A Divided Inheritance

by Deborah Swift

  For John, with love

  Au coeur vaillant, rien n’est impossible

  Motto from Academy of the Sword

  by Girard Thibault

  Contents

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Part Two

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Part Three

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Part Four

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Part One

  You know a thing perfectly when you know the cause of it.

  Carranza – Dialogues

  London, September 1599

  Magdalena was afraid to sleep in case she did not wake. She was thinking of her sons; of Zachary in particular. How to convince him. There would be a chance, if only he’d sit still long enough to listen.

  She struggled to push herself upright in her bed. Her nightdress was damp with sweat, though she shivered with cold so much she had to drag the tangle of covers right up to her neck. No matter that it was autumn and mild, and flies still buzzed lazily round her ale cup. Death hovered near, like the onset of winter. She put the vapour pipe to her lips again and inhaled deeply.

  A picture of Zachary rose up in her mind; his darting eyes, his restless energy. He had grown wilder this last year now that she was confined to her chamber and there was no one to father him. And as for Saul and Kit, they had no patience with him, never did have. They sensed he was different to them, God knows how, but they did.

  When they pinched him, thinking she could not see them, it used to make her come running to chastise them with slaps. That was when she could reach them, but now she resorted to harsh words, shouting and cursing at them like a shrew, but it was no use. The wily scoundrels – they knew she could do nothing. Not lying here stuck like a sow in a stall.

  How in God’s name would Zachary fare, once she was gone? The dread for him rose up within her. Absurd, she thought, when he was almost grown now and a youth – no longer the wiry babe in arms who suckled at her breast. Still, she feared for him.

  She warded off another spasm of coughing by draining the lukewarm ale and lay back on the pillow. She stared at the peeling plasterwork on the ceiling, hearing the street cries outside and the clop of hooves passing by. Her breath came heavily now, with memories of Zack’s tears, and the too-innocent faces of her elder boys.

  How terrible to know this of your own sons – to see so clearly their cruelty and malice. She had never thought she could despise her own children, but Kit and Saul had defeated her. Their venom came from nowhere, mysterious, risen in them like bile. As if their blood somehow remembered their father and his fists, although they had been only mewling babes when she had left him.

  It shamed her, that she loved them, despite it all. These ugly-hearted sons. They would never change, and she was dog-tired of pretending that they would. Nobody sees the truth of their children as a mother does. So, she must do what she could for Zack. She pushed the opium away, prepared to bear the pain if she could only scrape her thoughts back together, and keep her wits one last night.

  It was almost dark when she heard the door latch click, but she knew it must be Zack for he was always a few hours ahead of his brothers. He liked to enjoy a little time with her alone, before Saul and Kit came in with their ale-breath and swagger.

  She heard his weapons and his night’s pickings drop outside her door with a clatter. Too tired and sick to use the bedchamber, she slept in the main chamber now, on a pallet piled with sheepskins and old cloaks, for she could never seem to get warm.

  Soon some other family will lodge here, she thought, and I will be just a half-sensed presence, a scent of poppy left hanging in the air.

  ‘Zack!’ she called out, mustering her strength.

  His dark curly head appeared round the door. He tiptoed in, although it was clear she was not asleep. She followed him with her eyes as he came, seeing him as if from a distance. Small and skinny, his legs poked out from under an oversized cloak, a new one, by the look of it, of damson-coloured wool. He closed the open window, lit the sconces with a taper, and then paraded before her, swishing the cloak, grinning, showing off its green silk lining.

  ‘Qué bonito!’ he said, in Spanish. ‘Can you believe it?’ he crowed. ‘The gent hadn’t fastened it properly, so I had it whisked off in a trice. Had to run like a hare afterwards, though. Fine, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ she murmured, ‘it surely is. But come, sit a moment.’

  ‘Why, are you worse? What is it?’ His eyes were wide with concern.

  ‘Not worse, no. But I need to tell you something.’

  He sat, unhooked the cloak and threw it over the bed, smoothing it with his fingers. His hands were none-too-clean as usual. He lifted a corner and brought it up to her face for her to see. ‘It will keep you warm, Mama. Look how tight-woven it is. I chose it specially, and the—’

  ‘Yes yes.’ She dismissed it with a small gesture and took hold of his hand to keep his attention. He squirmed a little, unused to this, but did not withdraw. There was fine dark down growing on his upper lip. She was about to reach up to touch it but her eyes blurred. Unshed tears that she would not see him become a proper man.

  She swallowed and took a deep breath, hoping her voice would hold. ‘In Spanish, eh? It’s easier for me.’ He nodded. ‘Nathaniel Leviston, whom you called uncle. You remember him?’ The English name seemed strange amongst the Spanish words.

  Zack was very still now, seeing her tears and recognizing something different in her tone. She pressed his hand. ‘Well, he has no sons. It could be he will be glad to take you in, and—’

  ‘What do you mean, Mama?’ He never let her finish, always wanted to be ahead of the conversation.

  ‘When I am gone, he will come to find you. I have written to him. I pray I have not left it too late. But Zack, he is wealthy and, who knows, he thinks you are his kin, and he might be prepared to help you if . . .’ she paused, trying to think of the right words, ‘if your brothers do not prove kind.’

  He was already protesting. ‘But you aren’t going anywhere, Mama. You’re staying right here, until you get well. Wait, I’ll fetch you some more of your draught.’ He tried to pull away, but she clung tight.

  ‘No. No more poppy,’ she said, breathless with the effort of speaking and of holding him. ‘Not tonight. I need to be clear in my mind. I need you to understand. There is no money. I have nothing to leave you. Promise me. Promise you’ll go with Uncle Leviston. He will—’


  ‘Hush, Mama. You’re not making sense. It’s the physic. But I’ll promise to go with him if that’s what makes you happy.’ He stroked her forehead with his hand, and she fell back, defeated, unable to summon the energy to insist more.

  He did not know how serious she was. He promised as though it was of no account, like his promises to look twice before crossing the street, or his promise to wash his hands before eating. She had so much more she needed to tell him; how to be a man in this world, what the important things were – faith, tradition, following your heart.

  ‘Come lie up here next to me, then,’ she said.

  She drew him close, inhaled the smell of the dusty London streets and the outdoors from his hair. He let her, though she knew it was the last thing a twelve-year-old boy really wanted to do. He was always on the move, never still. She pillowed his head in the crook of her arm.

  She knew how to manoeuvre him to listen, so she squeezed him and told him of the time he was born, when he was so scrawny she had almost given up on him.

  ‘You were the size of a screwed-up fist, that’s all,’ she said, reverting to English, to draw him in.

  It had been his favourite story when he was little. The tale of how he was so small she did not think he would survive, but she prayed to Our Lady to let him live, and her prayers were answered. Zachary made no sound that he was listening, but his fingers closed round hers, so she knew she had his attention. She pulled him a little closer.

  ‘You were a proper little fighter,’ she said.

  ‘And one day I’m going to have my own school of the sword, just like Savioli.’

  ‘But before that, when . . . I’ve been trying to tell you, Uncle Leviston will come for you. He thinks he is your father,’ she said. ‘And it is his money that has kept us all these years.’

  ‘But why? I don’t want him as a father. He’s dull and smells of old clothes. Why does he think that? He’s not my father.’

  ‘He was one of my gentlemen friends. He paid me for my company.’ She brushed lightly over the truth. ‘I’m sorry, pigeon, but I had your brothers to think of.’

  ‘I know, Mama. I know what you are.’

  ‘I had to do something. Spain and England were at war, nobody in London wanted a tutor any more, or to learn the Spanish tongue. I had to make a living somehow. Leviston liked the fact I was a Catholic. That’s why.’ She paused. ‘You will listen to him, and let him help, won’t you?’

  Zachary was mute.

  She touched him on the arm. ‘Did you hear me?’

  No answer, just stubborn silence.

  ‘He’s a respectable man – despite me. When I am gone I hope he will father you if he can.’

  Zachary still said nothing. It was as if she had extinguished a light in him. Of course she knew that dry Uncle Leviston was no sort of father in a young boy’s eyes. Not any sort of hero – not handsome, or dashing, or easy-natured. But he was wealthy, and more decent than the rest, that at least.

  Zachary turned to look at her just once, his expression so full of hurt and grief it made her wince. ‘Don’t leave us, Mama.’

  She could not answer so she just shook her head. Zachary rolled on to his side and his back came between them like a wall. She reached out to wind an arm round his waist. Just enough time to feel his skinny ribs through his shirt before he leapt from the bed and ran off without a word.

  ‘Zack!’

  She would have liked a kiss, a moment of tenderness as a keepsake. Tears seeped from the corners of her eyes. The effort to talk had sapped her willpower and finally she gave in and reached out for the opium. The pain was worse, she could hardly take a breath. Had she made him understand? She did not know. Pray God it would end soon.

  Dreams came, of her childhood in Granada, of the red-hot sun and her mother’s fragrant rabbit stew. Of the noise of the cicadas, and the smell of burnt earth, and the braying of donkeys. Of when she was a child the same age as Zachary, light and free and dancing on her bare brown feet. Through these pictures the opium did its work and she slept.

  The clang of St Mary’s bells woke her. There were pale-breasted swallows lined up on the eaves preparing for their flight. She had seen them in Spain, admired their red throats, their swooping, elegant dances. She wondered where these English ones flew to in the winter. Someone had told her they buried themselves in the mud at the bottom of the lakes until spring.

  The cold had spread through her flesh now, as if she lay buried in dark silt herself. She remembered her dream and imagined what it must be like to have Zachary’s legs, his energy, his whole life stretching before him like an untrodden road. There was no sign of him still, but she listened out for him with every ounce of her strength, even though each little sound made her bones ache.

  The door banged open. The noise of two pairs of boots. There was a smell of strong liquor as Kit bent to look over her.

  ‘Mama.’ And then a whisper. ‘I think she’s worse.’

  ‘No, she’s not. She’s the same,’ she heard Saul say. Even over this they contradicted each other.

  ‘Please don’t argue.’ She propped herself up on her elbow a moment and croaked to Kit to fetch the quill and ink. He grumbled and then clattered about the room searching for it until Saul snapped, ‘Not over there, you bumpkin, in here.’ She heard the scrape of the desk drawer opening. The room was blurred, as though she looked through a fog.

  ‘She hasn’t written to anyone for weeks. It’s a bad sign,’ Kit whispered. Then loudly, next to her ear, he said, ‘Shall we send for someone?’

  She shook her head. Finding a willing priest could take time, and be dangerous, though she knew she would need one soon enough.

  ‘If you’re sure?’

  ‘No, no one.’

  ‘Mama, what do you need the writing things for, then?’ Saul asked.

  ‘Just put them by me in case I have need of them.’

  Saul was still insisting to Kit, ‘If she’s well enough to write she’s better than yesterday.’

  She had thought to draw them both into an embrace, like when they were babes, to feel the warmth of their bodies against hers, but now she knew she had not the strength. They seemed too big for the room with their bluster and argument.

  Just go, can’t you? She willed them to leave, feigning sleep.

  ‘She’s sleeping again,’ Saul said, from close to her face, his breath damp on her skin.

  A sudden cool disturbance of air brushed her cheek, and she heard Kit hiss, ‘What’s that you’ve got?’

  ‘A cloak. Rat-face must have got it for her. A fine one, too.’

  ‘Hey, let me look.’

  ‘Let go!’

  ‘She’ll notice. And we’ll get into trouble.’

  ‘Nah, she won’t. Look, she’s asleep.’

  And so it was with relief she heard them stumble to their beds. The new cloak had gone. She imagined Zachary’s disappointed face and it made her angry. The anger seemed to light a fire inside her. She must make him understand. She hauled herself up to lean on the wall behind her and took the quill to write. Over the next quarter-hour she pressed the parchment against her knees, applied the quill to it in determined but querulous strokes.

  It was almost five bells when she felt Zack slide in next to her, wind his arms around her waist and nuzzle into the back of her neck. She was floating with the effects of the opium and could barely move to embrace him, but she let out a long sigh of pain and joy. Her boy had come home. Her letter to him was under the pillow. It was as though those few scrawled words contained the last of her heat and warmth, the last of Andalusia. She clasped hold of his hand and wound her fingers into his.

  When morning came, his hand was still in hers.

  Too cold; the thought drifted by, too cold now to move. The chill crept into her bones until it rattled the windows of her breath.

  On the opposite roof the line of swallows clustered together, dark shapes edging the eaves. She was as light as they; all feather and bone. All at once they
took flight, wings beat past her window, the flash of pale belly and black forked tail. So it was time, time to go home. She let something in her lift, and wheel, and soar into the sky.

  Chapter 1

  May 1609

  Elspet Leviston leaned over the desk, squinting at the reference she was writing for the lacemaker’s girl who wanted to become a housemaid. Her quill scratched over the paper in brisk efficiency for she had several more letters to write for Father after this one, and she wanted to get them done. She hummed a madrigal as she did so, enjoying the hiss as she stamped the seal into the hot wax. Every now and then she sighed and said, ‘Give over now,’ good-naturedly to the two dogs at her feet who were thumping their tails on the ground, demanding her attention.

  Finally, she succumbed, and went to get her cloak and hat along with the leads. She rang the bell for Martha the housemaid to accompany her, and called the dogs, although there was no need – they were already panting beside her, ready for their afternoon outing.

  ‘Come, Jakes.’ The setter jumped up at her skirts, his ears flapping. The other one, the terrier, tried to chew her feet, tail batting back and forth, little barks escaping in his excitement. ‘Diver, you little tinker, leave go!’

  Finally, she had the clips fastened on the pair of them. Both dogs began to bark excitedly and to pull at their leashes. ‘Stop it,’ she chided them. ‘We’re going. Just wait whilst I get my gloves.’ She handed both the leads to Martha and put on her gloves.

  At last they were off, the dogs scampering ahead on the familiar path alongside the wall of the Convent of Westminster, and away from London town. Elspet and Martha passed the brewers, screwing up their noses to each other at the smell of yeast, and then tugged on the leashes so that they could peer in the window of the little silk-weaver’s with his guild sign of the silk-flies and loom. He waved at them through the window before they headed out into the countryside. Once the track gave way to grass they let the impatient dogs off the leads and they sprang away.

  Elspet watched the dogs nosing in the verges and inhaled the smell of the pasture, glad to be away from the city stink. ‘It’s such a lovely day, isn’t it, Martha?’ she said.