A Divided Inheritance

by Deborah Swift

  Zachary kicked against the dirt and said, ‘Guido de Vega said you have to know your own weapon like your lover. An extension of yourself.’

  ‘That’s true of course. But first you have to know yourself, heh?’ Alvarez raised his eyebrows at him. ‘Now, begin.’

  They walked the circle again. All morning he worked with that useless lump of metal Girard called a sword. The weather was cooler, but they still worked up a sweat. The training was relentless. His arm ached; he began to wish it was time for more book study, or more geometry. But Alvarez pushed them all on.

  ‘Quicker!’ Alvarez called out. ‘Footwork!’

  From the corner of his eye Zachary saw Luisa come out from the kitchen and unload some sacks of grain from a handcart near the back gates to the stables. He could not help himself, she drew his attention like a jewel. Next thing he knew, Girard had slipped easily under his guard and knocked his sword to the ground.

  Girard whispered, ‘She is pretty, hey?’

  ‘It’s distracting having them unloading in the corner of the yard,’ Zachary grumbled, picking up the weapon and testing its edge.

  Girard smiled, and did not look convinced.

  ‘Thibault, Deane! Repeat!’ called Alvarez. Zachary redoubled his efforts at the feint and strike and tried to ignore Luisa and the goings-on in the yard. When they were allowed a pause for a break mid-morning the handcart had been spirited away and there was no sign of her.

  Zachary sighed and lounged back against the wall, felt the freshness of the breeze dry his sweat. Thibault took out paper and lead as usual. He was working on a book to sketch all the techniques. A Manual of Fence, he called it, making it sound very grand. Zachary ignored the scratching lead and tipped his hat over his eyes to feel the warmth of the sun penetrate his tired muscles.

  A hand touched him on the sleeve and he shot to upright. When he pushed his hat back, Nicolao’s wrinkled face was squinting before him. ‘I have a message for you,’ he said, ‘from the English señorita, your friend. It is about Señor Wilmot. He died yesterday. His requiem is this afternoon.’

  ‘What?’ Zachary shook his head, trying to take it in, but couldn’t think of anything to say. ‘Oh God, the poor dog,’ he managed. He remembered Wilmot in his apartment, trying to get him to change his mind about selling the business. Surely that sweaty man with the determined face couldn’t be dead?

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘The sweating sickness, Ayamena says. The doctor bled him. Too much, too late, she says. He couldn’t be saved.’

  Thoughts raced through Zachary’s mind – was it his fault? Had he somehow brought it on him? And how on earth would Elspet travel home now, without his protection?

  ‘I am sorry to hear it.’ Zachary rubbed his hand over his mouth. This would drag him further into involvement with Elspet, he knew. He did not want any further entanglement with her, even the sight of her reminded him he was a liar and a cheat.

  ‘Señor Alvarez says you may go to the service.’ Nicolao’s words reined in his thoughts.

  ‘Today? I’m not sure . . . I’ll miss my training.’

  ‘If Señor Alvarez says you may go, then you should.’ He pursed his lips. ‘It is a mark of respect for your countryman. The poor Englishman can have few to honour him being so far from his home. And there is Mistress Leviston also – Señor Alvarez says she will need your support.’

  Oh no. Would he never be free of her? He did not want to go to the funeral, but at the same time he wanted to make a good impression on Alvarez, make him think he was worth his time. Perhaps he could pretend to go, but go somewhere else instead. But then Alvarez would be sure to ask him about it. He tussled it in his thoughts, then shook his head. ‘What time?’

  ‘Four o’clock at the Church of Santa Maria La Blanca.’

  He saw Elspet waiting red-eyed and quiet as they brought out the body, and a shiver of guilt went through him. A few nuns were there, from the convent of the church, gathered like grey jackdaws round the padre who was to lead the procession. Surprisingly, quite a few other mourners had gathered too – all seemed to be Spanish, there because of some religious conviction of their own. Elspet beckoned to him to fall in next to her behind the bier. He noticed that she was wearing black gloves. Black gloves in this heat.

  The worm of guilt reared its head again. He stepped in next to her. This was no time for their argument, for this sombre procession reminded him of his mother’s death. No fine funeral for her. He swallowed, pushed away the memory.

  The coffin was draped in a white cloth and the padre led the slow gathering down the narrow streets, the silver-gilt cross held before him. Behind came the shuffling nuns, with paper cones containing lighted candles. Then the pair of them, unlikely mourners, followed by the Spanish rabble.

  He knew that walking so close to Elspet gave people a false impression, signified an intimacy they would never share. He wondered if she was remembering her father, and an unexpected wave of regret washed over him. Leviston had tried to do his best, he knew. Old fool that he was, he had a good heart.

  He glanced to the side, and a lump came to his throat. What a scoundrel Leviston would have thought him, to gull Elspet this way. But how could he tell her he was not her brother now? When those ships came in, he would be a made man.

  Folk stopped to remove their hats and make the sign of the cross as the cortege passed. Cobblers ceased their hammering, young children ran over to stare, fingers in their mouths before scampering off on bare feet to fetch their friends, to gawp as they wended their way past. The doleful air of the nuns chanting the Miserere washed over him as they walked. The coffin moved maddeningly slowly. He just wanted it to be over.

  Outside the church they paused yet again for more sprinkling of holy water over the coffin, before entering through the big arched doorway, carved along its edge with what appeared to be giant teeth. It put Zachary in mind of a huge jaw.

  Inside the church it was gloomy after the outside sun. He shivered. He had not been in a church since leaving London. New plasterwork was in progress, a dust in the air with a slight tang of limewash in the back of the nostrils. Even here, more building, as if Seville was remaking herself, putting off the dark of the plagues and failed harvests of the past for a gilded future.

  ‘Exultabunt Domino,’ chanted the padre.

  Zachary slid into the pew and sat dry-eyed through the requiem Mass. Who would attend his funeral when it came? he wondered. Would he be like poor pathetic Wilmot, with only Mistress Leviston and Zachary, who cared not a whit for him, as his mourners?

  But if Zachary were to die tomorrow, maybe there would not be a single soul at his funeral. Not Elspet. Señor Alvarez? Could he call him a friend? Gabriel? Alexander? He thought of Rodriguez. As usual he seemed to have made as many enemies in Seville as friends. The thought was sobering.

  The padre swung the censer and the pungent whiff of frankincense transported him back to Mass with his mother, to waiting in the darkness whilst she made her confessions. The remembrance of her face, as she emerged cool and serene to squeeze his hand, as if all her troubles had been rinsed away, made him wince.

  He had not made confession for many months. He feared it. He dared not look inside his soul for he knew he would see the black stain of deceit pooling there.

  A man stood to let him pass to the front, but he shook his head. To take communion was unthinkable, and he gripped the pew as the other attendees went to kneel at the altar. Elspet tilted her head back to receive the host as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He swallowed back salt water. He was moved, that she should open her throat to the priest like that, as if exposing her life and soul to him in that very gesture.

  When she returned to the pew he could not meet her gaze. He listened miserably to the absolution:

  Līberī mī, Domine, de morte aeternī, in diē illa tremenda:

  Quandō coeli movendi sunt et terra.

  Dum veneris īudicāre saeculum per ignem.

 
He knew he had turned away from God somehow. But could he bring himself to confess he was not Leviston’s son? The devout and blameless Wilmot was no doubt on his way to heaven. The words of the absolution sent an involuntary shiver up Zachary’s spine. A judgement of fire. That was what awaited him, he was certain.

  Chapter 37

  The third day after Mr Wilmot was buried Elspet turned over and hugged the feather bolster to her chest, unwilling to rise and greet the day. She thought of home, and the remembrance was faint, a mirage wavering in the heat. At the same time her heart filled with such a sharp pain of longing.

  ‘Mistress?’

  She sat up. Martha was holding out her petticoat. Her hands were thin and blotched pink, her hair scraped back under her cap above hollow cheeks. She looked as if she might fall over if Elspet should so much as blow on her.

  ‘Martha. Are you feeling—?’

  ‘Quite well today, thank you, mistress. Gaxa told me about Mr Wilmot. I’m sorry I was not at the burial. Such a kind gentleman. Will we be going back to England now?’ Her face was hopeful.

  Elspet swung her legs out from the bed. ‘Are you sure you should be up?’

  ‘Sure, mistress. You’ll be needing someone, now Mr Wilmot is . . .’

  ‘Yes. Thank you, Martha.’ Elspet dared not say she had no means to pay her, nor a way of leaving Spain. The last few days had passed in a whirlwind of letter-writing and parcelling Wilmot’s effects. She could not bring herself to sell his belongings, though she had need of the money. Dorothy would want them.

  She took the petticoat and began to dress. Martha picked up the farthingale and held it out, but she shook her head. ‘No, not today. It is too much of an encumbrance.’

  Martha made a disapproving face, but patiently handed her each item of clothing. Elspet waved away the embroidered forepart which she made to pin to her petticoat, but agreed to the overskirt, the V-pointed bodice with its row of tiny hooks, the slashed sleeves.

  ‘I have no mourning costume,’ she said, ‘save this. It seemed dark enough. And we will need to pin up my skirts. They are too long without the hoops, and I want to hide my petticoats.’

  ‘The Spanish ladies have very large hoops still,’ Martha said.

  ‘I know. But they are far too much to manage, and I want to be able to move about the city without making too much of a show of myself.’

  ‘I would love to wear hoops like these,’ Martha said, stroking the chair where Elspet’s were dangling. Elspet felt her envy sharp as a bodkin. It had never occurred to her that her maid might covet her clothes.

  Martha finished by dressing Elspet’s hair in a caul behind, by which time Martha looked exhausted. Her hands trembled and were moist with a sheen of perspiration.

  ‘Martha,’ Elspet said gently. ‘It is no use dissembling. You know you are not really well enough to attend me today. Now go back to bed and rest. I can manage without you. I will ask Gaxa to bring you some strong broth to build up your strength. Now shoo.’

  Martha smiled thinly. ‘As you wish, mistress.’ Her face registered relief and she seemed glad to totter out of the room. She grasped the door jamb for support as she left.

  When she had gone Elspet tied on her hempen sandals and picked up a basket. Mr Wilmot was dead and it was as if a void had opened in her life. She thought of Joan, safe in her convent, but the idea of convent life held no appeal. On the one hand her stomach lurched with nerves, but on the other she felt an unexpected lightness, a freedom, as if more possibilities had suddenly opened to her.

  People had been so kind. Señor Cisbón had even waived this month’s rent. She would go to the fencing school to thank Señor Alvarez. She guessed it was him who had sent money for the funeral and had persuaded Zachary to attend. Zachary had barely said two words to her, let alone offered his condolences. But Zachary Deane held the key to her future and she would not let him out of her sight.

  The door to the yard creaked open at her touch and she made her way to her familiar stone bench seat. A sparrow pecked at a late fig that had fallen from one of the trees next door. She watched its fluster of feathers as it tried to lift its prize and carry it off.

  ‘Good morning!’ The Spanish words caused her to turn and look.

  It was Ayamena, throwing back the shutters of the kitchen.

  ‘You startled me,’ Elspet said, jumping to her feet to go over to her. ‘Martha is so much better. She was up out of bed this morning already.’

  ‘She will be weak for a few days. She will need metals and minerals to help her regain her strength.’ Ayamena dried her hands on a muslin cloth. ‘If you come later I will give you something.’

  ‘I cannot thank you enough. I thought I would lose her too. And she is my only friend in Spain.’ As she said this Elspet realized with a jolt that it might be true. ‘Where should I come? Where will you be living?’

  ‘We are still here. In the servants’ quarters above the kitchen. Our plans . . . well, they changed. Look,’ she angled her head and looked up – ‘that window just up there. With the hanging passi-flora.’ Elspet tilted her head to look. Ayamena continued, ‘Señor Alvarez insists we stay. But it is a risk he takes. So we try to be quiet and little trouble, and help him out with the cooking and the chores.’

  Elspet looked over her shoulder. The men had arrived for the day’s training and were disrobing and preparing themselves. They swung their arms, shook out their legs, circled their shoulders. In the corner, Alexander stepped on the spot, lifting his knees high. Ayamena flapped her hand and laughed as if to dismiss them, and pulled her head back behind the window.

  Zachary swaggered in from the street with his cloak thrown back, his leather arms case over his shoulder. He was soon doing a set of vigorous exercises with the rest until they lined up and began the drill. Señor Alvarez appeared from the upper door and perched on the stone steps at the side of the yard, observing.

  ‘Mistress Leviston,’ he called out. ‘Here again, heh? Partner Alexander, if you please.’ She blushed and jumped to her feet. Zachary turned in annoyance and their eyes met briefly across the distance before she gave him a haughty look and hurried to Alexander.

  Alexander picked up a second sword and held it out for her, waiting. He bowed and smiled, his brown eyes creased at the edges from the sun. She grabbed the sword in what she hoped was a manly way and tried to copy the rest of the men on her row. Señor Alvarez was watching and she was desperate to perform it correctly.

  Soon she had grasped the nature of the movement, but her body would not respond quickly enough. Having a blade pass so close to her face made her gasp, even if it was only what they called a ‘blunt’ with a pad on the end of it. She could feel her heart pumping under her stomacher. Pray God Señor Alvarez could not see her fear.

  Alexander struck towards her with his edge and she stepped aside, angling her blade so he clashed up against her guard. From there she was supposed to turn to push him away. The first few times she forgot to turn and their blades locked. They did the move over and over until it was smooth. She was panting with exertion. But as she worked, the crushing tension that had lodged in her chest seeped away.

  By the time the sun was high in the sky she had forgotten about anything else except the practice and the sharp-eyed presence of Señor Alvarez. The November sun beat down on her head, and her hair blew in her face so she tied her muslin neckerchief over it to keep they back and to keep the sun away. The piercing light made her squint to try to catch Alexander off guard. But he parried her neatly every time.

  ‘Stop!’ Alvarez called. Their bodies lurched to a halt. She was hot with effort. A slight breeze caught at the laces on her chemise and they tickled her neck, but she did not move. Señor Alvarez inspected their stances, and adjusted each one into a more balanced position. She held her breath as he placed his hand above her shoulder but he did not touch her. She let the shoulder soften and relax. ‘Good,’ he whispered.

  She glowed with his praise.

  The rest of th
e morning they spent indoors. Señor Alvarez brought them all to the circle. Now she understood it for what it was – a device, like a compass, for training direction and angle – she was itching to work on it. With luck, Señor Alvarez might let her try.

  Elspet could not help but admire Alvarez’s physique. Even the way he moved around the circle, pointing with his long cane, had an ease and dexterity.

  ‘Forget the Italian way,’ Alvarez said, ‘Morezzo and the complexity of all those separate moves. Look at the circle – it is one line.’ He pointed. ‘We are used to dividing the world. We want to polarize everything into two opposites. Agrippa teaches that there is no point in making two moves – one for offence and one for defence. The one move can be both an effective guard and an attack. Think how the bullfighter moves, around the circle to come in at an angle with his banderilla. But if we want to do this, we have to have accuracy. Accuracy depends on the application of your will as a force.’

  The men nodded, taking it in. But Zachary looked disgruntled. ‘Do you mean willpower?’ he asked.

  ‘Be careful. It is not what you think it is. Too many students think they already have willpower because they come through that gate and practise every day, but it is a different quality I am after. It is something absolutely unbendable.’

  Zachary persisted. ‘But did you not say that when a man is rigid, he is open to attack? I thought the idea was to blend with our opponent’s intention.’

  Elspet winced at Zachary’s lack of respect, but Alvarez did not react. He merely shook his head. ‘We want our will to be strong but fine, exactly like a sword. A sword is the expression of it. Here, pass me your blade.’

  Zachary unsheathed his sword and passed it to Señor Alvarez, who meanwhile had drawn on his gloves. ‘Look closely. The blade keeps its shape and direction, yet it is flexible too.’ He bent the blade into a gentle curve then let it go.

  It sprang back to its original form.

  ‘That is what we want, see? You all know how a sword is forged, but Mr Deane has seen it first-hand, is that not so? So where is its strength, Mr Deane?’