Free Beatrice and Benedick by Marina Fiorato Page A

incredibly, as bout followed bout, it seemed inevitable that the saint’s finger would be claimed by Signor Mountanto.
    I could see Don Pedro sit forward on his wooden throne, delighted with his new protégé. For as the rounds progressed even I had to admit that Signor Benedick outclassed all those who stood up with him. Not that I had much admiration for the Spanish style of swordplay; it was too pretty, with too many flourishes. It was attractive to watch, but had not the strength and clean lines of good Italian combat, and the beautifying flourishes left the core open to blow after blow. So Signor Benedick was giving them a master class. His
stoccata
was impenetrable, his
imbroccata
impressive and his
punta reversa
impassable. Not only that, but he gave good show – he would throw his sword from gauntlet to gauntlet, even fight a round with his left hand. One fellow he fought with just his dagger and still his opponent’s foil never touched him. Another he fought with his body entirely turned away from his adversary, literally fighting him behind his back. The tournament was becoming a joke.
    The crowd fell silent. Leonato’s face grew sourer and sourer, and Don Pedro’s countenance brightened. Benedick might be an Italian, but he was fighting in the colours of Spain, and Don Pedro, at this rate, would win the day.
    My own visage soured as much as my uncle’s, for as I watched I realised that Signor Benedick had gulled me at dinner. For he had clearly downplayed his talents in swordplay, preferring, for whatever reason, to appear a feckless dilettante, rather than a young man who had clearly studied every aspect of the art of combat for all of his childhood. I do not know why I was surprised; boys of his class would have been routinely schooled by a fencing master – my own brother trained every day … I stopped, caught by an idea.
    My brother’s situation was singular, in that while his male cousins were sent to war to cool their heels, or even taken up for murderers after a bloody street brawl, my brother was left with no opponents to practise his swordplay on. So Tebaldo Della Scala, lord of Villafranca, sharpened his sword on his sister.
    From a very young age I was taught how to block a blow with a dagger, how to circle my braids with a rapier, how to protect my chest spoon, how to jump with both feet above a blow. I too was taught the
stoccata,
the
imbroccata
and the
punta reversa,
and yes, the
mountanto
too. And I was well used to fighting a young man of twenty.
    I looked across at Hero, but she was deep in conversation with Claudio. A week earlier I would have told her what I planned to do, but today I did not. She had become, almost overnight, much more like the young woman her father wanted her to be. But I did not think it was Leonato’s influence. I think it was Claudio’s. For that dinner on the first night with the Spanish had been as pivotal to Hero as it had been to me. The young man was devout, and he had dismissed her Italian lovers’ tales but listened rapt to the story of Mary of the Letter. I sensed, now, that she would not beg me to hear tales of love, but rather of scripture; that she would pick up a gradual over a book of hours. For it was she who had, despite the disparity of our years, this very morning bullied me to church. Like an opal,Hero had changed to Claudio’s colour. Even now her head was turned to him, as she enjoyed the tourney not through her own observations but through his eyes. She would never notice my departure.
    Slowly, slowly, I edged to the back of the loge and crept down the temporary wooden stairs. The lady with the unicorn watched me and I held my finger to my lips. I made my way through the lists and into the gatehouse which served as an armoury for the day. The marshals were in the courtyard and there were no more than a couple of kitchen boys guarding the foils. I picked a rapier, a dagger and a suit from the racks