The life so brief

…the art so long in the learning, the attempt so hard, the conquest so sharp, the fearful joy that ever slips away so quickly…

- The Parliament of Fowls, Geoffrey Chaucer, 1382


The next morning found Edmund up and ready to meet the world. After breakfast, he discovered Peter lazing about in the parlor, complaining cheerfully about his shoulder and admonishing him not to do anything more Strenuous than eating lunch.

"I have been told that there is a masque planned for this evening," Peter said. "You had best save your energy for that."

Edmund hated masques. He found them an abysmal waste of time.

"Some people enjoy them," Peter replied in the face of this outburst. "I would rather go fishing myself, but sometimes sacrifices must be made."

"Pah," Edmund said and took himself off.

His journey eventually led him out into the garden. It was too nice a day to stay inside, not when the air was thick with bees, and hummingbirds waging war on the bees. The two sides moved hither and thither as they buzzed angrily over the ownership of the lilies. Some butterflies accidentally fluttered into the Fray, then hastily fluttered out again.

It was pleasant to wander around without a care in the world. He had no need to be constantly looking over his shoulder to see if some beastie was coming to eat him and it was far too hot to wear a shirt of mail. He was a man of leisure.

His leisure was suddenly shattered when he heard Lady Beatha's laughter filtering through the hedges. Momentarily conflicted, he lingered in the path, then made up his mind. He would not avoid her. He had met beasties who wanted to eat him in battle. He would not retreat now.

When he rounded the corner, he saw Beatha and Helena and their two ladies, Margaret and Ursula, cutting flowers to bring inside the castle. There was a whole garden reserved for cut flowers and baskets lay around filled with peonies that were giving off fragrance like sunshine.

He smiled at the sight of the ladies. They looked like flowers themselves in their colorful dresses, and Helena had lilies that had been artfully woven in her hair. He knew who the author of that idea had been. There had been a time when Beatha had stuffed flowers in his buttonholes every time he met her.

"You must cut the stems longer," Beatha was saying. "Our vases are deeper than that. Cut them all the way at the bottom."

"Heed her words," Edmund remarked, "Lady Beatha is a sage in all things regarding plants. The ancient books of gardening in the library bow before her superior knowledge."

Lady Beatha spun around to skewer him with a glance. Once upon a time, he only praised her skills with gardening.

"King Edmund is so mildewed from the time he spends in libraries that he infects plants and kills them," she said.

There was a grain of truth in this accusation, except the plants in his study usually died from lack of watering. One day, she had surreptitiously arranged that he be given a large assortment of cacti so he could be surrounded by brilliant flowers. He still had them.

The memory stole the smile from his face. Rather than going in, he spent the rest of the morning helping the ladies carry their baskets. They used their unexpected pack mule with great delight. He was given the shears, the shovel and rake, and two of the baskets, and also a bucketful of water. He clanked along uncomplaining.

He was also found useful for mending the broken latch on a garden gate. Lady Beatha lingered for a moment by his side.

"Have you been spreading the notion that I sound like a hyena when I laugh?" She asked.

"There is no need for me to spread a tale that is demonstrably true," he replied tranquilly as he tested the latch. It held fast. "All fair ladies have their flaws."

She had been on the verge of storming away, but she paused for a moment.

"You still think I am fair?" she asked, her voice curiously fragile.

"You seem to find yourself so," he said and methodically collected the shears, the shovel and rake, the two baskets, and bucketful of water. She didn't really sound like a hyena, but it was an association that couldn't be forgotten once it was mentioned. He may have mentioned it. How the rumor was spread, he did not know.

"It could be worse," he continued, rubbing salt into the wound, "I've heard some people give donkeys stiff competition with their braying."

She was watching him in a fury, eyes blazing in the morning sun; in her gold-green dress she looked like an exquisite bronze statue. He met her eyes with a taunting smile. That was something he hardly dared admit to himself- he did still love to look at her. Strictly academic, of course. He loved to look at amoebas under a microscope as well.

~o*o~

The masque came with music and dancing and much revelry, and the flowers which had been cut that morning shone like silk in the lights that evening. Satyrs danced with the spirits of trees, and where the music came from, no one knew, but it filled the room like summer. The gowns of the ladies glittered with cut stones and embroidery of gold and the gentlemen were resplendent in silver buttons and watered silk. All wore masks of varying levels of complexity, and the hall was overflowing with mirth.

Edmund was not feeling mirthful. When he and Peter had been preparing to come downstairs there had been two masks left, one Comedy, the other Tragedy. Peter had claimed Comedy and bestowed Tragedy upon Edmund. "It is more cheerful than your countenance at the moment," he remarked.

Edmund was in exactly the wrong sort of mood for anything at all. He stayed by the sidelines and ate grapes. The grapes were sour. A few times Peter came over with one lady or another and made him dance. "It's this blasted arm, you see," Peter would explain, "I found this lady without a partner; would you-?"

"Of course," Edmund would say, bowing, "What a pleasure."

Peter, he knew, was doing it because it was annoying. And there was no pastime Peter enjoyed more than annoying his brother. Edmund was forced to beat a retreat from the refreshment table and filter through the crowd in order to avoid him. In the end it turned out that he shouldn't have bothered.

"Why look, here is a gentleman to dance with you."

Edmund looked around at the sound of Lord Peridan's voice and saw him standing with Lady Beatha.

"Good sir," Lord Peridan continued, "Would you be so kind as to dance with my sister? I am too fatigued to lead her through another."

"But… I don't want-" Lady Beatha began.

Edmund bowed and held out his hand. She couldn't decently refuse. Silently, Edmund led her out onto the floor, and as they faced each other, waiting for the music to begin, they each tried to read the other behind their masks.

"You are so silent and your mask so brooding, I begin to think you are a foreign agent come to spy on us," she said as they started to dance. "Will you tell me your name?"

Edmund wondered if she was feigning ignorance, or if she really did not know who he was. If the latter, he wanted to keep it that way. "It is not as pretty as your own," he said in his best Calormene accent.

"That is not sporting," she said. "You know my name, but I do not know yours."

He inclined his head to her.

"Well," she said, "If I did not know you at once, then it must mean you are someone of little merit and no importance. Are you perhaps a swineherd?"

"I have heard that you are the fairest lady in the castle," he replied, "I have also heard that you are disdainful and sharp-tongued. I see that the report was correct."

"Will you not tell me who told you so?" she asked.

"You shall pardon me."

"Then will you not tell me who you are?"

"And put an end to your suspense? Certainly not," Edmund replied. He had no intention of crossing the Rubicon.

"It is an eminent lout who pleases himself with calling me disdainful and sharp-tongued," she replied waspishly. "He is a pompous popinjay, so full of self-importance he can barely stay upright."

"Who is he?"

"Oh, you know him well enough."

"Indeed, I do not."

"Did he never make you laugh?"

"Apparently never, since I do not know a man of his description," Edmund replied, "Pray, what does he do for employment?"

"Why, he is the High King's jester, a very dull fool. All men smile to his face and laugh behind his back. They must humor the poor clot so he can continue in his delusions of wisdom." She looked around the room curiously, "I am sure he is in the fleet somewhere. I wish he had boarded me!"

"When I have the pleasure of making his acquaintance, I'll tell him what you said."

"Oh, do, do," She replied. "And no doubt he'll show what he calls wit at my expense."

"Better to be a witty fool than a foolish wit," Edmund remarked.

"He fancies himself the one, but is the other," she replied. "The fool is a fool indeed."

Edmund grimaced and felt her tugging at his hand when he took a wrong step.

"We must follow the leaders," she said.

"In every good thing," he replied sarcastically.

"Oh, if they lead to any ill, I will leave them at the next turning."

"If they knew you were trailing them, it would be the other way around," Edmund said dryly, "From what I have been told, if your breath was as poisonous as your words, there would be no one living near you. Even the north star would not be too distant."

"And if your words held similar power," she replied immediately, "Everyone near you would have died of boredom by this time."

~o*o~

After the dance, Edmund, with his nose out of joint, took it upon himself to find Claude. He had seen Peter talking to Helena and he decided that Claude, if he wished the win the lady's favor, had better go over and speak to her rather than dither in the background.

"She is too radiant," Claude said in desperation when Edmund stumbled upon him, "See how she blushes, how she gazes up at him. He is wooing her for himself!"

"Tosh!" Edmund exclaimed. He knew Peter was not wooing her for himself, but he was not so certain that Helena was entirely immune to his brother's charms. Peter was completely unaware of the affect he had on women. It was nauseating.

As it was, Claude would not be moved. He continued to insist that all was lost until Edmund was pretty much out of temper.

"It is certain he woos for himself! Friendship is constant in all other things, save in the office and affairs of love. Farewell, forever, Helena! Farewell." Claude's voice cracked.

"Do you think my brother would serve you thus?" Edmund exclaimed.

"I wish him joy."

Edmund stared at him. "She's not even his type."

"I pray you, leave me, my lord."

With an exclamation of disgust, Edmund was happy to oblige. He struck off through the crowd to join Peter where he stood with Helena and Eoin the Wizard.

"Have you quarreled with Lady Beatha again?" Peter asked, grinning when he saw him, "She told me a few moments ago that she is much wronged by you. I sent her off to find Claude… have you seen him about?"

"Wronged?" Edmund exclaimed. "She misused me! She told me I was your jester, and a dullard to boot. I felt as though a whole army was shooting at me. Every word she speaks stabs."

Eoin the Wizard nodded with great compassion in the offing, but Peter only laughed.

"I wish some scholar would conjure the disdain from her," Edmund muttered petulantly, "Or me. The world is not large enough for both of us."

"Here she comes now," Peter remarked, still laughing. Edmund looked the same way and made a noise. She was coming under full sail with Claude trailing woefully a distance behind her.

"Will your majesty send me on some trivial errand?" Edmund asked suddenly. "I will fetch you a toothpick from Ettinsmoor; bring you the length of the Tisroc's foot; pluck you a hair from Father Time's beard. I would go to the world's end rather than listen to this harpy!"

Peter threw back his head and laughed.

"I detect that you are not taking the thing seriously," Edmund said grimly.

"I've never known you to be afraid of anything," Peter said, chuckling, "And here you are, afraid of a fair lady."

"Farewell least helpful of brothers," Edmund exclaimed. "I am gone. It so happens I cannot endure the lady's tongue!"

Edmund exited stage right. He passed Lady Beatha without a single glance, but she showered him with a look intending to burn. He felt it. Peter saw it and felt for his brother. He bowed to the lady.

"Come, lady," Peter said laughing, "You have lost my brother's heart."

"Indeed, my lord, he lent it me awhile," she replied quietly, "Once before he won mine of me with false dice, therefore you may well say I have lost it."

"This I did not know," Peter said, his voice suddenly gentle. "He never confided in me."

"And I have said too much," she said hastily. "I pray you promise never to speak to him of what has passed. I do not wish to be the cause of enmity between brothers. Whatever quarrel I have with your brother as a man I have none with him as a king. He is ever just, ever wise."

"I am gratified to hear it," Peter replied.

Claude had been taking his own time to arrive. "You summoned me?" he asked stiffly when he had trundled up.

"I did," Peter replied, then glanced at Helena, who had been in conversation with Eoin, "This lady deserves to dance with something other than an old fossil like me."

Lady Beatha snorted, and Claude only stood there staring at Helena like a fool.

"Speak Claude, that is your cue," Beatha said. At her words, Claude became animate. With a radiant smile, he bowed, requested Helena's fair hand, and led her out onto the floor.

"Lady," Peter said, turning to Lady Beatha, "I have one bad arm, but would you care to dance with the other?"

"It would be an honor, my lord," she replied, taking his hand.

It was a magnificent dance, even if they were one arm short, and both enjoyed it immensely. Peter found her a pleasant-spirited lady, who was perfectly willing to be civil to him, and he wondered again how she and Edmund had managed to fall out so completely.

"Hurrah for young love," Lady Beatha remarked as Peter led her to the sidelines again, "If my eyes do not deceive me my cousin will soon desert me for another, and I will be left to sit in a corner and cry heigh-ho for a husband! It seems the way everything goes in this world."

"Lady Beatha," Peter said teasingly, "I will get you one."

She looked up at him and laughed, "Have you another brother, my lord, who is exactly like yourself?"

Peter hesitated, and a vague desire to undo what wrong his brother might have committed came over him. "Would you have me, lady?"

She said nothing for several seconds, looking up at him with her face open and anguished. He saw the pain in her eyes. It tore at him, because he could never bring himself to doubt Edmund… and he could never bring himself to doubt those bright, feeling eyes.

"No, my lord," and her voice was a breath of wind. She forced herself to smile, "Unless I might have another for working days; your majesty is too costly to wear every day." When Peter laughed, she added, "Forgive me; I was born to speak all mirth and no matter."

"I am not affronted; I would rather have been affronted if you had accepted and forced me to concoct some hasty reason to be killed or leave the country," Peter said with a roguish smile, and when she laughed gleefully, he added: "It becomes you to be merry; you must have been born in a merry hour."

"I have been told that my mother cried… but then there was a star that danced, and under that was I born."

"I believe when I was born my mother cried and no star danced," Peter replied. "I wouldn't be surprised if it rained."


Author's Note: Shakespeare never bothers to explain the cause of the animosity between Beatrice and Benedick, but it's safe to conclude from various hints that they were once an item, if not actually engaged.

Production Note: When Edmund was late to set, we conducted a search and found him reading Aesop's story about 'The Fox and the Grapes' in his room. We informed him that Aesop is not part of this universe, to which he pointed out that this story wouldn't exist without Shakespeare, who lived in the same universe as Aesop. The reader will have to forgive the classical references. It couldn't be helped.