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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.

Chapter Text

"What an impressive estate Signior Leonato has. There are few who could lodge a company of soldiers as easily as he," Conrade remarks as he massages ointment into Don John's bare back, soothing the scars left by the whip. "The vineyard too must turn a neat fortune. Have you tasted the wine? It is exquisite. And being near the sea, he must have investments in a number of trade ventures. You have landed yourself a pretty prize, my lord. I wonder that you do not look pleased?"

Don John scoffs. "If I have won a fortune, it is at the cost of my freedom. A cage is still a cage whether its bars are made of iron or gold."

Conrade moves to gather more ointment, splaying it over Don John's skin. "You are freer here than in Aragon under your brother's foot. Yes, he is here now, but in a month he will sail for Spain and you shall be the sole prince on the island."

"And what shall I be, prince of the fishermen?"

"Was not your grand rebellion made-up of farmers and peasants?"

Don John jolts from the table, turning a furious scowl on him. "What would you know of it? You never dirtied your hand to lift a blade."

Conrade steps back, wiping his hands on a cloth. As the sixth son of a gentleman, with no great wit or swordsmanship to recommend him, Conrade was too low and too dull to gain the favour of Don Pedro when he was first thrust into Aragon's court. However, even at that young age he had been shrewd and recognised the advantages of befriending the bastard prince. He approached the solitary Don John and in each other both had found a like-mind, the same keen intellect and burning discontent. Their bond was forged after Conrade aided Don John with a covert piece of revenge against his childhood bullies and over the years he assisted in similar plots, proving a useful informant. Yet despite these years of loyalty and though he holds no love for Don Pedro, self-preservation kept Conrade from turning traitor and for this wisdom his skin remains unscathed while Don John's is a crisscross of lashes.

This same wisdom makes Conrade revert the conversation back to his original purpose. "Old Leonato cannot live forever. The place shall be yours soon enough and all his fortunes with it. Does that not satisfy you?"

Don John grits his teeth and snatches up a goblet of wine. It bloodies his chin, droplets catching in his beard. To his disgust, Conrade is correct, it is exquisite.

He slams the goblet down. "How can I have any satisfaction when none of this is of my choosing. I am trusted with a muzzle and enfranchised with a clog; therefore I have decreed not to sing in my cage. If I had my mouth, I would bite. If I had my liberty, I would do my liking. In the meantime let me be that I am and seek not to alter me."

He is satisfied to have silenced Conrade for a few seconds; then the other man asks in a low tone, "Will you show this discontentment to your bride?"

Don John freezes, the last drops of wine bittering on his tongue.

The door swings open and a cyclops roars.

Don John turns to the monster, welcoming the distraction. "What news, Borachio?"

His manservant lowers the mask to reveal his grin and strides into the room. "A masked ball is being thrown in yours and your brother's honour." He helps himself to the shelled pistachios that had been brought with the wine, popping them into his mouth. "And I can give you intelligence that Count Claudio has been punctured by love. He bleats and bleeds, raging like a wounded foal against cruel fate."

"Claudio?" Don John sneers. It was Claudio who unseated him from his horse and defeated him in battle. It was Claudio who butchered his comrades, even when they ran and begged. If there is someone he loathes more than his half-brother, it is that savage, Claudio. So far the stars have shone in the young start-up's favour, the Prince bestowing much honours on the Florentine. If his fortunes now be crossed it would bring Don John much satisfaction. "Which way does he look?"

"Marry, on your Hero."

Don John stills. His pulse stirs like a sea-gale in the sails.

Conrade splutters, "Hero?"

"How came you to know this?" Don John demands.

Borachio munches of his pistachios. "I overheard him raving to Count Benedick. He was not quiet in his displeasure. He cursed both fortune and your name, for he asked the Prince to give her to him and was denied on account of your betrothal."

Don John shakes his head, unable to believe it. After all that Claudio has taken from him, he now has something the warrior wants?

"So he too sees the goose for the golden egg," Conrade drawls. "Did I not tell you, my lord, that she was a prize?"

"Yes." Don John's gaze goes to the vase of flowers on his chest of drawers. "But as the means to my revenge she is priceless. Whatever makes Claudio sick shall prove medicinal to me." He whirls for the chest. "Come, I must dress for tonight's celebration!"

:-x-:

"Oh, lady," Margaret squeals. "You look beautiful in that gown. No one will be able to tear their eyes off you tonight."

Blushing, Hero laughs, shifting in the voluminous folds of her gown. The skirts are heavier than she is accustomed to; the fashions of Messina are simpler than all these fabrics and fastenings favoured in Spain. However, Margaret is right, the gown is beautiful; a flow of turquoise and cobalt silks, the bodice beaded with pearls to match those threaded through her hair-net and the sleeves tied with green ribbon. When she moves, her skirts ripple, putting her in mind of the sea. To complete the look, her father had commissioned her a mask of swirling blues decorated with seashells for tonight's masque.

The gown and jewels had been part of her courting gifts from Don John, sent in a second trunk along with his own belongings. When her betrothed had failed to arrive with his possessions, his brother had sent a third trunk to assuage the insult. Margaret had gushed over the lavish gowns, the opulent jewels and hair-adornments; they had donned them all, parading around the chamber until they were in stitches over Beatrice's impression of a dowager queen. However, these trinkets lost their shine when she overheard her father mutter to her uncle, "At least if Prince John is slain, she will have the dowry to attract a noble husband."

This is the first time since then that Hero has worn any of the gifts. It had not felt right to wear them before Don John was present. Something coils in her stomach, a fluttering in her chest at the thought of him seeing her like this.

Of course, he must be used to the ladies of Aragon wearing similar gowns. Compared to them, she must seem like a girl playing dress-up. At this thought, her necklace tightens around her throat. She wonders if she should ask Margaret to loosen the strings of her bodice but her father is calling for her.

Beatrice wraps an arm around her, giving her shoulder a squeeze. "I am a clam next to you, dear pearl."

Hero giggles, her breaths coming easier, no longer gripping her skirts so tight. "You are welcome to borrow any jewellery. I cannot wear it all."

"And have the magpies after me? I think not."

Her father smiles when he sees her. "My darling daughter, you look resplendent. Everyone can see that you are born to be a princess." He chucks her under the chin and she beams. "Now tell me true, what is your judgement of Don John?"

Heat crawls up her cheeks and she ducks his gaze. "I would reserve my judgement until better acquaintance."

"A diplomatic answer," Beatrice drawls. "For my part, I think him too like an image. He stands and says nothing. While Signior Benedick is like my lady's eldest son, evermore tattling. He were an excellent man that were made just in the midway between them."

Hero's smile twitches at her cousin's mention of Benedick, though no one else spoke of him. She shares a twinkling glance with her father.

He rests his hands on her shoulders. "I own Don John showed poor character in his past transgressions but we must make allowances for his… circumstances. He fell in with a bad crowd and would not be the first young bull to strain against the yoke. I know, dear Hero, that you shall reform him and he shall make you a good husband yet."

"Must it be the woman's duty to reform the man?" Beatrice inquires. "Why, better the husband repent before the marriage lest the wife be given reason to instead. If Don John wishes to marry our dear Hero, he must prove himself worthy of her."

Leonato turns an exasperated look on her. "Don John is reformed, or the Prince would not have welcomed him back into his arms."

Beatrice raises her fearsome mask. "Does a leopard change his spots?"

Leonato sighs and, sensing a losing battle, turns back to Hero. "Now, daughter, this is a night for celebration, but you must remain mindful. You may dance with other men but reserve your favour for Don John. If he or another tries to solicit more than honour permits — as men sometimes do when the spirits are high and the wine is flowing — remember until you are married, you owe the greatest duty to your father. Do not be persuaded by honeyed charms and in preserving your own remind your lord of the virtue in patience."

Hero's face warms, spiced wine burning her cheeks and swirling through her stomach. She nods and her father smiles.

"Have you no such mandate for me, uncle?" Beatrice prods with a gleam.

He turns an arch grin on her. "I understood, niece, that you would tolerate no man to come near you?"

"Quite so, uncle. Adam's sons are my brethren and, truly, I hold it a sin to match in my kindred."

"Well, niece, I hope to see you one day fitted with a husband."

"Not till God make men of some other metal than earth."

They tie on their masks and step outside; Hero exclaims in wonder as she takes in the garden. Flaming torches line the paths while glowing lanterns are strung overhead; masks of all shapes hang from bowers for guests to take their pick. People dance as musicians play and performing acrobats entertain the crowds.

Hero feels as if she has stepped into a memory. Revels like this used to be common at the villa when her mother was alive. She remembers her being at the heart of every celebration, dazzling their guests with her bright wit and beauty. Hero used to watch her dress for parties while she played with her necklaces. Her mother promised one day Hero would be a lady herself and get to wear as many splendid gowns and jewels.

Hero touches the emeralds at her throat; the necklace had belonged to her mother.

"Good Leonato, you have outdone yourself!"

She recognises the Prince's voice and turns to see a jaguar prowl towards them, wearing an elaborate doublet embroidered with silver-night. At his side trails a firebird, its monstrous beak protruding from a scarlet face, his crimson doublet stitched with golden flame, unbuttoned at the throat.

As the Prince praises her father, the firebird swoops upon them, his voice a husk of smoke. "Signior Antonio, Lady Beatrice…" Her pulse stutters as she meets Don John's dark gaze through the holes of his mask. "My Lady Hero."

"My lord." She curtsies to him.

"Though I possess not my brother's eloquence, I must credit you. You were not forewarned of our invasion yet have arranged all this… you manage your household very well."

"It is no trouble, my lord. Yours is a visit well-worth honouring and, in truth, in Messina we welcome any excuse to dance."

"And drink," Her uncle cheers as a servant delivers them each a goblet.

"Your visit has been much anticipated, prince," Beatrice purrs and Hero stiffens. She knows that baiting tone; the cat slinking up on the bird. "We have had ample time to prepare for your arrival."

Hero elbows her cousin as she rushes, "We are pleased you are here with us now."

Don John is silent, his thoughts hidden behind his mask.

"Lady Beatrice," Don Pedro intercedes. "Will you grace me with a dance?"

Beatrice's smile is feline. "From my grace to your grace, that honour may be yours."

The cats slink off together and Hero's father clears his throat. "Come, brother, we must greet our guests."

As they depart, her father gives her elbow a squeeze, reminding her of his earlier warning. Though he need not fear her getting too close with Don John when that sharp beak is deterrent enough.

As if overhearing her thoughts, Don John adjusts his mask to sit on his head and raises his wine to his lips. Hero's throat hitches. Somehow his good looks are even more striking seeing him again. The glow from the torchlights caress his jawline and her finger trails the rim of her goblet, wondering what it would be like to smooth along that razor's edge.

"I must thank you, my lord… for—for the gown."

"Thank… me?"

She smooths her hands over the silk folds. "It was amongst your courting gifts."

He looks aside, a shadow fractures his features. Her pulse quickens, sensing a misstep though she is unsure what, but then his gaze returns to hers, his face cleared. "It looks well on you." He hesitates, his words coming like the slow sputters of fire. "Your necklace… brings out the green of your eyes."

Her flush deepens, warming through her blood, as she strokes her necklace. "Thank you, my lord. It was my mother's."

He half nods, his mouth pursuing in a line mirrored in the faint creasing of his brow.

Hero's stomach swoops, clasping for something further to say. "I fear we are mismatched." His face freezes and this time she knows her error. "I—I mean… ah… our costumes." Wine sloshes over her sleeve as she gestures between them. "We are fire and sea."

His silence is louder than all the cheer around them. She feels the beat of the musicians' drums in her heart.

At last, he speaks. "A bird and a fish." The corner of his mouth crooks. "Quite the incredible pair."

Her smile tremors.

"The costume was my brother's jest." He pulls the mask back on. "The firebird, destined to burn itself out, reborn from the ashes of its former glory. I am a new man."

There is something in his tone, the splinter of wood amongst the spit of flame.

Her fingers stretch out on their own accord, flitting across his beak. "I find there is something very lovely in that legend… it is a tale of hope and redemption."

He stills and drains his wine. He offers out a gloved hand. "Please you, lady, to dance?"

She is surprised but her smile grows and she places her hand in his. They discard their goblets and join the crowd of dancers.

The dancing is nice, however, conversation is a challenge; too often the dance draws them apart and Hero finds herself struggling for things to say. She offers Don John smiles but the mask conceals so much of him, she cannot discern his thoughts. As a dance partner, he is without fault; his hands catch hers, guiding her into the next steps, his hold on her waist is firm, assuring. But they are merely moving through the motions. Beatrice told her that wooing was like a Scotch jig, hot and hasty. Yet though heat shivers through her where their bodies brush and his leather-clad fingers press to her skin, there is no fire in his touch

"My lord…" She creeps her fingers over his collar to press against the hot skin of his neck — and swerves being gouged by his long beak. "You walk softly and look sweetly and say nothing. May we forego our disguises? I would prefer to gaze on your favour."

He stumbles a step and they skirt a collision with another couple. He steers them out of the throng and to the side, releasing her and stepping back. His hands rise to remove his mask and she does the same. Then they are looking at each other, barefaced, though Don John's expression is a mask of its own. She desperately wishes to know what he thinks of all this, what he thinks of her.

He motions to his face, his voice is cool as the night's breeze, caressing under her silks. "Well? You wished to gaze on my favour. How do I measure with the reports you received of me? No fangs or horns or cloven hooves."

"I do not know about the hooves." She darts a teasing glance at his boots. "But I was told nothing of the sort. Only that you were five years my senior and shared your father's regal bearing."

"Ha." His mouth splits in a grin and his teeth are not fanged but she has the strangest thought of him biting out her throat. "That is not all you have heard of me. You belie yourself. Tell me the worst of it. You shall not offend me, I have heard it all."

She shakes her head, fixed on the scythe's curve of his smile. "Hearing is not knowing. I prefer to judge for myself."

"Hm." His dark gaze glints.

"Tell me," her tongue moves quicker than good sense, "What were you told of me that sent you so far and so fast?"

He stiffens.

It is a mean trick and she knows her father would disapprove, but if he presses for her judgements she is not sure what strange thing she shall tell him, and she is curious for his answer. She has been assured that his flight is no reflection on her. However, as much as she has tried to put it from her head, to hide those thoughts behind a pleasant smile, she cannot help but feel the wasp's sting of his rejection.

"Lady…" He inhales, regarding her through eyes of starless night and Hero fights to keep from trembling as she awaits his next words.

An arm is slung around Don John's shoulders. "Here is the man I am seeking."

Don John shoves out of the man's embrace, scowling. "Who are you?"

"I am the one who has been sent to fetch you," the masked stranger replies, his accent strange and yet familiar. "My lord, Signior Leonato wishes a word."

"My father is summoning us?" Hero asks, head tilted at the curious stranger. She cannot place him amongst their servants, still she has the sense that she knows him.

"Ah, no, just Prince John. There is a private matter he wishes to discuss with your betrothed."

Don John regards the messenger with a narrow look, then turns to Hero. "My lady… I am obliged to depart your company."

Hero presses her lips together, pondering what matter could be so important as to prompt her father to interrupt them. She musters a frail smile. "Pray, do not bereave me long."

"I will not." He snatches up her hand, her breath stalling as rough lips graze across her knuckles.

The messenger clears his throat and Don John releases her. Hero is left standing in the crowd watching as his back retreats from her. She touches her knuckles where he kissed her.

"He is heartless to abandon you."

She spins. "Count Claudio."

He smiles at her, dimples adorning his handsome face. "Beautiful Hero, you are divine Venus rising from the sea. May I have the honour of this dance?"

Her cheeks blaze, heart thumping. She glances in the direction Don John had disappeared. There can be no harm in it? Her father said she could dance with other men. She gives her hand to Claudio and he pecks a gentle kiss to her soft skin. Her stomach flutters as he draws her amongst the dancers and into his arms.

Their sudden closeness is startling and she leans back. "How is your uncle? Is he here tonight?"

Claudio's strong hand claims her waist as they spin. "I know not, I have yet to visit him."

"He will be overjoyed to see you again."

"It has been too long since I was in Messina." He smiles, warming her with his soft brown eyes. "Tell me, sweet Hero, did you think of me whilst I was at war or had you forgotten your old playmate?"

Hero laughs. "I am sure it is you who had forgotten me, travelling to exotic places, rubbing shoulders with royalty, off on swashbuckling adventures."

His gaze widens. "Never, lady. Your friendship is more precious to me than any treasures won through my long campaign."

She smiles, flattered though she knows he exaggerates. "I did think of you and prayed for all of your safe return. I am pleased to see you are well and whole."

A strange expression sweeps over his face as he tugs her hand, drawing her closer. "It is worth every peril to be at your side again."

Hero squirms, glancing around, conscious that their faces are exposed to every curious eye.

"But matters are not as I left you. I hear you are now betrothed to Count John."

"I… am."

It is as if a cold wind has blown the smile from Claudio's face, a grim cloud passing over the moon. "He is unworthy of you."

Hero recoils, bringing their dance to a halt. She opens her mouth to reproach him but Claudio is faster.

"For abandoning you to pursue his treasonous campaign, I call him villain. But to discard you as he has tonight, he is a proper knave."

Hero's spine stiffens. "He has not discarded me. He was summoned by my father."

Claudio's eyes gleam. "That was his friend, Conrade, in the mask. I recognised him from his bearing."

Hero had not realised this. "His… his friend collected him to answer my father's summons… there is no knavery in that."

"What matter could your father have to discuss with him now when he is in the midst of hosting this celebration?"

Hero wondered the same. Her hand flies to her necklace as her thoughts swim. If the messenger were Don John's friend, had he meant to… to rescue him from her? It is ungenerous to think, but with a flush of shame she remembers the indelicate question she had put to him seconds before. Was it a coincidence he was called away a moment later? Or had Don John made a secret signal to gain his escape?

Her stomach tangles, the strings of her bodice too tight; the crowd swells around them, the torches bright and sweltering.

"Pardon me… I am parched."

"I shall fetch you a drink." Claudio's hand encircles her elbow, pulling her through the tight cluster of bodies.

Hero stumbles to keep his pace, cringing from the macabre faces of the masked revellers that seem to mock her as she passes, drunken laughter pouring from their frozen mouths.

As they reach the refreshments table, Hero sees Beatrice in conversation with the Prince, their masks discarded.

Spotting her, Beatrice flings an arm around her, nuzzling her head in tipsy affection. "Cousin! God give you joy!"

Hero's breathing eases in her embrace.

"Is my brother not with you?" Don Pedro asks, an odd look cast in Claudio's direction.

"He is with my father." Hero says, trying to sound certain of the fact.

Claudio hands her a goblet. "For you, my lady."

Don Pedro glances between them, his expression neutral. Hero's hand tightens around her goblet.

BOOM.

Heads turn, gasps rippling through the crowd as showers of gold fill the night. People cheer and applaud, watching in awe as a display of fireworks streak through the sky, exploding one after the other into a dazzle of sparks.

Beatrice makes an exclamation of delight, bouncing on her toes and squeezing Hero's shoulder. The latter turns a smile on her cousin and as she does she glimpses Don John across the way, turning his back and striding from the garden.

Cold catches in her lungs, high spirits scattering into cinders with the resounding boom above, ashes falling to earth as she watches him depart. Her gown has grown heavy and she feels she could sink through its ocean waves, silks and pearls floating around her. The wine is no longer sweet on her tongue, her cup cool in her hand, but she drinks as she watches the fireworks blaze above and wonders what will become of this match her father has arranged for her.

:-x-:

Don John follows the messenger through the crowds, grimacing at each bump of elbows and knocking of shoulders, the surrounding revellers turning roudier with the fountain of wine. He is led to Leonato, laughing with a group of old men, however when he approaches the governor he is greeted with surprise.

No, Leonato had not sent for him. No, he has no message. But come meet his fellows.

Don John grinds his teeth as he is introduced to the noble merchants of Messina. The messenger who tricked him has disappeared and now he is trapped amongst these gentlemen, forced to endure their conversation as civilly as he can. Though their questions to him are polite he can see they are all curious about the Bastard of Aragon, the traitorous half-brother reconciled to the Prince.

At last, one lord, further into his cups than the others, blusters, "I would not have taken you for the Prince's brother. Your looks are so different, I wonder at you sharing any blood at all."

"Signior Raffaello is jesting," Leonato chuckles nervously, hurrying to assuage the insult.

"Excuse me," Don John utters, patience thoroughly tested and departs.

He does not know how long he has been gone or in which direction to search for Hero. He stalks through the crowd, snarling at any drunks who stumble into his path.

"My lord!" Conrade is at his elbow. "What are you doing here? I have seen Claudio dancing with Hero."

Don John halts, nostrils flaring. Of course the insufferable whelp is behind this. He should have recognised Benedick's voice despite its disguise (he has heard it often enough). He lets out a snarl and stomps on.

That he should have been tricked so easily. It was meant to be Claudio thwarted, but once again he has wrested Don John's triumph from him.

Fireworks explode overhead and as the revellers lift their gazes to the sky, Don John spies Hero ahead of him, her handsome face turned to watch the display. She is not alone; her cousin is wrapped around her and beside them is Don Pedro and Claudio.

Don John stills.

"There she is," Conrade urges. "Go to her."

But Don John cannot. Not under her cousin's shrewd gaze, his half-brother's critical stare, and Claudio flaunting all the easy charm he lacks. He lingers, watching Hero haloed in the torchlight, her face illuminated with a smile that rivals the fireworks above. Then he spins on his heel.

"This is a vineyard," he mutters to Conrade. "There must be a wine store somewhere."

"Yes, my lord."

Conrade's tone is void of judgement but Don John hears it all the same. Coward.

He does not look back.

Chapter Text

"I think I told your lordship how I am in the favour of Margaret, the waiting gentlewoman to Hero."

Don John scowls at Borachio, wondering what purpose he has in this inane prattle at such an hour of the morning (it is past ten). His voice is blisteringly bonnie when Don John's feels as if his skull might erupt with all the wine he drank last night.

He does not remember returning to his chambers and supposes he has Conrade to thank for that. His dreams had gushed with red rivers running through the battlefield, creating a quagmire of grape and gore into which he was dragged by the clawing hands of his fallen comrades. After such a disturbed sleep he can have no patience for Borachio's tales of conquests, his body aching with scars, fresh and old.

His manservant either does not notice his glare or ignores it as he carries on talking. "To her I did disclose the strength of affection you suffer for her mistress but rued that your bashful nature does restrain you from expressing the true force of your passion. So taken was she with my artful tale that she did impart to me how her lady's heart may best be wooed."

Don John arranges his doublet, his frown deepening. "What do I want with her heart?"

"Why, to flaunt that which Claudio covets. Or seek you no longer to spite him?"

Don John's chest burns with a caustic venom rising in his throat. "To spite him, I will endeavour anything."

"Then court the lady and secure her affections. Margaret says Hero has opened her heart to you, you must only make roost."

"A bird courting a fish," Don John mutters with a twist of his lip.

"What is that?" Borachio asks, setting down a pair of boots.

"Nothing." Don John drags them on. "What tricks did your lady advise?"

Borachio inclines his head. "How do you feel about poetry?"

Don John's foot hits the ground. "No."

:-x-:

"Ah, John. You have joined us at last."

It never bodes well when Don Pedro smiles at him like that, with the full set of his teeth. The throbbing behind his temple intensifies and Don John glances around the room, noticing the household is gathered with the rest of Don Pedro's favoured entourage.

"Good Leonato has generously offered us a tour of his vineyard."

"It is my pleasure, sweet prince," their host declares. "Except for my daughter, there is nothing in which I take greater pride."

"If your grapes are as sweet as she, then your wine must be divine," Don Pedro charms like the unrepentant flirt that he is, bestowing a kiss to the lady's hand.

Hero blushes at the Prince and Don John restrains an eye-roll.

Leonato leads them from the house, through the villa gardens, into the vast green rows that fill the surrounding fields. The hot noontide sun glares down on Don John, blinding his vision and aggravating his headache. He raises a hand to block it out.

"Did you sleep well, my lord?"

He jerks and sees Hero standing beside him. He scrabbles to pull together his composure. "I… uh… indeed."

She considers him with those soft eyes that look more brown in this light than they had the night before. "I hope the bed was to your comfort."

Don John cannot recall falling into bed, let alone if it were comfortable. But he supposes his sleep was deep, however disturbed, and his bones do not ache, just his skull.

"It was… better than I have had in a long-time."

"If there is any fault, any improvement that can be made, you need only ask."

"There is no need. But thank you."

Hero purses her lips, looking unconvinced. He suspects he is doing a poor job of disguising his bedraggled state. They trail after the group ahead, their own pace slow.

"Did you… resolve matters with my father?" Hero asks.

Don John looks at her, wondering what she knows of last night's conspiracy. He sees no point in furthering Benedick and Claudio's deceit. "The messenger was mistaken; your father did not summon me."

"Oh." She searches his face. "But then… why did you never return?"

Don John's mouth thins, looking to the side, and lies, "I could not… find you."

Hero is quiet and he glances back at her. Her gaze is concentrated on the path, her fingers laced together. "Ah… as long as it was not because… I had offended you."

He stares, wishing his mind were not so sluggish. "You did not offend me." He needs a better lie. "I confess, I was worn from the journey and retired early."

She hums, still not looking at him. "I understand, you have travelled far. Now you are with us, I hope you are able to recover.

She says it kindly but the words are mechanical, polite and nothing more. He regards her, wondering what he should say. Borachio urged him to court her, but Don John cannot ooze honeyed charm as his half-brother does and an attempt at poetics would only make him look foolish. He remains silent and they rejoin the others.

"You see there are some grapes growing on the vines," Leonato is explaining. "In September we will harvest them and crush them into wine. Follow me, I shall show you our store."

He takes them back to the villa where they enter a stone passage, plunging into darkness. The shift in light is dizzying but not unwelcome to Don John. Leonato escorts them through the labyrinth of a wine cellar that he had become acquainted with the previous night, the walls stacked with thick wooden barrels. Leonato explains to them the fermentation process, how the grapes are mixed and the temperature controlled to produce different flavours.

"Here is one from last year." Leonato pours them each a goblet, handing them around.

Don John's stomach roils as a goblet is pressed into his hand, iron rising on his tongue as he gazes at the blood red liquid swirling like the river in his dream; a steel rod beats against his skull. Around him, everyone else drains their cups.

"Magnificent!" Don Pedro declares. "Leonato, you could be Bacchus himself!"

The governor chuckles. "Good prince, you flatter me."

"Is all well, my lord?" Hero murmurs to Don John. "If the wine is not to your liking, we can fetch you another."

He shakes his head, knuckles tightening around the goblet. "That is not necessary."

He regards the goblet like an adversary and downs it. It is good wine but all he can taste is blood. He stifles a gag; Hero is watching him with concern and he doubts insulting her family like that will be conducive to a courtship.

"Wine such as this should be enjoyed in the sunlight," Don Pedro proclaims.

"An excellent idea, my lord," Leonato is quick to agree. "I shall have the dinner served to us outside."

Everyone follows back to the garden, excited voices raised, bouncing off the stone. Don John winces as he steps again into the bright light.

Don Pedro pauses beside him. "You should show more interest, brother. All of this shall be yours."

Don John snarls, incapable of a more verbose response with gravel scraping through his brain.

Don Pedro looks amused. "Why, John, you seem to have swallowed the whole dog and not merely its hair." He claps him on the shoulder. "Do attempt a smile. Your poor fiancée will fear she has married a mule."

With this parting quip, Don Pedro swans back to Leonato.

"Prick," Don John hisses, certain his half-brother hears it though he does not turn.

Behind him, he hears a tinkling laugh and looks to see Hero smiling with her kin. His stomach drops like the weighted ball from her hand, rolling across the lawn.

"Count John!" Her uncle, the stout Antonio, bellows, waving him over. "Join us for a game of bowls!"

Don John hesitates, glancing to Hero. She watches him, waiting to see what he decides.

"If you need another player, I would be happy to engage." Claudio swaggers towards their group.

Don John closes the distance in three quick strides. "There is no need. I shall play."

"We can form pairs," Antonio exclaims. "Niece, I expect you wish to partner with your betrothed."

Something in Don John goes still at the word. Hero gazes at him from under her lashes, her mouth curving in a smile.

They form their pairs. Claudio's face is mutinous as he goes to stand with the matronly gentlewoman named Ursula. He casts longing looks towards Hero who does not notice, speaking in hushed tones to Don John.

"Antonio and Beatrice are a menace together. They shall be a challenge to beat."

"You know them best. What is your strategy?"

She looks at him, surprised by the question. Then she smiles with a twinkle in her eyes. "We beat them at their own game. Let them think they are winning, then strike."

Don John feels his own mouth twitch.

The match begins, each taking turns to bowl, aiming to get as near to the white jack as possible while knocking their opponents' balls from the course in the process. Victorious shouts and groans of disappointment punctuate the play. Don Pedro, Leonato, and the rest of their assembled cast watch from the sidelines, enjoying the wine that the servants pour and cheering on their favourites. Antonio and Beatrice are as much a menace as Hero forewarned, but Don John is more focused on beating Claudio.

"Bad luck," Claudio smiles sweet as citrus as he smashes Don John's ball from its place.

Don John cusses him silently.

Hero takes her turn and dethrones Claudio.

Don John bends to murmur in her ear, "Good shot."

She smiles at him.

"Well done, Hero," Claudio congratulates through gritted teeth. His own partner, Ursula, fumbles her ball again and it crawls short of its mark.

"Oh dear, I am a poor shot. Good thing I have you to make-up for it," she titters to Claudio, who smiles back, a tick in his jaw.

"Mind the flowerbeds!" Leonato exclaims as his brother sends several balls hurtling across the lawn.

"Oops," Antonio chuckles.

After a few more rounds, it comes down to the best players of each pair. Claudio stares at Don John, chin cocked in a challenge. Don John arches a brow in return. He rolls first, his ball stopping a hairbreadth from the jack.

The ooohs of the crowd grow as Claudio takes his turn… and lands, equal distance from the jack, Don John's own ball undisturbed. A tie.

Beatrice then steps forward and takes her turn, sending both of their bowls spinning out in a trick shot and the game is hers.

"Nicely done, Lady Beatrice!" Don Pedro praises, the rest of the onlookers joining in his applause. She performs a little curtsey in response. "I wish I could scatter my foes so easily on a battlefield."

"She has never had any trouble scattering foe or friend," Benedick mutters into his cup, loud enough for everyone to hear. "If her breath were as terrible as her terminations, there were no living near her."

Beatrice pauses, eyes narrowing. "I see, Signior, you have performed your usual trick of sitting on the sidelines while others wage the battle."

Benedick huffs and raises his cup. "Better a white wine to a white flag."

Hero approaches Don John, a soft smile on her lips. "A good match."

"I let us down in the final shot."

She shakes her head. "You could not have done better. Beatrice is fierce. But I would not trade partners."

He regards her, the gentle ruffling of her curls in the breeze, and realises that nor would he.

Behind them, Beatrice and Benedick continue to squabble. "Perhaps you will deign to have a match with me, Signior?"

"If I do, I shall be called a knave. For if I defeat a lady, I am a knave, and if I allow you to win, I am a knave."

"Perhaps you do not allow it and I still win."

Benedick's smile makes Don John's skin crawl with the urge to punch him and it is not even directed at him. "Perhaps so, but either way I shall not come near you when you wield such a weight in your hand for you are as like to drop it on my foot."

A wild barking interrupts the exchange as a shaggy dog comes hurtling across the lawn, knocking into Benedick's chair. The chair folds in, sending Benedick sprawling, his wine spilling over his front. A great guffaw goes through the crowd.

Beatrice smirks over Benedick, the dog wagging its tail at her feet. "You should milden your manner, Signior. Even my dog cannot endure your barking."

Benedick grumbles, struggling out of the collapsed chair. "He gets his mischief from his mistress."

Before a further fight can break-out, Don Pedro interjects, "All this competitive spirit has given me an excellent idea. Signior Leonato, if you are amenable, I propose we have a tourney. My men could use the exercise."

"A marvellous idea, my lord! I shall see to the arrangements immediately."

In Don John's head he hears the clash of swords, the screams of the dying, and closes his eyes.

:-x-:

Hero cannot puzzle Don John out. She knows he lied about not being able to find her at the masque, she had seen him. She is also unconvinced by his tale of retiring early; she was raised on a vineyard and recognises the signs of one regretting an over-indulgence. Perhaps he had abandoned her to go drinking with his friend as Claudio said. Yet during the bowls match he was amiable towards her, she even thought she glimpsed the shadow of a smile playing on his lips.

He sits with her at dinner, responding to her conversation even if he offers little of his own. It is an effort for her to come up with topics for them to talk about; questions about Aragon and his life there return terse (though not uncivil) answers, and obviously she cannot ask about the recent conflict. She finds herself rambling about Messina and, to her mortification, its farms and fishing trade, gesturing to the relevant dishes around the table and explaining the origins of each one. There is no hint of derision in Don John's countenance as he listens, but she feels herself blushing, relieved when a loud joke from her uncle sends the whole table into laughter and she has an excuse to fall quiet, biting into a buttered carrot.

When the meal is finished and talk turns to the afternoon's amusement, Don John asks if she will walk with him in the garden. Hero is not oblivious to the look his brother directed to him before this offer was made, but she smiles as if she were and accepts. After all, her father is giving her a similar look.

They head into the garden together, Ursula chaperoning at a distance, short of earshot. The silence creeps around them like weeds and Hero twists her fingers into her skirts.

"I imagine the gardens in the palace of Aragon are far grander than this."

"Grander, but not lovelier."

"Oh, I cannot believe that."

He gestures to the flora. "You have a wildness here — not overgrown, I see it is well-cared for, but the plants thrive. There is a diversity of flora that is lacking in the palace's own neat, symmetrical beds."

Hero smiles, linking her fingers as they walk down the row. "I am pleased to hear your praise, for I own, I have a hand in these gardens. Though I am certain the palace gardeners have far more skill and vision than I."

"Hm. The Dowager Princess demands perfection; everything pleasing and in its place." His hand snakes out, closing around a stray rose. "A wild bloom would never be tolerated." He snaps its stem and offers it to her. "If I were my half-brother, I would say you are the loveliest bloom in the garden."

Hero's heart races as she accepts the rose. "And, if you were yourself?"

He considers her through eyes of deepest night and her throat tightens. "I would be in the rare position of agreeing with him."

Heat floods her cheeks and she smiles. "You have recovered your wit, sir. I am pleased. You seemed in a poor way this morning." He stares at her, his dark gaze widening, and her hands flutter, conscious of her imprudence. "Pardon me, I should not have said."

He shakes his head. "I have not presented myself well. I should ask your pardon."

"There is nothing to pardon."

His eyebrows raise and she looks away, cheeks warming, clutching the rose to her chest. They round the corner to the fountain and she crosses to it, dipping her fingers in the cool water, a tingling through her stomach. Don John comes to stand beside her. Some distance away, two women are hanging up the laundry and Ursula goes to speak with them. Hero tracks her path then turns to Don John.

"Is not this strange?" The comment flies from her tongue before good sense can prevent her. She tries to smile, twisting the rose stem between her fingers. "We met for the first time yesternoon and shall be married in less than a sennight."

He stares at her, not a thought discernible in his quiet features.

Her face grows hot; the fluttering in her stomach becomes a hurricane as she gazes up at his tall figure above her. "N-not that it—it is d-disagreeable to me!"

A sudden pain has her flinching, the rose falling from her grasp and she realises she has pierced herself on a thorn. She stares at the bead of scarlet forming on her thumb.

"Oh…"

Don John kneels against the fountain's edge. "You are hurt."

"Only a prick." She presses her thumb to her lips, sucking on the wound.

He stares at her, gaze dark with what she thinks is concern.

Her heart skitters and she curls her thumb into her palm. "I am fine, I assure you. I should have been more careful."

Don John bends to pick up the fallen rose, turning it over, deft fingers avoiding the thorns. "It is strange… this arrangement we find ourselves in… and you have the barb of the bargain, to be given a husband that is both strange and disagreeable."

"I do not think so, sir!"

His gaze skirts to her, his mouth twitching in a briar-curl. Though he makes no move to close the space between them she feels the rough murmur of his words as if he spoke them direct into her ear. "Another falsehood, lady."

She lowers her gaze to her lap, feeling the blood in her cheeks. "Strangeness may be overcome with familiarity." She regards him through the sweep of her lashes. "I would like to know you better, my lord, if you would permit me."

His expression catches like the briar has snagged on a thread, then he removes a handkerchief from his pocket. He wraps it around the rose stem and offers the flower again to her with its thorns now shielded. She reaches for it and for a second their fingers brush.

He withdraws, his hand sliding it into the pocket of his breeches. "You say you have a hand in the gardens?"

She startles, blinking fast. "Oh… uh… in their management and design."

"They are beautiful."

"Our gardeners' work. It is them who deserve the praise." She rubs her fingernails, remembering scoldings from her father for getting dirt under them and mud on her skirt, unbefitting of a lady. "Though I feel the same. I love to be out here… But please, tell me about yourself, I have been babbling worse than this fountain."

He arches an eyebrow and the fluttering in her stomach renews. "You have not."

She gives a sheepish smile. "I fear you must have been bored with my talk of fish and wheat over dinner."

"I was not bored. You have a good knowledge of your lands and its trade. Not many nobles could boast the same."

She ducks her head. "You are kind to say so."

"I do not say it to be kind. I say it because it is true. I have not met another noble lady who could speak so much about her people and their labours."

She raises her head, mouth curling into warm cheeks. "Perhaps because they know it makes for poor conversation."

"No, it is because they do not care for those below their station, even if it is their labour that earns their riches."

She is taken aback by the sharp note in his voice and is reminded of his role in the recent unrest. Her father had forbidden its discussion, but Hero wanted to know more about this uprising her betrothed had jilted her to fight in. It was formed of peasants, rebelling against their lords and the Aragonese rule. The troubles did not reach Messina's shores, but as a port town, news travelled from passing ships.

Ursula returns to her post and Hero stands with a smile towards Don John. "Shall we walk on? I would like to show you the orchard and then, when we return to the house, there is the library."

Don John's eyes glitter at the mention of the library and he nods, the sunlight softening his sleek raven locks. Her heart cartwheels and she reflects that he is much like the rose, beautiful and in possession of his own hidden thorns.

:-x-:

Don John is encouraged by the shy smiles Hero casts in his direction. Now his head is no longer punishing him and they are without an audience (their chaperone excepted) it is easier to converse.

Hero has a sweet manner that is lacking guile. He cannot think of another person he has encountered who speaks with such open-heartedness. It had been tactless of her to call their betrothal strange yet he was glad for her honesty; to know he was not alone in his discomfort. In Aragon they would call her naive. However, Don John is beginning to suspect she possesses more depth than all of that shallow court combined. He had been in earnest when he commended her knowledge of her lands and her people. Among the insurgents he had encountered many workers embittered by lords who did not value their labour nor care for their hardships. The same cannot be said for Hero from the passion and understanding she expresses when talking of their tenants.

He is most pleased to tour the library; he has always found his sanctuary among books. As Hero shows him their collection he notes how her voice warms with pride, pointing out titles and authors to him. He opens his mouth to inquire after her own reading but is interrupted.

"Ah, here you are." Leonato strides into the room. "What do you think of our collection? I am afraid it cannot compare with what you are used to in the Palace of Aragon."

"It is a fine assortment."

"If my daughter can spare you, there are some matters of importance I wish to discuss with you in my study."

He makes it sound like a request but Don John is familiar enough with men like him to know it is not. He looks at Hero. Again, their time together is interrupted by his summons. At least on this occasion there is no trick.

She offers him a smile. "It was pleasant walking with you, sir. Go, attend to my father. We shall speak again at supper."

Don John inclines his head to her, for lack of anything better. "My lady."

He goes with Leonato to his study and takes a seat in the chair indicated to him as his host settles himself behind the large oak desk. Don John's gaze drifts to the painting behind Leonato; a portrait of a blithely smiling lady whose resemblance to Hero suggests this is her late mother.

Leonato's voice arrests his attention. "Are you comfortable with the bedchamber we have given to you?"

"I am."

"Good, good. It is temporary anyhow. After the wedding we shall move you and Hero to an annex of the villa where you shall have more space."

Don John swallows, blood quickening as he imagines himself and Hero as a married couple living together and all that entails.

Leonato withdraws a ledger from his desk. "I want to take you through the business of the villa and our farms as you are soon to have a share in it all and will one day be its master." He pauses, folding his arms and looking Don John in the eye. "However, before we do… I ask that if you know of any impediment as to why you cannot marry my daughter that you disclose it to me now and spare her a further humiliation."

It is impossible for Leonato with his wrinkled and genial features to be intimidating, however, he does straighten in an attempt to show a spine, his tone taking on the stern edge of a schoolmaster.

It is the question more than the man that makes Don John go rigid, feeling himself against the stone bars of a cage — or is it the altar? None of this has been of his choosing; not the wedding and not the bride. He has been forced here in the same way as a chess piece on a board knowing that if he refuses to do as Don Pedro bids he will find himself in a far less comfortable prison, bringing further punishment upon himself and those few survivors of his rebellion. He has no choice and yet he must answer Leonato and make his vows before the congregation. It is the true beauty of his punishment, to be given the key to lock his own cage.

Conrade would have him be grateful for his golden chains. There are worse fates than to be well-fed and comfortable with prospering land and servants. To live far from his half-brother and the vipers of Aragon's court. To have a wife who does not recoil from him but is gentle and astute and a better revenge than any against his over-thrower.

None of this is his choice. Yet if he answers Leonato now, it will be. If he answers, he is bound.

He grips the arms of the chair and takes a breath. "I know of none."

Leonato's smile crinkles at the corners of his eyes; in them Don John glimpses a likeness to Hero. "Good. I hoped it would be so."

Don John lets the breath go and feels a clang in his chest like a bolt twisted into a lock.

:-x-:

"How tartly that prince of yours looks!" Beatrice sighs, stretching out her legs on the lounger, Barkimedes curled below her. "I never can see him but I am heart-burned an hour after.

"Oh fie on you!" Margaret exclaims. "Ignore her, lady. I think Don John very handsome and if any heart burns it be his for you."

Hero exhales, fingers smoothing over the letter she had been reading, her gaze catching on the single rose that Don John had plucked for her, now placed in a small vase, his handkerchief beside it. "I do not know how you are sure of his heart, for his thoughts are indecipherable to me."

"According to his manservant he is forever speaking of your virtues, but in your presence suffers from a tied tongue."

"Oh," Beatrice brightens. "Do you think the affliction is catching? Perhaps we can seat him next to Benedick at supper."

Hero titters, folding the old parchment and sliding it back into the chest. "A silent Benedick? Would that not spoil your sport, coz?"

"Little doubt he would find a way to mime whatever he was meaning. Now that would be entertaining. We should propose a game, it may aid you in deciphering your betrothed's tart silences."

Hero is distracted from responding as Ursula enters, carrying a large vase of flowers. "Lady! These were delivered for you."

Hero leaps to her feet, gasping at the beautiful assortment; white irises and myrtle arranged with red roses and anemones.

Ursula sets the vase down and withdraws a piece of parchment from within the bouquet. "Here, there is a note."

Hero unties the parchment, reading the curling scrawl as Margaret screeches, "What does it say?"

"To the fair Venus of Messina, from her devoted suppliant." She turns the note over. "There is no name."

"Why, it must be from Don John!" Margaret insists. "Who else could it be?"

"Unless Hero has a secret inamorato," Beatrice teases.

Ursula tsks. "Do not spread such nothings about your cousin."

Hero frowns, a strange pull in her stomach. Though she admitted she struggles to know Don John's thoughts, this whole thing, from the bouquet to the note, feels unlike him. But as Margaret says, who else could it be?

She picks out one of the roses from the bouquet, running her fingers along its stem. All of its thorns have been sheared.

Chapter Text

The town of Messina is like most sea ports Don John has visited; the scent of brine wafts from all corners, narrow buildings are packed together while throngs of people bustle through the cobbled streets that wind in a labyrinth only comprehensible to the locals. At the front of their little group, Antonio explains how the town's lay-out is designed to confuse pirate invaders. As he talks, Don John notes the alleys that they pass, marking features of architecture and the signs over shops and taverns that will help him navigate should he need to on his own.

Behind him he hears the clomp of bootfalls from the guards Don Pedro assigned to him, not trusting him unchaperoned in the busy port town. Don John feels confident he can slip the two guards if he desires to, stow aboard one of the merchant ships in the harbour and sail to freedom – but such thoughts are only recreational, not serious considerations.

"Is that him?"

A giggling draws his ear. He turns his attention from the battle Conrade is waging with the hat-seller and sees Hero standing between a couple of women her age. All of them are staring at him. As their gazes lock, Hero ducks her head, scarlet creeping across her features. Don John is used to being talked about and would guess it even without the broad smiles the other women direct at him.

With dawning trepidation, he saunters over to them. "Good day, ladies."

"My lord," Hero replies with perfect grace, her cheeks a bright vermillion. "May I introduce you to my friends, Donatella and Catia. Ladies, this is my husband-to-be, Don John of Aragon."

The women bat their lashes and bare simpering smiles while Don John holds himself still as a bird under the inspection of the cats. He is not ignorant of his looks; many women of Aragon's court showed interest in him, though that was usually paired with a strong self-interest. The young bastard prince was perceived as a good means to loftier ambitions or revenge against a neglectful husband. He had indulged some of these fancies but avoided most entanglements, not wishing to be baited into chains.

One of his guards passes in his periphery. But here he is, chained nonetheless.

"It is a pleasure to meet you both," he says, dusting off those courtly manners.

"It is our honour to meet you, my lord," the one he thinks is Donatella gushes. "Messina is doubly blessed to have two princes on our shore."

"And Hero even more blessed to have you for a husband," Catia declares, squeezing the arm of the blushing maid.

Don John swallows, windpipe restricting around a breath and he has to clear his throat. "I will be better blessed… to have such a wife… as Hero."

Hero's hazel-green gaze flits to him from under her lashes, soft lips parting in a pretty smile that warms her whole face. Don John has to glance aside.

"We are most looking forward to the wedding. When is it set?"

"On Monday, come five-nights' passing," Hero answers in a voice soft as sand slipping through an hourglass.

"That is too far!" Donatella protests in stark contrast to Don John's own feelings. "I want to see you in your gown. Your gentle-maid has been speaking with mine and she says it exceeds even that of the Duchess of Milan!"

"Oh, Margaret exaggerates." Hero addresses the cobbles as she toys with her sleeves. "It is lovely indeed but… I am no equal to the Duchess."

"No, you should surpass her for she is a duchess and you are to become a princess," Catia remarks, nudging her friend. Hero's lashes flutter but do not lift and Catia turns her smile on Don John. "The wait will not be insufferable for I hear there is to be a tourney. Will you be competing, my lord?"

Don Pedro has been busy with Leonato, planning his inspired idea of having them swing their swords about and fight each other for sport as if they have not had enough of that in the recent conflict. Don John suspects a lot of the men will be seeking to settle a grudge with the Traitor of Aragon. But he has his own grudges to settle.

"I expect to be."

"A sight to see, I am sure," Catia croons. "We would not miss it for the world.

He does not know why this answer sets the women giggling again. When he glances at Hero, her cheeks have darkened.

"Has Hero taken you to the beaches?" Donatella asks out of nowhere.

His gaze darts between their faces, detecting mischief and unable to puzzle it out. "Not of yet."

"Oh, you must go! The sands are beautiful and the sea is the perfect temperature for a swim."

"Perhaps we can all go together," Catia beams and then squeaks.

Hero unlatches their arms, moving to stand with Don John. "Excuse us, but I wish to show my new-trothed lord more of the town and we do not want to detain you. I am sure you both have somewhere important to be."

Don John knows a dismissal when he hears one and fights to keep his expression neutral. Donatella and Catia hear it too though their smiles do not falter.

"It was a delight to meet you, Prince John!"

"We look forward to seeing you at the tourney!"

They scamper off, not fast enough to prevent him from hearing their cackles of laughter.

Hero tucks a curl behind her ear, scarcely glancing at him as she asks. "Shall we wander on?"

Don John nods and they continue through the streets, shadowed by their respective chaperones. As they pass market stands, he runs his eyes over the baubles and trinkets on display, watching Hero's face for any show of interest. Conrade suggested he buy her a gift, though he has no idea what she likes. Jewellery and perfumes would be the obvious choice but these are expensive and his half-brother had only granted him a small allowance, not trusting him with a large fund. ("How fortuitous that you are marrying an heiress," Conrade had said, earning a foul word from Don John.)

"This is the place I wanted to show you." Hero announces, leading him inside a store.

It takes a moment for Don John to adjust to the dim light but once he does he sees the room is filled with books and parchments. He moves closer to the stacks, studying the spines and the notes affixed to the shelves.

"Signior Gioacchino collects these texts from all over the world, the sailors' bring them to trade."

"I do not merely collect texts, I collect stories." An elderly man steps forwards, presumably Gioacchino himself and the owner of this place. "Lady Hero, my darling patron. How happy I am to see you again and how fortuitous! Since your last visit I have acquired some new scrolls from Greece."

"Greece! How marvelous!"

"You can read Greek?" Don John looks at her in amazement.

Hero ducks her head, smile turning shy. "A little."

"The lady is modest," Gioacchino declares. "She has a gift for languages; Latin, Greek, Spanish. Some English even."

"That is impressive," Don John says with sincere admiration. He adds this information to the little he knows about his future wife; an avid reader and a polyglot.

Hero flutters her hands, smiling. "Reading them is one thing, but I am afraid my pronunciation is atrocious."

"Without a partner to practise with that is to be expected. But that you are able to read them at all deserves praise."

Hero looks up at him and he finds his throat tightening, no doubt from the dust of the place. He glances away, clearing his throat and meets the old man's gaze.

"I perceive, sir, that you are the Spanish prince who is to wed our sweet lady?"

He keeps his expression schooled and wonders if all Messina knows of their engagement. "That I am."

Gioacchino's smile broadens. "Perhaps then you are seeking a betrothal gift?" He begins rummaging through his shelves, letting out a pleased exclamation as he seizes on a small, leather-bound folio. "Here, a poem on The Marriage of Psyche and Eros. A most romantic tale."

Don John sees how Hero's eyes brighten and his hand goes to his purse. "How much?"

They leave the store, Hero clasping the folio in her hands and beaming. "Thank you, my lord. I shall cherish this gift."

His gaze skips from her face, finding the wall as something sparks in his chest. "You are welcome."

"Your generosity is abundant. I still need to thank you for the flowers you sent."

He looks at her. "The flowers?"

"They are beautiful." Gold glitters in her gaze and a rose blush tints her cheeks.

He sets his frown ahead. "Think nothing of it."

They carry on their stroll, his thoughts growing like briars. He has not sent her any flowers. Was this more of Don Pedro's meddling? He has already bestowed an excess of gifts on Hero, courting her in Don John's stead. Was this another attempt to compensate for his ineptitude? Courting his brother's bride for him. It would not be the first time the weasel-skinned jack had done as much. His tongue lashes behind gritted teeth, the spark in his chest extinguishing, sending hot ash through his veins. It takes masterly control to maintain his nonchalance before Hero.

As they enter the piazza, he is hooked by the smells of spiced meats and sizzling fish. Hero leads him along the parade of food stalls, introducing him to the vendors and their delicacies, once again showing her local pride. The stall-holders all welcome Hero with wide smiles that seem to extend beyond an eagerness for noble custom. It is clear she is well-liked from the number of people who greet her as they pass. Don John is mesmerised by the ease with which she converses with them, asking about their families, their health, their trades, and showing real interest in their answers. He cannot imagine even Don Pedro, who is beloved in Aragon, being so warmly received by his citizens or speaking to them like they were his equals as Hero does.

Don John is overwhelmed by the number of people he is introduced to and the amount of well-wishes he receives on their impending nuptials. If anyone in Messina had not known of their engagement, they certainly do now.

After more conversation than he usually experiences in a month, he breaks to purchase two bowls of fried seafood and strolls to Hero's side, interrupting her latest companion. "May I reclaim my betrothed?"

"Of course. God bless you both," the woman bids them and leaves.

Hero turns to him with a rueful smile. "I apologise, I did not intend to have my attention so divided."

He offers her one of the bowls. "For you."

Across the piazza a puppet show is beginning and they cross to watch as they eat, sitting on a bench. On stage, a walnut puppet in saracen robes waves his sword, terrorising the other puppets and sending red ribbons streaming. An ivory maiden arrives on the stage, pleading with the marauder to end his slaughter. He does so, falling to his knees and proclaiming his love for her. She responds by smacking him around the head with a stick and the children in the audience laugh.

"Mata and Grifone," Hero whispers to him and Don John looks at her in askance. "They are local legends. He, Grifone, was a giant marauder. He led many raids against the people of these lands. On one of those raids, he saw the maiden Mata and was instantly struck with love. He begged her to marry him but she refused, frightened by him. Out of love for Mata, he repented, giving up his violent ways and devoting himself to charity and the church. Seeing that his heart had changed, Mata soon fell in love with him and they were married."

The puppet show plays out as Hero described, with a few more farcical elements like pirates and sword-fights that have the children cheering. At the end, Mata and Grifone share a kiss, the villain redeemed, and the audience applauds.

"What did you think?" Hero asks. "There are more gruesome versions of the tale but in Messina we prefer a happy ending."

Don John considers her, wondering if she noticed the similarities to their own tale — the marauder and the maiden. Does she think she can redeem him with her pure-heart?

Her smile is guileless.

He lets his mouth form a slant. "I enjoyed the part with the pirates."

They walk from the piazza to the seafront, watching the fishing boats and merchant vessels passing through the harbour. At the end of the seawall, Hero looks out across the horizon, sable curls billowing around her.

"I love the sea; the dance of the waves, the glitter of the sun on its waters. Sometimes I have seen dolphins leaping through the waves. I like to watch the ships and imagine the exotic places they are travelling to and from, to wonder at the people aboard and what their stories are."

Don John has a vision of her standing alone, watching the sea like a young Penelope, waiting for a husband that never appears.

He sucks in the salt air and shakes the fanciful notion from his head. "Have you travelled much?"

She colours and looks aside. "I have never left these shores, my lord."

"That is not uncommon. You are young, there will be opportunity. You have those languages to put to use." She looks at him, sea-green dancing in her eyes and he hears himself carry on. "You will be a Princess of Aragon. You should have the chance to see it."

Her eyes widen. "Sail to Spain?"

"Yes. If they do not execute me for treason as soon as I set foot on land."

She laughs, the glow returning to her features, only pausing when she catches sight of his face. "Oh, is that a genuine possibility?"

"Only if the Dowager Princess has her way."

Hero boggles.

As they are walking back towards the town, he observes in a far corner a huddle of men around a turned-over crate, cards and coins spread across it. He notices a familiar mane of bronze curls among them.

"Is that… your cousin playing cards with those sailors?"

Hero looks but shows no surprise. "Please do not tell my father, he would not approve."

Beatrice wins with a cheer, claiming the pot as her opponents groan.

"I have done plenty my own father would not approve of," Don John utters. "Far be it from me to betray another's secret."

Hero smiles and he feels his own mouth pull in response. Her fingers lace in front of her. "What of your own travels, my lord? Will you tell me about them?"

As they stroll, he describes the places he has visited, leaving out whether it was for royal or rebel reasons. They find their way into a small square where a musician is sitting, strumming his lute. A couple of children dance before him.

Hero makes a sound of pleasure and moves to place a coin in the lutist's hat. He smiles at her in gratitude and one of the children tugs on her hand. She releases a melodious laugh as the little girl draws her into dancing. They bound around the square, Hero holding the little girl's hands as their skirts twirl. Don John watches, leaning against a shaded wall, his mouth hooked in an unconscious smile.

The lutist finishes his song to applause and starts a new one. Hero's young partner scarpers off and she turns her smile to Don John, raising her hand out in invitation. He stiffens, pulse thrumming through him like the lutist's strings. His arms unfold.

"Fair Hero! What good fortune that we should run into each other."

Every muscle in Don John stiffens as Claudio strides over to Hero, followed by an old gentleman using a cane.

Hero's surprise morphs into a smile. "Count Claudio, Signior Michael, how well you are both looking."

"It has been a transformation, lady," the old man says in a voice that carries across the square. "For my health has long been in decline. Yet seeing my young nephew again has rejuvenated my spirits and restored me to good health. It is no shame to me, lady, to say that I wept when I saw his sweet face after being uncertain if I ever would again, him going off to face the brutalities of war. Oh but what a man he has returned, a venerated soldier, honoured by the Prince of Aragon himself. He has been telling me of his great feats in battle, how he cleared the fields of those traitors! It is enough to make me wish I could pick-up my sword and vanquish the vermin myself!"

Don John stands stock-still, knuckles clenched, his jaw locked.

Claudio notices him, a gleam in his gaze. "Not all of them, uncle."

"Signior, I must—" Hero begins in a hurry but Signior Michael talks over her.

"You mean to share your credit with your comrades, it is a noble instinct but from all accounts you were like Achilles unleashed, slaughtering the Trojans under his spear. There may have been an Ajax or an Odysseus among you, but you were the best of them, the hero of Italy."

A smile steals across Claudio's face, but he makes a good show of straightening his shoulders. "I fought for duty, not glory. My greatest honour is to have served my country, defending it from those who meant it evil."

"Is it evil to wish for fairer wages for your labour, food for your family and freedom from oppression?" Don John demands, striding forwards.

Claudio regards him with a disdainful gaze. "To covet that above you is the original sin."

"You would know about coveting," Don John spits. His gaze flickers to Hero to ensure the blow lands, then seeing the flinch in Claudio's features he pivots on his heel and stalks away. If he has to look on Claudio any longer he is going to punch out his teeth.

"My lord — wait, please!" Hero scurries after him, catching his arm. "You are offended —"

Don John rounds on her, causing her to stagger. "Offended? No. But blood spilt in the streets is frowned upon."

Hero pales.

"What manner is that to speak to a lady?" Claudio struts towards them.

Don John jerks his arm free. "Your knight approaches."

He has not made it three strides before Don Pedro's guards are upon him. "What is the trouble?"

"No trouble, sirs," Hero pleads, coming to his side. "We are returning home now, I am feeling worn from the day's traversing."

The guards regard Don John with suspicion. "We shall escort you back."

"There is no need—"

The guard cuts her off, brusquely. "We are under orders."

Don John makes note of his face.

"I will go with you," Claudio insists and Don John's fingers twitch into fists.

"No! Oh, no, please!" Hero raises her hands. "Do not abandon your uncle. He has waited so long to see you and I would not rob him of that joy."

Claudio hesitates then clasps Hero's hand in a gesture that is too intimate for a public setting. "As you wish, my lady."

His face darkens as his gaze lands on Don John and the latter reflects that the consequences for starting a fight must be worth bruising Claudio's oh-so-punchable face. However, before his conviction is formed, the count is sauntering back to his uncle.

"Let's go," one of the guards prods Don John.

He bares his teeth.

"Thank you," Hero slips her arm through his. "We will walk at our own pace, I am quite fatigued."

The guard grunts and steps aside. Don John says nothing as they walk on and neither does Hero, though she must feel the tension in his arm. Whatever familiarity might have formed between them over the course of the day has vanished now and they are back to being strangers.

:-x-:

"Who was that scowling fellow?" His uncle asks.

Claudio's mouth pulls in a sneer. "Don John the Bastard."

"The Traitor of Aragon! He roams free?"

"It is treason to call him a traitor," Claudio checks him with no real force. "The Prince decreed it when he pardoned him."

"The Prince is as blind as Abel was to Cain. It is well he has you to look out for him. Though I cannot understand why Lady Hero keeps company with such a snake."

"He is her betrothed," Claudio bemoans, the words like venom in his mouth as something terrible slithers in his chest.

"Betrothed! Surely not! Good Leonato could not give his daughter to one as wicked as he!"

"As surely as Jupiter did give fair Venus to monstrous Vulcan," Claudio utters, fingers digging into the bone of his palms.

His uncle sighs and shakes his head. "An alliance with Aragon's crown is well-done indeed but that poor, sweet girl, bound to a dog-hearted knave. She is as good as a damsel in a bard's song, sacrificed to a dragon's appetite. I pity her."

Claudio frowns ahead. They walk into the piazza where a puppet show has begun. He watches as the beautiful maiden recoils from the brutish swordsman who tries to seize her. His uncle speaks true that Hero is the damsel of this grim tale, in the claws of the snarling beast. But it is also true that in these tales the beast is always slain by a valiant knight. His hand curls around the pommel of his sword. He will save Hero from her dreadful fate. He will ensure Don John receives his just deserts.

:-x-:

"Octopus! An octopus!"

"Giant squid!"

"Merman?" Hero guesses tentatively. At her uncle's excited reaction she tries again. "Mer… Mermaid?"

"Yes!" Antonio points at his niece. The room collapses into laughter.

"Lord defend all sailors if mermaids have beards as thick as yours," Benedick chortles.

"You would drown yourself to escape their kiss," Claudio jests beside him.

"If men were deterred by so thick a beard there would be more maids," Beatrice mutters into her cup.

"Your turn, niece." Antonio motions for Hero to take his place in the centre of the room.

After supper, Beatrice had proposed her miming game. They are gathered in the sitting room, the furniture pushed back to allow space for the performers. The room is full of mirth as the participants take it in turns to act out a word or phrase, the audience shouting their guesses.

Hero dips her hand into the bag of prompts and pulls out a slip of parchment. She looks to her audience, feeling a tremouring of nerves at having all their attention fixed on her. Warmth trickles into her face, conscious most of the searing gaze from the far wall where Don John reclines, as apart from the rest of them as he can be in the same room.

After their abrupt retreat from the town, he had closed to her like a clam and none of her gentle efforts could shuck him open. As soon as they returned to the villa he had stolen out of her company with a swiftness that left her cold and she did not see him again until supper, where he was seated at the other end of the table, next to her uncle (who did not let the silence of his companion prove a barrier to conversation). He has taken no interest in the evening's cheer, lurking like a shadow at the back of the room. Now, however, he watches her with a keenness that pricks like fire.

Hero refolds the slip of parchment without another glance and sets it aside.

"Here is our fair mermaid!" Claudio proclaims, his cup not far from his lips. "Her beauty should be crowned in pearls, adorned with necklaces of coral and bestowed with all the treasures of the sea."

"Weighed under such lavishment she would surely sink," Beatrice quips.

Hero crouches small on the floor, then raises her fingers high, moving them to flicker.

"Grass?"

"A fire?"

She begins to rise up, fingers still dancing as she spreads out her arms.

"A tree! A tree! See how she extends her branches."

"A willow tree?"

Her arms flow up and down as she strides in a circle.

"A bird! She must be a bird!"

"A swan! The fairest of the fowl!"

Her fingers flicker through the air, crowning her head before she stretches out her arms again and extinguishes herself, crumpling back into a ball.

"What on Earth…?"

"May this be the chicken and the egg?"

Her fingers resume their flickering and she rises once more in a sweep of arms.

"The firebird." A voice wisps out, soft as smoke and engulfing the room. Hero meets the gaze of Don John, breath hitching as she sees the gleam of embers in the black pits of his eyes. "She is a phoenix."

Hero smiles, lowering her arms. "My lord is correct."

"A beautiful performance, daughter, and well done, sir," her father applauds the two of them. "Already we see the marriage of your minds."

"Now will the Count entertain us," Claudio barks and Hero is startled by the sharpness of his tone.

"I do not intend to be made sport," comes the flint response.

"So you make yourself unsporting! Have we not each taken our fair turns?"

"Claudio is right, brother." Don Pedro interjects. "You gave the correct answer, therefore, you must perform your piece."

Don John stands rigid, his face incised with a defiance that quickens Hero's pulse, her hands wringing as her insides stretch into lute strings, discordant notes plucked upon them, glancing between the brothers. She had not meant for this; all she wanted was to stretch across the distance and knock upon that high wall Don John has raised between them. She had not anticipated this staunch refusal from Don John to participate. She feels ill to think she is the cause of this tension; the merriment from moments ago has drained from the room.

"I c-can take my turn again."

"No, lady, you have played fair," the Prince obstructs her. "It is John's turn, if he will not flout our game."

"It is all games with you," his brother hisses.

"Come, my lord, no need to be bashful, it is all in good fun," Antonio pipes up, the only cheerful voice in a mirthless scene.

"Yes, do amuse us," Benedick goads.

Don John stalks to the centre of the room, ire radiating from him like the flames of the firebird's wings and Hero retreats from him lest she be burned. He thrusts his hand into the bag and pulls out a prompt. His mouth twitches, then he strips out of his coat. Hero straightens, heat creeping up her neck.

Don John's hands shape a pair of triangles protruding from his head. He repeats a similar motion in front of face.

"Horns — ears —"

"Big ears! Big nose!"

"A muzzle!"

"A dog!"

Don John opens his mouth, then gnashes his canines together.

"A rabid dog."

"A beast! He is a beast!"

"A wolf!"

He inclines his head towards Beatrice in confirmation of this last utterance, then begins to prowl across the room. Margaret giggles beside her while Hero finds herself transfixed; she had thought there something wild in his manner before but now he is downright predatorial in his movements. It makes her wonder which is the act, the man or the beast.

He stalks over to Antonio and says something too soft for Hero's ears. Her uncle smiles bemused as he shrugs out of his wool coat and gives it to Don John who pulls it on. Though similar in stature, Antonio's is the greater girth and his coat swallows Don John's lithe frame. Don John draws it tight around him, hiding his face in the wool collar and continues to prowl.

Benedick leaps to his feet. "A wolf in sheep's clothing!"

Don John halts his performance and gives a single nod. "Fitting," someone utters though Hero does not catch who.

Benedick bounds to his feet, taking centre stage. Don John slips aside, returning Antonio's coat to him and pulling on his own. Benedick launches into action but Hero's gaze follows Don John as he slinks around the room. She starts towards him but he escapes out the door without a glance in her direction.

Her shoulders sink and she sighs. It seems as if he is always walking away from her.

"You look pensive, my lady." A voice at her elbow startles her from her thoughts.

She discovers the Prince is beside her and releases the bunched fabric of her skirt. "My lord."

He smiles at her. "Has Signior Benedick's performance stunned you so?"

At the centre of the room Benedick is engaged in a great feat of theatrics. One moment he is a prowling beast, snarling at the audience. In the next he is swinging an invisible club — no, a sword. Now he is the beast again, jaws open in a mute roar.

"This may be the longest I have known him to go without speaking," the Prince remarks and Hero smothers a giggle.

Around the room, people call out their guesses. "Lion? A lion!"

"No, no, he is a warrior! A huntsman?"

"Oh, oh is it Androcles and the Lion!"

"He is some form of beast or brute," Beatrice observes. "You are aware, Signior, that it is against the rules to portray yourself."

Benedick freezes in his clawing at the air and instead crosses to her. He flaps his arms, baring his teeth and releasing a furious caw while Beatrice watches with an arched eyebrow.

"It is curious, is it not?" The Prince motions with his goblet. "How they proclaim to disdain one another yet are constant in seeking the other out."

Hero smiles. "Is it curious?"

The Prince looks at her, his own smile growing. "Perhaps not. They are both strong of head and strong of heart."

They watch Benedick circle Beatrice as she scoffs, "Who is the parrot now?"

Benedick ceases his flapping, shaping his arms into the pose of an archer firing an arrow at her. Beatrice is unmoved.

"Cupid?" Ursula suggests.

"NO." Benedick and Beatrice shout.

"Methinks they do protest too much," Don Pedro whispers to Hero.

She muffles a giggle and murmurs back, "Indeed, one cannot help hearing how much they loathe to speak of the other."

The Prince chuckles. "Another likeness they share; they are both loud in their passions." He glances to the doorway then back to Hero. "My brother, on the other hand, is not."

Her pulse skips and she swallows. "That is the beauty of the soul, God makes each of us unique."

"Hm, you offer absolution that borders on divine. However, as his flesh and kin I declare he shows a contemptible spirit, decamping as he has."

"I thought his complexion pallid, I fear his departure is due to some foul fish he ate at the market," Hero finds herself excusing Don John though she is unsure why.

"You mistake his disposition, gentle lady. His affliction is the black bile. He is a melancholic."

Hero's fingers pinch together through her skirt. "We all have a share of sorrow. I hope in Messina he will find a peace."

The Prince regards her, his eyes glittering. "I hope my brother appreciates how good a wife he has in you."

Hero has no idea what Don John thinks of her and returns her attention to the performance ahead. Benedick is now lumbering under an invisible weight. He staggers for a while then straightens, pretending to pluck something from the air.

"Is this still the same prompt?"

"He is some form of labourer. Is he tending to an orchard?"

"Is that fruit he picks? Could it be Genesis? Adam and Eve? The Garden of Eden!"

"Oh Lord!" Beatrice shouts at once. "He is doing the Twelve Labours of Hercules!"

"You have it, lady!" Benedick cries, pleased that someone understands his brilliance at last.

"Well done, niece. I never would have thought of that." Leonato applauds.

"T'was a greater labour for the audience to witness than any feat Hercules accomplished," Claudio mocks his friend and a laugh goes around the room.

"Clearly too large a performance for your small mind to comprehend," Benedick retaliates. "Now, lady, the stage is yours."

He motions for Beatrice and she strides towards him, chin raised. "What was your ridiculous flapping intended to represent?"

"Why, his battle with the harpies, of course," Benedick grins and the room falls into a hush.

Beatrice does not betray a twitch. "Hercules never fought the harpies. However, I must congratulate you, sir. Your impersonation of a bullish warrior with a wit as sharp as his club was… well-rehearsed. I could scarcely discern it for an act."

A soft ooh goes around the room and Benedick's face darkens into a scowl. "There is no need for your performance for I can tell what you are."

"What is that?"

"A shrew."

The room draws in its breath. Hero takes a step forward.

But Beatrice's gaze shines blue as quartz. "You may wish I were a small creature, for only then can you feel yourself large without aid of a pheasant's breast."

Benedick squawks in outrage while a few titters sound around the room.

"You shall have to do better than that, good Hercules," The Prince calls out before Benedick can bluster a retort, "If you wish to win the girdle of fair Hippolyta."

Some people snigger while Benedick chokes, his face turning faintly puce. Beatrice is better composed, but Hero spies the stiffening of her spine.

"I wish none of her!" Benedick sputters, storming out of the room.

"For which I am much thankful!" Beatrice yells after him, a flush risen in her cheeks. She notices the rest of the room is watching her and straightens.

Hero opens her mouth but it is the Prince's merry voice that sounds. "It is a pity Hercules did not complete several more labours for we may have succeeded in keeping Benedick quiet the whole evening."

Laughter erupts and Beatrice presses a hand to her chest. "Oh, my lord, such a feat would prove impossible even to the great hero himself."

"Perhaps if we were to roast him a really big pheasant," Claudio suggests, miming with his arms the enormous sized bird and puffing out his cheeks.

"Good lord, is that the pheasant or Signior Benedick?" Beatrice demands.

Peals of laughter ring through the room once more, the atmosphere light and merry as the company watches Beatrice mime. She throws herself into the performance with a fervent energy that out-blazes even the torches. Hero smiles and sips her wine, silencing her tongue around the answer so her cousin can shine a little longer.

"Gentle Hero." Don Pedro's hushed voice causes her to turn and she finds he is giving her a covert smile. "I have a notion to undertake my own great labour of Hercules. Will you assist me?"

Hero feels a nervous rush through her stomach, lips warm with the tingle of wine. "What has my lord in mind?"

The Prince's gaze sparkles. "When the game is finished, gather yourself and your father to me — Count Claudio too shall be our fellow — and then we will have our sport."

:-x-:

Hero devours ink-scratched lines, her sleep-sluggish mind fighting to follow the poem. The candle flickers, scarcely enough light for her to read yet she persists, absorbed in the tale as mortal Psyche trembles on the rocky crag, awaiting the monster to whom she has been betrothed — a monster so terrible that even the gods are said to fear him. Unbeknownst, her beast of a betrothed is none other than Eros, god of love, who has been pierced by his own arrow as he gazed on her.

Eros, otherwise known as Cupid in the Roman pantheon. Her sleepish mind finds itself wandering back to that alcove where the Prince revealed his plot.

"If we can do this, Cupid is no longer an archer. His glory shall be ours, for we are the only love-gods."

Hero glances to the other bed, where her cousin snuffles, fast asleep; at the foot of her bed the loyal Barkimedes snores, dreaming of chasing sheep. Like in the poem, the Prince intends to transform Benedick from a beast in Beatrice's eyes to a handsome love-god. Her father and Claudio both thought it an excellent lark. Hero herself is hopeful that this nudge might open Beatrice's heart to those tender feelings she has often scorned.

The Prince is right, Beatrice and Benedick are both strong of head and heart, too much perhaps for their own good. She has often wondered at their secret history, unable to fleech it out of her cousin and daring not to be more forceful in her inquiries, lest she press on an old wound. The Prince better be correct and Benedick worthy of her sister-cousin; for if he proves a knave she shall condemn him to itchy sheets for the rest of his stay.

In her sleep Beatrice mutters something that sounds like "...false dice…" and rolls over.

Hero smiles. Her cousin has so beautiful a soul, so big a heart. She deserves all the happiness this world can give.

Her fingers press into the parchment of the folio Don John gifted her. The letters blur in the creeping shadows and Hero sighs, giving in to her tired eyes. She slips the folio into the nook under her bed and as she does she brushes the chest that dwells there. Her fingers still, lingering on the wood carvings. Then she snatches back her hand and blows out the candle.

Down the hall, in another wing of the house, Don John sits at his window, his candle long since guttered, staring out at the night. Even in another land, with fields and sea stretched between them, the stars look the same over Messina as they do in Aragon.

Unconscious of each other, Don John and Hero each muster a breath, inhaling through a tightness in their chests… and exhale alone.