A Divided Inheritance

by Deborah Swift

  So the King was intent on expulsion. Fernandez sagged. ‘Is exile the only course open to us, your majesty? I fear even talk of an expulsion would stir a rebellion, like in the Alpujarras. That was a travesty.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘So much bloodshed, so little change. Why not allow a little more time? We do not know how successful the Edict of Grace has been yet.’

  The King snorted as if to dismiss it. ‘The duke informs me the Moriscos are already whispering in the alleyways intent on another uprising, and that this time they will call on the might of the Turks to help them. Can you imagine what that would mean?’

  There was no answer he could give to the King’s rhetorical question, so Fr Fernandez clasped his hands and looked down at the hem of his robe.

  ‘No, the Crown should act first to purge Spain of this bad seed. I am beginning to think we should not wait until after the results of this Edict of Grace. The edicts are failing anyway, my bishop says. Not enough confessions.’

  Fr Fernandez cleared his throat. He felt the words come to the tip of his tongue, but dare not say them. That it was hardly surprising. That since the last auto da fé most Moriscos were too terrified to come forward.

  He moved away from the table and slowly straightened his aching knees. He made a small bow before taking a deep breath. ‘Pardon me for my bluntness,’ he said, ‘but I feel the trials have become somewhat heavy-handed. Of course it is not the fault of your majesty,’ he hastened to add, ‘but the Moriscos see their kindred confess and repent, and vow to convert, and yet still they are burnt for heresy.’

  The King paused in his pacing and glared at him with his slate-coloured eyes. Fr Fernandez had his attention at last; he waited for the axe to fall.

  But the King merely turned away and tapped his foot. The sight of his small beribboned shoe tapping like that in this vast cavern of books made Fernandez angry. It seemed too small a gesture for what was at stake. He did not understand how this King could possibly have earned the title, ‘El Santito.’ He prayed, yes – three hours a day. He owned all these books. But was he holy? Fernandez doubted it.

  He must drown out that tapping. He threw up his arms in frustration. ‘How can we call ourselves compassionate men? In Aragon two women were executed, they tell me, just for wearing the Moorish veil. How can we have come to this? That we burn people in God’s name, simply for wearing the wrong clothes?’

  The King whipped round. ‘You go too far, Father. That’s not the point, and you know it.’

  Fr Fernandez dropped his eyes as the King turned on his heel and ranged away from him down the length of the room. ‘Don’t be naïve,’ he called. ‘Wearing the veil is forbidden precisely because it encourages them to band together and resist integration. Those that were tried and executed were proven traitors to the Faith. You know full well their dress was only the outward expression of that.’

  ‘But the trials are a death sentence! How can we bring men to the Faith through repentance, if they know that repentance sentences them to the pyre?’ The priest’s voice echoed against the domes and arches above.

  The King tapped back towards him. ‘They die because they have not fully renounced their ways. Those who show their contrition by pointing out their Muslim compatriots are left in peace. And surely once they have confessed and repented the Church can instruct them.’ He leaned his moustached face towards Fr Fernandez; his breath smelt of cloves and decay. ‘Or is it beyond the wit of my bishops to educate a few slaves and servants?’

  Fr Fernandez backed away. ‘Of course not, but education takes time, your majesty, you have to allow it time,’ he pleaded. ‘It can be as much as a whole generation before we see the fruits of our instruction.’

  ‘Or perhaps, Father, it is because these are a devious race.’ The King went over to the window where light streamed in past the dark columns of the bookshelves. ‘Quiroba tells me the courts find no consistency in the Morisco confessions. You know as well as I do, they dissemble, they avoid the truth, they shield their infidel friends. Repentance must be absolute, or it is no use at all. Impenitence is a mortal sin, yes?’

  Fr Fernandez nodded wearily. ‘Come, your majesty, let’s take a look at our successes.’ He approached the window alcove with a scroll again, and made to unwrap it, but the King shot out one hand to cover it and flapped him away with the other.

  ‘Enough with your scraps of paper! I’m tired of the whole question.’ The King’s eyes flicked to the window. Outside, the evening hunting party could be seen gathering in the courtyard. ‘I just want the kingdom settled. I am inclined to take the advice of the Duke of Lerma. This came today.’ He signalled to a courtier who hurried over and thrust a rolled parchment into Fr Fernandez’s hands.

  Warily, Fernandez untied the thong and unrolled it. He knew already what it would say. The Duke of Lerma was a notorious bigot. Avaricious but highly intelligent, he was always somewhere behind the King’s decisions. He and the queen, who had a hatred of just about everything. Fernandez picked up his eyeglass from the cord around his neck. The King meanwhile had sat again, but was thrumming his fingers impatiently on the table.

  ‘Well, what do you make of it?’ the King asked, barely giving Fernandez time to adjust his vision.

  ‘I have only scanned it, so I cannot properly say,’ the priest said tactfully, reading on as he spoke. He sighed. It was as he had predicted. ‘Pardon me, your majesty, but these are not the enemy. Most of these men have lived here all their lives. They think of themselves as Spanish, your loyal citizens.’

  The King let out an unbelieving grunt.

  Fernandez knew if he pressed him too far that it would mean the end of his time here in the Royal Monastery. He knew this, yet found himself unable to stop himself. He rolled the paper and placed it carefully on the table. It was now or never. He braced himself.

  ‘As an ordained priest, I could never accept this mass expulsion, no matter what Lerma thinks. Not those who have been baptized Christian. We would be sending them back to a heathen country. In all Christian conscience, that goes against my vocation to bring souls to peace with God. You must wait a while; the Time of Grace may yet show confessions, and more conversions to our cause.’

  ‘Must? You dare to tell me what I must do?’

  ‘I beg pardon, but I thought—’

  ‘I can see you have been tainted by their sweet-talking. You are soft, Fr Fernandez. Lerma says all our troubles stem from this canker in our society. Our Armada was routed by the English, and we will have no peace from God until we prise up the heathen stock here at home. How can we hope for success in taming the infidel abroad, whilst ever Spain offers a home to these heretics?’

  The King picked up a bell and rang it. The sound tinkled, like a fairy bell. ‘I’m tired of this. My hounds are waiting outside. And I’m afraid we cannot agree, Fr Fernandez.’

  He heard the door open behind him. Two guards in plate armour entered.

  The King continued, fixing Fernandez with an icy look. ‘We are not in my father’s reign now, we are in mine. And as of today, there is no place at my court or in my kingdom for supporters of heresy.’ He turned to the guards. ‘Arrange horses and an escort. Fr Fernandez will take up new lodgings in the Castle of the Manzanares El Real. He can wait there until the Inquisitors can find time to examine his case. Now go.’

  ‘Leave me be, I will walk unaided,’ said Fr Fernandez, but the guards held tight. ‘May God bless your majesty,’ he called, as he was bullied to the door, ‘and may he give you what you deserve.’

  Chapter 19

  London, August 1609

  Around them people were already heaving trunks and baskets aboard, but Elspet waited on the quay whilst a white-faced Mr Wilmot said goodbye to his wife Dorothy. She heard him promising her he would return with good news, and telling her not to fret. She averted her eyes as they embraced, but when she turned back it was to see him kiss her tenderly on the lips, stroking a strand of hair away from her forehead.

  She repressed a pang
of jealousy. Nobody would be missing her, except, perhaps, the dogs. She hoped the hunt kennels would be taking good care of them. She was nervous; the ship looked enormous and the thought of crossing over that vast body of water was daunting. A vision of Bainbridge’s ships listing at the bottom of the ocean had seized her just as it had seized Mr Wilmot. But what else could she do? She refused to just do nothing until she was thrust out into the cold.

  After much pressure, Greeting had agreed to wait before the sale of the property so that she and Mr Wilmot could travel to Spain to discuss the business with Zachary. Mr Wilmot was as angry as she was – after all, he had a whole cohort of men to satisfy, men who would likely be out of work if the business was sold. Like herself, he had assumed that the business would be kept running – the men were used to changes at the helm, it happened all the time in business. But that the warehouses should close? Well, that was quite another thing altogether. Forty men depended on Leviston’s lace trade, and who knows how many women crouching in their cottages over their bobbins and pads.

  Once on board, Wilmot leaned on the rails, looking over the side and shifting from foot to foot nervously. All around, other travellers were doing the same, anxious to be moving. At the first lurch of the ship he turned back to look for her. Elspet smiled at him. She was glad of his company for she did not know if she would have been brave enough to travel alone on such a journey.

  The ship set sail and soberly they watched the land recede. Neither spoke. It was only when they were out of sight of land that Elspet said to him, ‘Thank you, Mr Wilmot, for your kindness. I am grateful.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘You give me too much credit. I have another selfish motive besides kindness. I am hoping that a woman may persuade Mr Deane to reconsider his plans. A woman can more easily play on a man’s sympathies than a man can. I have a rough tongue and I’ve been told I am too blunt. I am hoping our alliance will benefit us both.’

  ‘Then I’m afraid you will be disappointed. Mr Deane thinks little of me.’ She weighed the words carefully. ‘I was hoping your more gentlemanly persuasion might sway him.’

  He laughed ruefully. ‘So we are both laying our hopes with the other! No matter, perhaps between the two of us we will make him see reason. I don’t know how I will face my men if we cannot.’

  ‘He has little understanding of the trade. Perhaps if we can make him see how profitable it could be . . .?’

  He looked at her frankly. ‘Could be. That’s the word, I’m afraid. It has seen better days as I’m sure you’re aware.’

  ‘A temporary state of affairs, I’m sure –’ She paused. He was shaking his head.

  He wrapped his cloak tighter round his shoulders. ‘You know he lent to Bainbridge? It was your father who financed the Flora Rose and the Sea Hart.’

  ‘Oh no. I had no idea. Mr Bradstone told me that Leviston’s was in ill-repair, but I didn’t know why. I thought it was just another excuse for Hugh to break off our engagement.’

  ‘And the shock of it, for a man already in poor health, well . . .’

  He had no need to say more. The lurch of the ship made her queasy, but also the thought that she had been so short-sighted. It had not occurred to her that her father had granted Bainbridge a loan. But how foolish, and typical, of her father to help his friend like that.

  ‘How bad is it?’

  ‘Well, if our Brittany boats come home safe, it will go a long way to putting it back to rights. But I’d say five years. Five years before the sale of it would keep you, mistress.’

  His honesty and bluntness took away her breath. No wonder he wanted to persuade Zachary to hold the sale. ‘Are you saying that the business is failing?’

  ‘If he sells now, then the debts of the Flora Rose and the Sea Hart will mean there is little left to come to you. What will you do if he insists on selling?’

  She shrugged. She could not even think of it. Already she had sold most of her jewellery to pay her passage. She moved over to the rail where Martha stood, bent over the side, pale and white. Over by the point, the faint wisp of land was just fading away. The image of her home came to her, the last time she had shut the door. The dust sheets, the shuttered windows, Goody Turner’s tears. The scrape as she turned the key in the lock.

  She gripped tight to the brass handrail as the rising sun bled a pool of sulphur into the grey morning mist. She would find Zachary Deane and never let him from her sight until he agreed to listen to Mr Wilmot. She would have her proper inheritance. She would find him and she would not fail.

  Chapter 20

  Zachary watched Gabriel count out his few pesos from his pouch. After receiving the letter from Greeting three weeks ago he had rapidly realized he could never tell Gabriel of his good fortune. He had arranged to meet Gabriel after the day’s work in the grounds of the cathedral where there was a casa de gula where they could have a meal and watch life go by. By Gabriel’s standards, anyone who could afford a brand new rapier was already a rich man.

  A lad in a spotted apron and even filthier cap set down a jug and relit the hog-grease candle at their table.

  ‘That tastes like heaven,’ Zachary said, quaffing his ale.

  ‘It surely does.’ Gabriel grinned.

  The noise forced them to shout to hear each other over the rest of the customers, who conducted their business with expletives and much hand-gesturing.

  This casa was the haunt of undesirables, anyone within the cathedral walls being supposedly protected from arrest. It reminded him of St Paul’s in London; same unruly atmosphere, same ne’er-do-wells with their eyes on passing purses. What a turning-about, he thought; soon he would be one of those needing to look to his purse.

  He glanced around at the rickety wooden tables bleached pale by the sun, at the orange trees stripped white up to their branches. Beneath his feet irrigation channels had been cut into the brickwork floor to send water to the orange trees, but these were already empty through lack of rain. And the sweet-smelling orange blossom was long gone.

  Above, the stars were just starting to glimmer through the clouds of wood-smoke from the city pottery kilns, through the pluming columns from distant cooking fires and through the thin wisps from candles.

  When the trenchers arrived they wolfed down their food, for the labour in the smithy made gluttons of them both. On the boundary of the walls, and not quite inside the cathedral grounds, lolled three damas de medio manto, ladies of the half-mantle, as they were called, each with one hip pushed against the warm honey-coloured stone, faces illuminated by the fixed torchères in the walls. Their eyes scoured the tables for trade, trying to catch a young man’s eye. One of them flashed her blackened eyelashes at them and smiled.

  ‘Don’t bother. She’s not as young as she looks. I’ve seen her here every night for the last four years at least. It’s all paint and padding,’ Gabriel said.

  ‘Do you have a girl?’

  He looked down bashfully under his unruly crown of black hair, and his cheeks blotched pink. ‘Did have once. Her father didn’t like me, so there was no chance. Rigid in the old ways. I’ll be more of a prospect once I have a permanent position. I like it at the smithy. A journeyman’s life is no life for any woman, and I’m fixing on staying, if Guido will take me. I’m on six-months trial.’

  ‘He’ll take you on. You’re the muscle in there. He’d be lost without you.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’

  Their conversation faltered as a crowd gathered just outside the cathedral gates. They craned their necks to see what was afoot.

  ‘Just another slave auction, by the looks of it,’ Gabriel said.

  ‘Do they not have auction blocks here, then?’

  ‘No, they parade them around the markets until they have enough followers, then they just stop and do it, before the crowd loses interest.’

  ‘Let’s go take a look.’

  ‘No, I think I’ll go on home. My landlady left some things drying outside and I want to check she’s brought them all in
. If it’s not tied down, some cutpurse will have it round here. Sevillians are all ruffians.’

  Zachary laughed ruefully with him, though he knew himself to be one of those very cutpurses and cloak-snatchers of whom Gabriel was so wary. Zachary saluted him farewell and watched him wend his way back through the square before he cast some coins on to the table and the waiter swooped on them like a hungry gull.

  Outside the gate, he peered over the hats to see what was happening – over the usual dark felts with feathered plumes in shades of ochre and grey, and the more colourful onion-shaped headdresses of the Turkish traders. The slaves were ranked in a row from the tallest to the shortest: two men, three women and a youth. The men were elderly Negroes with downcast eyes. In their ragged and dusty livery they looked tired and well past their prime.

  But like most men, his eyes were drawn by the women; of these two were white slaves, Moriscos, with the obligatory brand of an ‘s’ and a line or clavo standing for esclavo on one side of the face. As was the custom, the owner’s own initials were branded on the other cheek. He had been in Seville long enough to understand their brands a little, both on horseflesh and men. The white women pressed together, as though to give each other comfort. They were both bone-thin and one of them had scabs on her arm from a recent graze. The owner was with the auctioneer, showing off the Negro woman to the crowd.

  ‘Only twenty-two years old, look at the brawn on those arms,’ cried the auctioneer. ‘At least another twenty years good labour from this one, gents. Twenty-five, if you feed it well.’

  ‘What work has she done before?’ a man from the crowd called.

  ‘Laundry, kitchen, she’ll turn her hand to anything.’ The owner, resplendent in a fully embroidered suit of russet and gold velvet, despite the evening’s heat, slapped the girl on the shoulder. She remained still as stone, staring out at the crowd as if they did not exist. The other two girls flinched, cowered away from his hand.