to believe but reflects — there are worse men she could be engaged to; men twice her age and on their second wife for instance. However, it is hard to imagine when she dreamed of marrying a prince, as young girls do, that she factored in that he would be a bastard and a traitor too.
He distracts himself from these thoughts, pacing the room, assessing its inventory and exit points (the window, the door). As he does, he notices a vase of flowers placed upon a chest of drawers. Leaning in to inspect the colourful blooms he inhales the sweet scent of summertime.
He breathes out, a tingling through his limbs as some of the tension of the last weeks, the last months, bleeds from his body. He sags onto the bed and takes the room in. For a prison, it is a pleasant one.
:-x-:
"Well?" Beatrice demands as soon as Hero enters their shared chamber. "What did the knave have to say for himself?"
Hero keeps her expression neutral, crouching to pet Barkimedes who pads over to meet her. The poor hound has been confined to their chamber while the household greeted their guests and he must be agitated from sensing so many strangers. She ruffles his thick corkscrew fur, hoping to impart some comfort.
"In truth, he did not say much at all."
"You mean to say he did not fling himself at your feet and beg for your forgiveness?" Beatrice exclaims and while her outrage is exaggerated, there is genuine offence on her cousin's behalf.
It is a balm to Hero, as it had been when they first learned of Don John's desertion. Despite recalling that hollowing humiliation, she finds herself excusing him now. "He is tired from the journey here."
Perhaps a little dazed as well.
When she was a girl, she had brought a fox into her bedchamber. She had cooed and petted it but the fox had only grown more agitated, howling and scratching, crashing into furniture and the walls, injuring itself in its attempt to flee. She still bears the faded claw-marks from that encounter. Something about Don John reminded her of that wild creature though she hopes he does not feel similarly caged.
Hero is dazed herself. She has spent so long wondering about her husband-to-be, it is startling to finally meet him. Compared to her imaginings, their first meeting was rather anticlimactic, but that is hardly surprising. They are strangers, it will be their interactions to come which will be important.
"The sight of you has rendered him speechless, lady," coos Margaret, one of her waiting gentlewomen. "Mark me, the grovelling will come, now that he sees what a prize he almost forfeited."
She winks and Hero half smiles. She doubts Don John has been lovestruck; such notions are too romantic to hope for. However, despite his wicked reputation, she felt no true uneasiness in his presence. With further acquaintance she is hopeful the two of them might get along amicably.
Her fingers twist in the coils of Barkimedes' fur.
"Hero is right," Ursula says, the older gentlewoman speaking with experience. "All of the men will be worn from travel but their spirits should be better revived for the masque tonight. Come, ladies, we must prepare you for the evening's celebrations."
Beatrice sprawls across the lounger, heels kicked up under her. "On reflection, it is no great flaw that he is of few words. Better to have nothing to say than to say a lot of nothing as is Signior Benedick's affliction."
The women exchange knowing smiles. No one gets under Beatrice's skin like Count Benedick of Padua.
"He had much to say to you and you to him," Margaret croons.
"He always has much to say and nothing of importance," Beatrice scoffs with a flounce of her bronze curls. Barkimedes trots over to his mistress, clambering into her arms. "He yaps worse than Barkimedes. But I have no desire to speak of him. Tell me, coz, what did you think of your betrothed? I confess by the way he is spoken of I was expecting him to have horns and a forked tongue."
"Perhaps she will discover those later," Margaret titters.
Ursula gasps, swatting at them both.
Hero crosses to her dresser and perches on the stall. A blush warms her cheeks as she thinks of her husband-to-be. "He is very handsome."
It is not an exaggeration. Even her most hopeful daydreams had not imagined a face like Don John's that gave a new devastating meaning to the word beauty.
Beatrice and Margaret both let out shrieks of delight, the latter rising to hug Hero.
"As you deserve, love. He better prove worthy of you or I shall have words for him." Barkimedes makes a ruffing sound. "And so shall Barkimedes."
"Oh, lady, I am so pleased for you," Margaret gushes.
Hero meets Ursula's gaze through the mirror and the older woman smiles at her. A fluttering fills Hero's stomach, but it is not nausea. More like anticipation.
:-x-:
"Curse cruel fortune," Claudio groans as he stalks around the terrace. "That one as sweet as Hero should be given in bonds to that villain, Don John. Never was there a match more ill-fated than when Pluto abducted Proserpina."
"I would not be as quick to welcome a viper into my nest as Leonato be." Benedick walks beside him. "But chin up, Claudio, this was a narrow escape. You were almost snared into that which you had sworn against."
Claudio does not appear to hear him and makes a mournful note. "How is it that a traitor is awarded a pearl while I, who fought beside the Prince and won our victory, am denied. Don Pedro would not even consider my suit."
"The Prince is not against you. He promised he would assist you with any other suit but duty binds him to see this marriage through which was arranged long before you took a liking to the lady."
Claudio rounds on him. "How can you say when my affections sprung? Before our ended action I looked upon her with a soldier's eye that liked but had a rougher task in hand than to drive liking to the name of love. But now I am returned and that war-thoughts have left their places vacant, in their rooms come thronging soft and delicate desires, all prompting me how fair young Hero is, saying, I liked her ere I went to wars." His face crumples. "But I am thwarted and by the very villain I did conquer! Oh, how I wish I had severed the ogre's head from his shoulders when I had the chance."
"Come, come. Do not give yourself the stomach ache," Benedick urges. "The world is full of beautiful women. There's her cousin, and she were not possessed with a fury, exceeds her as much in beauty as the first of May does the last of December. Why, it is certain there shall be any number of worthy ladies in attendance at tonight's revel. Do not spoil your good charms bemoaning the loss of one — who I do not see to be so special — when there are others far lovelier than she that you could have."
"There is none that could outshine Hero in mine eye nor supplant her in my heart. If I cannot marry her, I shall die a bachelor!"
"That's the spirit." Benedick claps him on the back. "Let us retire and have a drink. Too long riding in the sun has addled your wits."
Claudio shoves him but follows him inside. Neither of them are aware that their conversation has been overheard.