A Divided Inheritance

by Deborah Swift

  He read the letter again, and then opened the lid of the writing slope. But maybe he’d pen a letter to Greeting, suggesting that Bradstone might like to offer for the business, as Wilmot seemed so mightily keen. A little competition might raise the price.

  He pictured Elspet Leviston’s reaction, asking her husband to bid for what should have been hers by right. A queasy feeling lurked in the back of Zachary’s mind. He recognized it as guilt. The same tainted feeling that came every time he picked a pocket or snatched a cloak. But he was on his way out of that life, with the help of Leviston’s money. So he quashed it, like drowning something that gasped for breath.

  Zachary was sure Guido was about to say ‘Tarde’ again, but he was too stunned to say a word when he caught sight of Zachary’s bruised face.

  ‘Tsk. Been fighting?’ Guido said.

  ‘No. I was set upon by some thugs near the Corral de los Naranjos.’

  Gabriel and the rest gathered round.

  ‘Why?’ asked Guido.

  ‘I bid against a man at an auction, and he took exception to it.’

  ‘What were you buying?’

  ‘A slave. A Morisco lad.’

  ‘Then you’re more of an ass than I thought. Let’s see your hands.’

  He held them out. ‘Sorry, Guido. They won’t be much good for a few days. They served as my armour.’

  Guido felt the swollen fingers with a practised touch, whilst Zachary winced. ‘Nothing broken. You fool. You’re lucky they did not fix them for life. Have you had ice on them?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Gabriel, fetch ice from the casa at the end of the road, and aloe vera.’

  Zachary leaned against the pillar that supported the roof, aware of Guido’s disapproval hanging in the air.

  ‘That looks sore,’ Gabriel said, on his return, holding out a wooden bucket with a layer of crushed ice at the bottom.

  ‘Quick, put them in before it melts,’ Guido said.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Zachary said with a bravado he did not feel. ‘They don’t grieve me nearly as much as they did at the end of my first day here.’

  Guido frowned at his attempt at levity.

  ‘I had blisters on my blisters,’ Zachary insisted. He laughed, but drew a sharp breath as he lowered his hands into the burning ice, and did not tell them how much it hurt his face to smile at all. ‘Anyway, I’ve had worse.’

  Guido’s disapproval seemed to be melting with the ice and was replaced with an expression of concern. ‘Rest,’ he said. ‘Today you will watch.’ He must have read Zachary’s relief, for he wagged his finger and said, ‘You will watch as if your life depends on it. And one day, I tell you, it will. Take note of everything, how the metal is worked, how the grinding is done. You will watch and remember. Then your sword will be precioso.’

  ‘Yes, Guido. And thank you.’

  ‘Do not thank me with words. Thank me with your attention, yes?’

  Years later, Zachary would remember that time as the happiest he had ever spent in his life. He loved the whole business of the smelting, the beating, the chiselling and polishing. The making of something beautiful from base metal. He loved the taste of iron dust in his mouth, the men with their sleeves rolled under leather cuffs, their hands encased in gauntlets. He even grew to love the leather aprons that protected the wearer’s linens from flying splinters of molten metal.

  Guido’s deft touch crafted the steel into blades as strong and flexible as sinew. Zachary forgot his bruised back, his swollen lip, his hands stiffening and aching in the ice bucket – he was completely engrossed. From the outside it might look like the labour of hell, but he had found his own heaven here in Seville.

  It was almost three weeks later that he was recovered enough to go to the fencing school at the Arenal. He was up early to get there before his day’s labour at the smithy. The previous night he had oiled his old sword so it would slip easily from the scabbard, and had spent an hour patiently grinding his daggers on the whetstone.

  He hoped the scars on his face would make him appear more serious as a potential student. In the glass he had seen the remains of bruises and scabs, and he worried that these made him look less of a gentleman. To counter this effect he dressed in his best doublet with the slashed breeches. Ana shone his shoes so that they gleamed.

  He was still awaiting the coin from the sale of Uncle Leviston’s estate, and he knew these things took time. But Greeting’s copy of the will was in his satchel and hopefully Greeting’s letter would convince the master Don Rodriguez that he could pay.

  He found his salon easily. It had a smart newly painted sign outside, with Rodriguez’s name and a pair of crossed swords over the horns of a bull. A studded and black-tarred door was beneath, which obviously led into an inner courtyard. He took hold of the iron ring and twisted and pushed, but it did not open. He banged it hard against the metal knocker. A few moments later a surly-faced youth peered out.

  His first glimpse inside the yard showed a line of about thirty men in leather armour practising sword drill in the shade of the walls. A staccato pattern and rhythm marked their practice as they moved in unison, and he was already itching to join them.

  ‘I am here to see Don Rodriguez,’ he said, pushing past the youth into the yard.

  ‘You a student? He’s not taking any more students.’

  ‘Perhaps he has room for one more,’ he said cheerfully. ‘My name is Deane, I’m from England. Tell him I’m here.’

  ‘He’s not here yet. And he doesn’t like strangers in his yard.’

  ‘When will he—?’

  ‘Don’t waste your time.’ The boy tried to shepherd him back to the gate. ‘I’ve told you, he’s not here.’

  ‘What’s this?’ A deep voice sounded behind him.

  ‘Sorry, señor. He just pushed his way in. Another foreigner who wants to learn to fence.’

  Zachary swivelled round and his first impression was of a black wall of men. He backed away. He was face to face with the crook-nosed man from the auction. Behind him stood the Morisco lad, laden with water gourds. His mouth dropped open in astonishment. He had bruises and a black eye to rival Zachary’s own.

  ‘Back for more?’ the man said.

  ‘Are you Don Rodriguez?’

  The men behind sniggered to each other.

  Zachary moved towards the door. It must be a mistake. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘I thought you were someone else.’

  One of the men stopped him dead, with a hand on the shoulder. He tried to shrug it off but the man’s big paw kept him there.

  ‘Going somewhere?’ Rodriguez said, smiling. ‘The lad said you wanted to learn to fence.’

  ‘Not with you,’ Zachary said lightly. ‘Now, excuse me, gentlemen.’

  The man nearest the gate banged it shut and stood in front of it, barring his way. No other way out was in view.

  Rodriguez glanced sideways at his men with amusement. ‘Seems to me you should be given a lesson, if that’s why you came. Though I would have thought one was enough.’ He smiled and strolled over. He leaned in until his face was a hand-width away and said, ‘You cost me dear. I could have had the slave-boy for forty and you drove up the price on purpose.’

  Zachary stood his ground despite the growing fear that he was out of his depth.

  ‘I bid as much as I could afford. Like everyone else. It’s what happens at an auction.’

  ‘Not in Seville,’ said a student from behind him. ‘Everyone knows not to bid against Don Rodriguez, if they know what’s good for them.’

  ‘Quiet, Fabian.’ Rodriguez stepped away and ordered the training men in the yard to stand easy.

  They stopped and lined up in ranks of twelve. Zachary pushed down the fear that threatened to make his hands shake.

  Rodriguez drew his sword, with an almost silent rasp of metal on wood. He smiled and tested its edge on his thumb, before saying quietly, ‘You want to fence? Well, let’s begin.’

  Zachary’s hand sh
ot to his scabbard, but Rodriguez handed his blade lazily to the man behind him, the big-shouldered man with the jutting jaw.

  ‘You can take on Fabian.’

  Zachary sized up the other man as he performed a quick business-like bow to his master, Rodriguez, took up a back stance and twirled the blade with his wrist as if to feel its weight and calibre.

  Zachary reached for his sword, but without any warning, Fabian had already leapt forward and was advancing with well-trained precision. His weapon hissed through the air.

  Zachary floundered, off guard, retreating, parrying the blade of the bigger man. His breath came in short, sharp bursts, he felt like a windmill, all flapping sails. Thank God for his nimble feet; he let Fabian come in a little, waited for his thrust and at the last minute dodged with all his power to one side.

  Fabian’s over-reach gave Zachary just enough time to order his thoughts and make a quick assessment. He was surrounded, so it made no real sense to try to fight on. His best bet would be to try to get to the door – to make a run for it.

  He held his blade out before him and drew Fabian over to the gateway with a series of quick, small jabs to the stomach and chest. At the last minute he hurled himself backwards out of the door, but he mistimed. Three of Rodriguez’s men jumped him and grabbed his arms.

  Even as he struggled, he knew it was hopeless. He stumbled backwards and his sword clattered to the ground. The men would not let him put down his feet but kept him hanging humiliatingly, like a puppet between them.

  ‘Too lily-livered to fight?’ Rodriguez loomed over him. ‘There’s a lesson for cowards like you. Hold him down, boys.’ His hands fumbled for the flap of his breeches and moments later a stream of hot yellow piss hit Zachary directly in the forehead.

  He twisted his head away, closed his nose and mouth and screwed up his eyes but still the stinking liquid trickled over his face. He gasped for air and the stench hit him at the back of the throat.

  Rodriguez fastened himself and laughed before signalling to his ranks to follow suit.

  His men had Zachary’s arms in a grip like metal tongs and, struggle as he might, he could not free himself. In the end he just quietened and endured it. When all the men had emptied their bladders his captors thrust him down into the pool round his feet.

  He almost retched, but instead struggled to his feet. His eyes stung, he did not dare swallow. Some madness made him shout at Rodriguez who was laughing with one of his soldiers.

  ‘One day, you will be sorry you did this to me. I’ll return and you will fight for your life.’

  ‘A challenge, is it? Oh, very well.’ Fabian sniggered and cast down his glove into the urine-spattered dirt. Rodriguez guffawed with laughter, and as if on cue, the rest of the students laughed too, a proper circle of rooks.

  Zachary stooped to pick up the glove. He knew he looked ridiculous. His hand trembled with humiliation. ‘I accept the challenge.’

  More laughter.

  ‘Fool. You will lose your life,’ Fabian said, looking at him with an incredulous expression.

  The blood rushed to Zachary’s face, he shouted through the stench, knowing he had lost his senses. ‘I do not jest. You set the challenge, now name the date.’

  Rodriguez sneered, ‘Get out of here, pisspants. We’ve wasted enough time on you.’

  ‘Why not let him try?’ one of the other men said. ‘It will be entertaining.’

  ‘A chicken fighting a bull,’ one of his men whispered.

  ‘No,’ Rodriguez said to Fabian. ‘Kick him out. He stinks, like the yellow coward he is. The rest of you – get back in line.’

  ‘At least I don’t jump men from behind. At least I have my honour.’

  Rodriguez sighed. ‘And what’s honour? Just a milksop’s fantasy. Get out. And you’ll leave Seville, if you know what’s good for you. If I see you anywhere on these streets, you won’t see the light of another day.’

  Just before he was thrust outside Zachary passed the Morisco lad, cowering by the door. He looked up at Zachary with his sky-blue eyes and whispered, ‘Please, sir, I beg you – don’t come back.’

  Chapter 24

  At Toledo, Elspet secured the services of Gomez, a Spanish guide, to help them find Zachary Deane. It had been a relief to find a tavern at last with good rooms and a bath-house nearby. They rested a few days and bought necessities for the remaining journey, and three weeks later they approached Seville. The landscape became dotted with houses, the roads more populous, and the taverns full of herders and cloth-searers, farmers and tanners.

  The prospect of arriving at their destination was both a relief and a worry. She was not sure she trusted Mr Wilmot to negotiate for her – he wasn’t the one losing his home. And she did not like the idea of men’s talk going on behind closed doors, not when it concerned her so directly.

  As the bleached landscape shimmered in the heat, Elspet thought of all the ways she might ask, beg or argue. The sweat trickled between her breasts. For she feared that whatever Mr Wilmot said, however fine or well-thought-out the reasoning, his words would not persuade Zachary to part with one bean. But in the end, her arguments felt like dust. She failed even to convince herself.

  They pushed on into the night, as their destination was so close. Gomez was driving, with Mr Wilmot deep in thought beside him. Mr Wilmot’s brows were permanently furrowed now, he had lost his paunch and his nose was red and peeling from the sun. She felt sudden empathy for him – for he had travelled with her all this way with the weight of her father’s business on his shoulders.

  Across the wagon Martha’s flaccid form shook with the jolting of the carriage. She was wrapped in a bundle of shawls, her arms folded on top of the bags, her head resting there like a pillow. She slept – something Elspet could not do. Instead, Elspet looked up at the stars and picked out the constellations. How odd it was, that they should be the same stars as she saw from the windows at home, still shining here in this unforgiving landscape.

  A movement in the corner of her eye, and then she saw it – a shooting star.

  It slashed a diagonal white trail in the black. So bright she could almost fancy to hear its noise, its brief fizz like gunpowder, but then, just as suddenly, it was gone; the sky kept no trace of it. She sat up, trying to penetrate the distance.

  It meant something, of that she was sure. A sign. A sensation of longing filled her chest, so strong that it made her want to stretch out to claw back that brief light. It was a longing for home, but not a country to travel to, no, not that. Rather, some country deep inside herself.

  Chapter 25

  October 2nd 1609, two weeks earlier

  Denia, Valencia

  ‘Are your men ready?’ called the commander José Velez Garbali, reining in his horse.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Rodriguez stepped forward from the group of about twenty mercenaries gathered on the crest of the hill outside Denia. ‘I don’t think many will try to run, though. Word has spread that we are up here,’ he said, sweating in the heat haze that in a few hours would deliver another flawless blue sky.

  Below them the ships gentled at anchor, three long rows of dark masts and a flotilla of small dots that signified the ferry boats. On the quay a tercio battalion of men from the Netherlands stood ranked in strict formation, their pikes resting upright against their leather-armoured shoulders as they awaited the first batch of Moriscos from the point of embarkation at the market square.

  Scanning the scene below, Rodriguez saw that the narrow track to the quay was lined with more mercenaries like themselves, arquebusiers and swordsmen. From up here their dark ranks against the yellow dirt looked like the inked lines on a map. Around them milled dots of people who had come as spectators to see the Moriscos go, and cheer or jeer them on their way.

  Garbali held his horse still by sawing at the reins. He shouted down, ‘There will be many thousands. I’ve passed herds of them on the way here in the last few days. Some of them are trying to smuggle goods out in their clothes, but they
won’t get far. Idiots. Don’t they realize our men on the ships will divest them of anything illegal? And a few stupid Moors will try to make for the mountains. You can deal with them, yes?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Rodriguez.

  ‘You have enough arms?’

  Rodriguez nodded, pointed to a pile of muskets under a scrubby olive bush.

  ‘No prisoners, you understand. If they run, they’re not worth the trouble. Like deserters.’ Garbali laughed at his own joke, and Rodriguez forced a smile. Garbali dragged at the horse’s mouth to turn it. The horse tossed its head, the bit jangling between its teeth. ‘Get on, you lazy brute.’ He clapped its ribs with his spurs so the horse rolled its eyes and shied, before he wheeled around and galloped off towards the next rise. ‘Keep good watch,’ he shouted back over his shoulder.

  Rodriguez fixed his eyes below; he was taking no chances. The previous night there had been a skirmish with a group of four families who had somehow managed to gather weapons and dismember the parish priest. There was no part of the priest in the same place when they’d finished with him. Rodriguez was under no illusions about the capability of desperate men. His best swordsmen were with him, though; big men, skilled and ruthless, trained to obey orders with no question. He had picked out four Sevillians for their aim with a musket to accompany him. He’d use them first, but if anyone penetrated the lines of shot, then his swordsmen would finish them.

  There was a palpable air of tension as there always is before any battle. Even the sparrows were silent. It was as if the whole town held its breath.

  ‘Did he say how many?’ Fabian, his right-hand man approached. The question disturbed Rodriguez. It was unlike Fabian to be rattled.

  ‘We don’t know. Maybe they’ll go like sheep. Maybe they’ll try to break away. Nobody knows how it will go. But I don’t think we’ll have much trouble. They’re not organized, and they have their women with them. You know a man can’t fight properly with women in the way. They bring in the tender heart, and then their intent is lost.’