A Divided Inheritance

by Deborah Swift

  The man turned to his wife who hovered at his arm, her eyes wary. ‘It’s not safe to treat them. Not wealthy foreigners. If it fails, it will draw attention to us. We need to stay hidden, if we can, from rich men.’

  ‘You should both go,’ he said to her. ‘Do not let them change us, my love. That’s what they want. We should still have compassion, do as we would have before all this.’

  She looked at him doubtfully. ‘I don’t want to leave you. What if something happens while we’re away?’

  ‘Nothing will happen. I’ll carry on sorting the rest of our things.’

  Just then Luisa appeared from the curtain to the back yard, carrying a basket of clothing on her hip. She stopped as soon as she saw them. She recognized Elspet straight away, and set the basket down.

  ‘Mistress Leviston,’ she said. Her eyes shied away.

  ‘Luisa!’ Elspet said. ‘I didn’t know . . . we have come to seek your mother’s help.’

  ‘You know each other?’ the father asked.

  ‘Papa,’ Luisa sighed impatiently. ‘It is the woman I told you about, who fights with Mr Deane.’

  Everyone in the room stared at Elspet then, as if she were an oddity in a sideshow.

  ‘Well, then, if she is a friend of Señor Alvarez, no reason now not to go.’

  Ayamena pursed her lips in disapproval, made a kind of snort and, thrusting the curtain aside, disappeared into the back chamber.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Luisa said. ‘She’s gone for her things. You’ll see.’

  Elspet waited. To make conversation she asked, ‘You are moving?’

  Gaxa and Luisa exchanged a look.

  ‘We have just moved,’ Luisa said. ‘We are always moving on. They do not want my family anywhere.’ She sighed and spoke as though explaining it to a child. ‘They dragged off our neighbours for cooking meat on a Friday and they have burned our houses. No matter that we have done nothing at all. They are false Christians, these men. They beat us with one hand and raise the other to confess it all to their priests and ask forgiveness. No matter that we are baptized Christians just like them.’ She shook her head in disgust.

  Elspet squirmed. The words were aimed directly at her.

  ‘So now we must leave Seville. We cannot stay here for ever with Señor Alvarez. And we don’t know yet where we will go.’ Luisa said this like a challenge, and Elspet felt her venom, knew it was her Roman ways she spoke of. Ashamed, she looked at the floor.

  There was an uncomfortable silence and she was unable to think of anything more to say, until the father broke the atmosphere by saying, ‘We are lucky, we have friends everywhere. They will make room for us.’

  Luisa sniffed as though she did not believe it. ‘I’m tired of moving.’ Just then Ayamena returned, carrying a lidded basket and a bundle. ‘Told you,’ Luisa said.

  ‘Well, I suppose you could pack up your books whilst I’m gone,’ said Ayamena. A small boy appeared from the back room. ‘Husain, you’re to help your father with his books. You can take down the herbs hanging in the yard, too, and pack them. And bring the goats round the front, ready. We can’t take them to France, but we can sell tomorrow.’

  ‘Sell them? No, Mama, we can’t –’ The boy’s face crumpled.

  ‘You will do as I say.’ Ayamena wrapped her shawl around her and fastened it so that only her eyes remained visible. ‘See what I must contend with? Now be good, Husain. We’ll talk about it later.’

  Husain pouted at these instructions, but Ayamena plopped a kiss on the top of his head before pulling open the wooden door. She pushed her head out then turned back to them. ‘Come, quick now, whilst there’s no one to see.’

  ‘Go safe,’ called her husband.

  Gaxa ran on ahead with Ayamena tight-lipped and silent following after. Luisa walked in front of her with long, loping strides. Elspet stumbled at the rear, feeling a mixture of trepidation and relief.

  Thank God Ayamena had agreed to come. She fixed her eyes on the older woman’s flapping manto so she would not lose her in the dark, as they weaved their way down the narrow passages to the river. The Morisco woman’s pantaloons seemed eminently practical, as did Luisa’s frameless skirt. Her own skirts were bulky and heavy with whalebone and swung against her legs as she trotted to keep up. When Gaxa reached the front door she stopped. ‘Front or back?’ she asked.

  ‘Front,’ Elspet said, abashed. They went inside, and up the smooth tiled steps.

  She took them to Mr Wilmot’s room first. After the fresh night air the room stank of bile and faeces, and the shutters were tight closed. She was about to throw them open when she saw there was someone else in the room. It was Morcillo.

  ‘Mistress Leviston,’ he said, bowing low. ‘You are too late. I did what I could.’

  She stared at him, and from him to the bed, where the body there was motionless, the face covered over with a white sheet.

  ‘The kitchen girl let me in. I bled him again,’ Don Morcillo said, ‘but it was no good.’ She followed his eyes to where an earthenware basin on the table gleamed with red congealing liquid.

  ‘Martha?’ Her words were a whisper.

  ‘There is no change in her condition. I did not know if you wanted me to treat her, as you are . . .’

  She knew what he meant. He meant as she probably could not afford to pay. She was speechless. She was about to protest when she saw Gaxa and Ayamena turn and slip out of the door.

  Morcillo continued in the same self-righteous tone. ‘I’m afraid there was nothing more to be done. And no time for the rites, so you might want to send for the padre. Padre Sanchez. He is used to foreigners. A simple burial, I suppose. Quicker the better.’

  She licked her lips. No, it could not be true, that Mr Wilmot, who had accompanied her all this way, was now lying lifeless under that white sheet. She had a sudden image of him bending to kiss his wife on the quay.

  ‘Oh my Lord in heaven, his wife,’ she whispered. And his youngest was only four. She stared again at the white silhouette on the bed.

  ‘If that’s all, then I will take my leave of you,’ Morcillo said, but continued to stand there.

  ‘Oh, of course,’ she said, numb with shock. She fumbled in her purse.

  ‘Fifteen reales?’ he said.

  That much. It was as if a bucket of cold water had been thrown over her; such was the shock she could barely count the coins, but there was not quite enough. She went to her trunk and took out the gold and pearl drop earrings that had belonged to her mother. She held them out to him and he scooped them up, his cold palm brushing against hers.

  He bowed again, unnecessarily low. ‘I hope to see you in the morning at matins,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, in a kind of desperate politeness, willing him to leave.

  He turned slowly, counting his coins. His shoes squeaked as he walked away. She was alone in the room with Mr Wilmot. The room was still dark and silent, so she took a taper from the hall and lit a candle on a branched stand. The candlelight flickered over the bare floor. It hardly filtered to the bed which was marooned in the ocean of terracotta floor tiles. So she lit another wick for his soul, one set in a hand-holder, because she needed to see his body for herself.

  She traversed the floor on tiptoe, afraid to break the silence. When she pulled back the hem of the sheet, she saw that someone, Morcillo probably, had placed two iron discs on Mr Wilmot’s eyelids. Not coins, she noticed. He would not waste his coin, even for this. Mr Wilmot’s hands were folded one over the other over his heart, in the gesture of death. His fingernails had grown long and pale. His hands no longer looked as though they had ever done a day’s work and the face that rested there had ceased to resemble her disgruntled friend; it was smooth and dull as the wax of a candle. Even the eyebrows looked sculpted, as if painted with gesso on to the skin. She put down the light.

  ‘David,’ she said. She used his first name, though she had never done so in life. Somehow being with him in death was an intimacy, and it humbled
her. She made the sign of the cross and placed her fingertips on his cold forehead as if to bestow some blessing there.

  Her heart contracted. If only his life at the end could have held some crescendo. But no, a ragged journey through the heat and dust – to what? To a stinking room and an ignominious death with no loved one nearby. She got on to her knees on the hard tiles and begged forgiveness for bringing him to Spain. She prayed to the Lord out loud, to deliver his soul from evil. She said it as if spoken words would be heard more clearly – the Pater Noster over and over, her voice rising with panic.

  She must find the padre, to intercede for his soul; her own prayers were not enough. It was her fault he was dead. She leapt up and snatched her shawl from where she had left it on the hall chair. A slight smell of burning and the sound of coughing filled her with dread. Martha. What had happened to Gaxa and Ayamena? She hardly dared peep round the door into Martha’s room.

  When she did, her eyes widened, and she brought her hand over her nose. Ayamena had her basket open beside her and the room was full of choking fumes. In a small earthen dish several items of clothing were alight, as if in a brazier. The smoke coiled upwards in a thick column, and the upper part of the ceiling was swathed in it. The dish contained herbs, too, she guessed, for it smelt sweet. Martha was coughing, her hair plastered to her head with sweat.

  Luisa turned as she entered. ‘She will be better soon,’ she said.

  ‘How can you know that?’ Elspet said. ‘Mr Wilmot is dead.’

  ‘Morcillo. He kills as many as he cures. Everyone says.’ Luisa was scathing.

  Ayamena glanced over her shoulder. ‘I am sorry,’ she said. Elspet made out the words from behind her veil. ‘Sorry I was too late.’ Then she turned back to wipe Martha’s forehead. Martha was wan, her eyelashes spider-dark against her white face, her mouth almost bloodless.

  ‘I must find the padre,’ Elspet said dully, but the others paid her no mind.

  Ayamena left the damp cloth on Martha’s brow and unfolded some packets. She crumbled herbs into a basin, and began to crush some small bulbs against a knife. Elspet recognized the odour of garlic. ‘Fetch me boiling water,’ she said to Gaxa, and Gaxa hurried off, her hand over her nose.

  ‘Is that . . . her nightdress?’ Elspet could not keep the incredulity from her voice. Elspet recognized the still-smouldering cloth as Martha’s crumpled cotton shift.

  Ayamena ignored the question. She seemed perfectly comfortable squatting on her haunches next to the bed pulverizing her herbal medicine. When Gaxa came with the heated water she poured it over the mess of herbs, and a cloud of steam drove the fumes to the edges of the room.

  ‘Señora – Ayamena,’ Elspet tried again. ‘I must go find the padre, arrange for Mr Wilmot to receive blessing and burial.’

  ‘No,’ Gaxa said. ‘Better to wait. Wait until Señora Ayamena is finished. Martha will sleep soon. Then you go.’

  ‘She means it will be dangerous for us if you bring him here whilst my mother is still working,’ Luisa said. Her fierce expression cowed Elspet.

  So she waited. She sat on a carved wooden chair and watched. Ayamena sang to Martha in a soft croon, words she could not understand. But it calmed her, and then Ayamena administered the herbal drink, and Martha sipped at it. It took perhaps a quarter-hour before it was all gone and Ayamena put down the bowl.

  ‘She will hold that down,’ Ayamena said, ‘then she will be better.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Elspet said.

  Ayamena moved to extinguish the still-smoking garment in the bowl.

  ‘What does it do?’ Elspet asked.

  ‘I burn her clothes. The demons hate the burning, hate it when I give back to them what they have given her.’

  Elspet shivered. The talk of demons made her uneasy. Ayamena passed her a green bundle. ‘It’s parsley,’ she said. ‘Strew the bed with it in the morning. She’ll sleep now, by the will of Allah.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Elspet said, ‘I can’t pay you. Morcillo had the last of my purse.’

  ‘Nobody mentioned payment,’ said Luisa, in an offended tone. ‘You are a friend of Señor Alvarez.’

  Ayamena stood up from the truckle bed and began to pack away her things. ‘Luisa, go find more hot water. Make tea.’

  Luisa opened her mouth to protest but her mother snapped back, ‘Now.’ Luisa and Gaxa went.

  Ayamena looked up from where she knelt over her bundles and bags. ‘You need tea for the shock,’ she said.

  ‘Do not trouble yourself, I really have no need of it,’ Elspet said. But she had no will to move. She slumped down again, her legs leaden, exhausted.

  ‘You were close to him?’ Ayamena asked.

  ‘No, I mean yes. It’s complicated. He came with me to Spain, to help me reclaim my inheritance. My father, when he died – there was some business with the will . . .’ She stopped to see if the older woman had understood her Spanish.

  Ayamena was looking up at her with such sympathy in her eyes. ‘You lost your father too?’

  A lump rose in Elspet’s throat. She turned her head away.

  ‘When?’

  Unable to get out a word, she was seized with a wrack of weeping. Her whole body shook with grief. Not for Mr Wilmot, but for her father, who, she only just realized at that moment, was lost to her. Or perhaps had been lost to her even as a child. Ayamena said nothing, but when Luisa arrived noisily with the tea she gestured at her with a shake of her head and Luisa retreated wide-eyed downstairs. Elspet heard her own groans and wails as if they were someone else’s.

  On the bed Martha stirred, and Ayamena went to settle her before handing Elspet a cloth. It smelt of cloves, and she buried her face in it to stem the weeping.

  When she was done weeping, her eyes felt thick and swollen and her hand trembled as she took the cup Ayamena offered. The tea was strong and minty. The taste of it brought her back from her painful childhood memories and into the room. The only sound was of Martha’s breathing. It was comforting to hear it, the hush of the breath, the sound of life.

  ‘It’s good.’ She gave Ayamena a watery smile.

  ‘Drink, then. Time enough for the padre tomorrow. Sleep tonight.’

  Elspet sipped for a while. It did not matter when she went for the padre, she realized. Mr Wilmot would probably have been aghast at the thought of it anyway, a popish burial, but in this country, how could she do anything else? But today, tomorrow – a few hours – would make no difference. This woman, still kneeling, stirring the pot of tea, she had been so kind. The thought of it brought fresh tears to her eyes. She remembered then that Ayamena and her family would soon be gone.

  ‘You are leaving. Where will you go?’

  ‘Nicolao will have thought of someone, never fear.’

  ‘You could come here. There is room, and I would be glad to have you, and Martha would—’

  ‘No.’ She slapped away her suggestion. ‘You have not understood. All the Moriscos are leaving. They will make us leave or they will kill us. So we must leave Spain, go to our own kind.’ Seeing Elspet’s face, she softened her expression. ‘But thank you. It is not often a woman like you would offer help to someone like us.’

  A slight noise alerted them to Luisa silhouetted in the doorway from the sconces in the hall. ‘I’m ready,’ Ayamena said.

  Luisa helped to gather her things and Elspet accompanied mother and daughter to the door. Gaxa opened it for them and the wave of warm air swept in from outside.

  ‘Thank you,’ Elspet said. ‘God be with you.’

  Ayamena lifted her hand and Elspet watched the two women’s backs go down the road and around the corner into the black huddle of the city.

  ‘Go to bed, Gaxa,’ Elspet said. ‘It has been a long day, and tomorrow I must make arrangements for Mr Wilmot’s interment.’

  ‘As you wish, mistress,’ she said. Then, shyly, ‘Will you sleep?’

  Elspet was touched by her concern. ‘Who knows?’ she said. ‘But let’s try.’

 
Chapter 36

  ‘Bravo!’ The call made Zachary stop his training to look. It was Girard Thibault, just arrived. ‘That’s a beautiful sword you have,’ he said.

  Zachary could not resist telling him, ‘I forged it myself – see, it is narrower and longer than the average blade. I went to Guido de Vega’s on the Calle de las Armas.’

  He held it out for Girard’s inspection.

  Girard blew out through his teeth. ‘You’re a craftsman, Deane.’

  Zachary feigned nonchalance. He wiped the blade on his sleeve again and smiled, admiring the grain of the metal.

  Girard and Zachary began the basic walking of the circle, practising angles of offence, in the chill early morning light. Although Girard had been there the longest, and his training was supposedly nearly done, Zachary was a good match for him. After they had been going a while the sky turned from the colour of a pale cheese to a vivid blue, and reflected sun leapt from their blades. Thibault’s sudden concentration told Zachary that Señor Alvarez had appeared to watch and check their paces.

  ‘Stop,’ Alvarez said. ‘Come here.’ They went over to him.

  ‘Swap swords.’

  ‘What?’ Zachary was sure he could not have heard him right. But Alvarez took Girard’s sword by the grip and handed it to Zachary, holding his hand out for Zachary’s blade. There was no option but to give it to him. Zachary watched as his beautiful sword was placed in Girard’s eager hands. That buffoon, who had a grin on his face as though he had found a treasure chest in a dung heap.

  As they drilled, Zachary was intent on Girard’s handling of his sword, fearing that he would nick its blade, and as for Girard’s sword, it hung too large in his hands, it tipped forward, the balance of it all wrong. They circled each other warily.

  ‘Deane, you must put aside your feelings about the sword,’ said Alvarez. ‘You are too attached to it. In a fight you would save your sword and forget to save yourself. Señor Thibault will have it this morning and the other men and then Mistress Leviston. Everyone will try it, and you will work with their weapons too. It is not good to identify too much with your own creation.’