A Divided Inheritance

by Deborah Swift

  After that she ran out of things to show him, and stood feeling a little stupid. Her face grew hot. She looked up and caught his eye, and a spark ran between them, quick as lightning. She turned to hurry indoors, her face flaming.

  ‘Where might I find Señor Alvarez?’ he called.

  ‘Here.’ Señor Alvarez appeared at the top of the flight of stairs at the corner of the courtyard. Sometimes it was uncanny how the señor sensed when a stranger was in the yard. When Uncle Najid came, the señor was already alert and listening before he even knocked; she could tell by the way his attention was outside and not inside the room. Luisa went into the kitchen and watched from the window.

  As he approached, the Englishman bowed low, and introduced himself. ‘Zachary Deane,’ he said, and she remembered this time to note his name.

  Don Alvarez appeared to know him. ‘Haven’t I seen you before? He thought a moment. ‘Ah. The man who is unpopular with the farmers. They seem to want to box your ears. I met you in London, did I not?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, sir. You did. And I’ve looked for you all over. I want to learn everything you can teach me. I went to France, but they can teach me nothing. I want to learn to wield a weapon the way you do.’

  ‘If you think you have nothing to learn from the French, what makes you think you can learn anything from me?’

  ‘I’ve seen you fence. And I know you are the best.’

  ‘You flatter me. Where do you stay?’

  ‘In lodgings, close to the cathedral.’

  ‘You will come every day?’

  ‘As many hours as you have, to teach me all you know.’

  Señor Alvarez smiled. ‘Or to pull from you what you know already, but have lost sight of.’ He sighed, shaking his head. ‘I don’t know, first a Dutchman, then someone from France, now an Englishman. What’s wrong with my own country? Do they not need to know how to fence?’ He sighed again. ‘Still, I suppose I’ll take you. After all, you’re here, which clearly my own countrymen aren’t.’

  ‘You mean you’ll teach me?’ His voice was so delighted, Luisa suppressed a smile.

  ‘You’ll find a place to leave your things in the passageway by the kitchen. I’ll get Luisa to show you –’

  She called, ‘I’ll take him,’ through the open window, realizing as she did so that she had just given herself away.

  He came to the door and she motioned him to follow. She pointed to the row of wooden pegs where the others had hung their cloaks. He swung his off, and she hooked it up. It was a fine velvet one, soft to the touch, and warm where it had been close to his neck.

  ‘They’re all in the library with my father,’ she said. ‘Every day – an hour or so by the glass, they talk about geometry before they come out in the yard.’ Now she could not keep the note of pride from her voice – it was pleasant to be able to show the place to someone else. And the library had more than fifty books. Fifty! Papa thought he had died and reached the Rose Garden already, to live here and be able to handle all those books, even if he could barely read them any more.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘Señorita Ortega.’

  Was he serious? She was unused to being called Señorita anything, and was surprised he had remembered her name. She glanced sideways at him, for he looked so taken with the fact that Señor Alvarez was to train him, like a small boy who had been given his favourite toy. He asked about the others who studied there, and again he listened carefully to her reply and watched. This was very strange. Perhaps this was the English way, certainly no Spanish man had ever let her talk like this without wanting to tell her his opinion.

  And he thanked her again when she left him at the library door. His eyes widened at the sight of all the books, and at all the other young men earnestly engaged in their studies with callipers and straight-edge.

  ‘A new recruit,’ she said. ‘Señor asked me to bring him up.’

  ‘Oh, not another,’ grumbled Papa. ‘Now I’ll have to start at the beginning again. I keep telling him it’s no use, all this coming and going. We need consistency.’

  She looked to see how the Englishman was taking it, and exchanged a shy look with him. He slipped into the vacant place next to Alexander, the tall Dutchman. Papa flapped his hands at her and she ran down the stairs, faster than she should because they were worn slippery with use, so anxious was she to share the news with Mama before she had to leave for the pottery – all about the new Englishman who was to study with Señor.

  In the afternoon when she returned from work, she saw that the others had drifted away, keen on a few hours’ respite before the evening training, but Mr Deane was still in the yard on his own, practising his moves, a fierce expression on his face.

  She watched him through the window as she helped Mama prepare the vegetables. Of course she didn’t want to look, but he drew her eye. He moved like a dancer, she thought. His body moved with ease and grace, but it was as if he was angry at something; he lunged at the targets over and over until the sweat slid down his face. She heard the clang of metal on stone as the blade pierced through the targets. Clouds of dust rose from the ground where he skidded and stomped. When he was finished, he slumped against the wall, panting. She stood to the edge of the window, holding a red bell-pepper in her hand that she had intended to core and peel. He did not look her way, but dabbed at his sword hand with the corner of his shirt. It was probably blistered by now from wielding the corded grip all those hours in the afternoon heat. The English were crazy, she thought. He blew out air on to his upper lip to cool himself. A nice-shaped mouth, she thought and she blushed. It was a sensation that made her withdraw, as if it were too intimate, watching him unseen from this window.

  The next day, after her work was finished at the pottery, Luisa hurried back to the fencing school to see if the Englishman was still there, and what Papa had to say about him.

  ‘Hey there, little pumpkin.’ Luisa ruffled Husain’s hair as she ducked under the lines of laundry, and crossed over the yard at the back of the house.

  Husain stood up from where he was rolling his toy wooden cart in the dirt and hurried after her, tugging at her skirt.

  ‘We’re going to France, Papa says. He says we’re going on a boat. I like boats.’

  ‘What barrel of nonsense have you picked up now?’ she said, as she went to the water jar and scooped out some water to rinse her hands. Though she’d tried to wash them at the pottery the grey river clay still lodged in her fingernails.

  Husain fiddled with the hem of her skirt; he loved to crack off the dried daubs that always seemed to get there somehow, no matter how careful she was. ‘He says Señor Alvarez is going to get us some horses and we’ll run away. I don’t know why we’re running away, though. Is it priests, Luisa, or bandits?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Come here and give me a hug.’ She hoisted him up and he wrapped his legs around her waist. She rubbed noses with him and then said, ‘It’s all right. There’s no need to be frightened. We’re quite safe here. There are all those men with swords in the yard.’

  ‘No. We’re going next week. On a boat. Papa said I’d to pay respects to my friends this week because after that we might not see them for a very long time.’

  A shadow fell across her heart; she put him down and went inside to where Mama was unloading a batch of fruit from a wicker pannier. Outside she could hear Husain clucking happily, making the noises of horse’s hooves as he played with his cart.

  Mama looked up as she stormed, ‘What’s this that Husain is saying about boats, and leaving? Am I the only one kept in the dark in this family?’

  Mama put down the lemon in her hand. ‘Your father thought it best. There’s rumours that they might try to send the Moriscos back to Barbary, and if they do, then there’ll be no choosing where we go. We have distant cousins in Bordeaux who might shelter us awhile until we can get to Fez. At least there we will be amongst friends.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No. Listen to me. Whe
n I went down to the river with the laundry they were saying that there’ll be no welcome for us in North Africa. The Africans think we’re Spanish cheats and liars. There’ll be no work for us there because they won’t trust us.’

  Luisa opened her mouth to protest, but her mother carried on, ‘Don’t look at me like that. What do you expect us to do? We’ve Husain to think of. We’re doing the best we can. We didn’t say anything to you because we knew you wouldn’t like it.’

  ‘But France? We can’t speak the language. How will we manage? I don’t want to be some French woman’s lackey. And sure as I stand, if we’re not welcome in Africa, we won’t be welcome there either. Anyway, who said this?’

  Mama went back to sorting the fruit and vegetables. ‘It was Aliya who told me.’

  ‘Her. Huh. What does she know?’

  ‘News is always first from her lips, you know that.’

  ‘She’s a blabbermouth. We never hear anything good from her big mouth. I don’t know why you even listen to her.’

  ‘Enough. I never thought I’d hear my own daughter malign our neighbours so. You know yourself, you never know when you might have need of them. These are dark times. Think of Daria and Merin. Do you want to end up like them, locked up in the Castle of San Jorge? Well, do you?’ She threw down the knife, a look of frustration etched on her face.

  ‘You’re stupid if you believe anything Aliya says.’

  ‘Do not speak to me that way. Do you think I have only you to consider? Your father is half-blind. What do you think it will be like on those boats? A pleasure outing? Wake up, Luisa. You can pretend you are Spanish all you like, but they can see it even if you can’t – the Morisco blood flowing in your veins. If you don’t come with us to France, they’ll send you to Africa. Or put you in the cells at San Jorge. Which would you rather, heh?’

  She blazed back, ‘I’m not a Morisco. I’m a Christian. I don’t understand Islam. It’s your fault. Why won’t you just do as they ask? Attend to what they say in church. It’s not so bad. In fact, it makes more sense than anything in the Qur’an. Other people do it. Why not you? Then we could all stay here and be safe.’

  Mama stared at her with her mouth set in a line, said nothing though her eyes had turned glassy. She unpacked more lemons from the basket.

  Luisa pleaded with her, ‘It might not happen. Nobody’s said anything about it at the pottery. How would you feel if you uprooted our whole family again and it was all just gossip and scaremongering?’

  ‘I am out of patience!’ Mama hurled a lemon at Luisa, but it missed and hit the wall behind her.

  The air in the room seemed to grow thick.

  Mama had never in all her life thrown anything at her. She saw her mother stoop to pick up the lemon from the floor. She swallowed before she spoke to Luisa in the measured tone of voice she sometimes used for Husain. ‘However much you protest, you know we will do as your father says as usual. And his mind is made up. Señor Alvarez has agreed to help us.’

  ‘I’m not going.’ The words were almost a whisper.

  ‘Suit yourself. We will go without you.’ She pushed the bowl of lemons to one side, tipped the patatas into a bowl and began paring them with grim concentration.

  Luisa could not answer. She took up the bowl of lemons and the knife, turned her back on her mother and walked away, out into the yard. There the new Englishman, Mr Deane, was practising again in the late afternoon heat. She had hoped to be private, so the sight of him made her angry. She ignored him and went to the shady bench under the vines. Her heart beat fast under her bodice from the argument with Mama.

  If they went to France then she would be left alone. She had never been without her family before. But heaven help her, nothing would make her go with them, she’d rather die on Spanish soil than go to France. She’d miss the pottery, the tavern where she danced, everything familiar. Why would she want to go to a place where she had no history, no past? But then, she thought bitterly, what would it be like to stay behind, when her whole history had gone to France without her?

  She picked up one of the fruits and dug the knife into the peel. She suddenly resented having to make the lemon drink that the men consumed so much of. She peeled off the rind, cursing as the juice stung in the small cuts in her fingers.

  Mr Deane was practising a backward-stepping pattern with the sword jutting forwards from under his elbow, like a boar’s tusk. She did not mean to watch him, but he was right there in front of her. When he saw her looking, he thrust his weapon forward, with enough attack that the end of his rapier quivered from the force. She looked back down at her peeling. The rind dropped by her feet and one of the hens from the back yard had somehow found her way in and pecked and scratched at it.

  ‘Shoo.’ She hustled the hen angrily back through the small door that was set into the back gates and shut it after her. When she got back to the bench Mr Deane was sitting there. ‘I could not resist the smell of those lemons,’ he said.

  She sat down on the other side, with the bowl between them. She made an effort to talk normally, as if nothing was the matter. ‘It takes ten lemons to make the drink you are all so fond of,’ she said. It came out as an accusation, but he did not flinch.

  ‘It’s very good, that stuff. We need it in this heat. I called in to the smithy this morning, to pass the time of day with Guido and Gabriel. Gabriel was still talking about Maria. Have you seen her today?’

  ‘Yes, I see her most days. That’s where we get the lemons. She works at the fruiteria.’

  ‘Oh yes. I remember now. I’m sorry if we upset her.’

  ‘No. It’s not your fault.’ She paused, then said, ‘It’s hard for all Moriscos right now.’ He raised his eyebrows so she went on. ‘Seville is full of rumours again. It’s nothing new. But my parents believe them all, every time. And they took away our neighbours for cooking meat on a Friday. It was horrible. They beat them, and dragged them away. We haven’t seen them since. Mama’s scared they’ll come for us next. Now my father wants us to move to France.’ She grimaced. ‘And Señor Alvarez has agreed to help us,’ she said miserably.

  ‘Will you go?’ He watched as she plopped the peeled lemon into the bowl.

  ‘No. I don’t know anything about France.’

  ‘I’ve just come from there.’

  ‘I thought you came from England?’

  ‘I was in France for a while before I came here. But I couldn’t stand it, that’s why I’m here.’

  ‘Why?’ Curiosity had got the better of her.

  ‘I was looking for a fencing master. Everyone I met in France was an “expert” who wanted to add you to their list of successful conquests. But most of them could barely hold a rapier point side out, so I gave up in the end, it was an insult to fight such men.’

  ‘But what was it like, France?’

  ‘Cold. And people close their shutters on you if you cannot speak their language. I had a hard time finding a place to stay when I was travelling. Mind, they certainly know how to eat. Best beef stew I’ve ever tasted.’

  Luisa frowned. The beef stew worried her immediately. Father refused to eat meat until it had been blessed. ‘Are there many Moriscos there, do you know?’

  He looked apologetic. ‘I’m sorry but I don’t know. I didn’t take much notice.’

  ‘Did you see any mosques, or hear a muezzin calling folk to prayer?’

  ‘No, not that I can recall. But then, I wasn’t looking for them. I’m sure there must be. Your father must think it’s safer there, or he wouldn’t have suggested it.’ She frowned. It was not what she wanted to hear. He paused a moment and looked away into the distance. ‘I’d listen to your father. Like most parents, he is probably only trying to keep you safe. And if Señor Alvarez thinks it’s a good idea . . .’

  She twisted a piece of lemon peel in her fingers. He was trying to be pleasant, she knew, but he didn’t understand. ‘I can’t speak French,’ she said stubbornly.

  ‘Neither could I. But I got by with s
ign language.’ He mimed rubbing his stomach and pointing to his mouth. The effect was comical and in other circumstances would have made her smile.

  ‘I might have guessed. All you men can think of is your stomach.’ An awkward silence was broken by the sound of talking, as at that moment two of the other men appeared at the front gate with their arms cases.

  ‘Looks like it’s time for the evening session.’ He stood and bowed. ‘I shall look forward to tasting your lemon water, Señorita Ortega.’ His bowing made her blush, but she dropped her head quickly to hide it. She was sorry she had been so rude, but she felt like an impostor; she was unused to young men treating her this way, like a queen.

  She watched him cross the yard and saw the others smile and greet him. He looked back once and caught her eye. Inadvertently she found herself lifting her hand in a wave.

  Chapter 31

  The next day Zachary unwrapped his new blade from the oilcloth and laid it on the bench.

  The hiltsmith looked up from where he was grinding an amalgam in a mortar, put down the pestle and wiped his hands on a rag. He turned the blade over, and pursed his lips in approval. ‘It is like a woman’s weapon, this, so light and fine. But a good edge on it too, I see. Let me show you some designs,’ he said, fetching some vellum sheets. ‘Something small like this can take a swept hilt rather than the usual basket.’

  Zachary looked over the patterns and chose an elegantly curved confection, all flowing vine-like curves, with a cherrywood handle. When he had negotiated a price, he left the blade with the smith, feeling for all the world as if he had abandoned his only child.

  As he came out of the hiltsmith’s door he breathed in the smell of the wind. It was the first time he had felt some respite from the heat. It was good to be alive, he thought, as he walked jauntily down the Calle de las Armas towards the Guadalquivir river and the tied pontoon bridge to Triana, where the fleet was anchored off the sandbank, masts bristling up against the sky.

  As he made his way across the bridge, the tied planks shifted slightly over the boats that supported them. The first time he had crossed he had found it disconcerting and had been tempted to grab at the stake and rope handrail to steady himself. But Sevillians had used it as a common thoroughfare for generations, and even carts and horses trundled over it. The bridge was busy at this time with packhorses and he had to queue. A few more folk pressed up behind him, all anxious to get to their day’s labours.