‘Husain. One of his friends found it, the way children do. But Mama banned them from coming here – too dangerous with all the building going on. But when I saw it, I just kept on coming, for the view.’
She pointed to the open shutters, and watched as he walked towards the balcony. She clasped her hands in expectation.
He stared out a moment, and she heard him let out an exclamation. When he turned to look over his shoulder she was almost as excited as he was. She smiled and went to join him at the open window. The green ribbon of river could be seen winding its way towards the sea. On either side the city was like a map spread out on a table, the sky a huge blue dome dotted with cloud.
‘I come here when I need quiet. Or to think,’ she said.
‘It’s beautiful. Thank you for bringing me.’ He accidentally brushed her hand with his fingers. She held her breath, the air seemed to grow silent but she did not move her hand away.
‘It must be one of the finest views in Seville,’ he said. She was still enough to hear her own heart beating as his hand curled into hers.
‘I think so,’ she said, carrying on the conversation as if nothing at all was happening between them. ‘I keep thinking I’ll come one day and it will be full of workmen.’
‘One day I’d like a house like this. If I had it, I couldn’t bear to see it lying empty.’
Now his hand held hers tight, and his thumb circled on her wrist. She stared unseeing at the view; all her senses were afire. She knew she should move away. He was everything she should avoid. Her mother would be horrified. Not only was he not of her family’s faith, he wasn’t even Spanish. She swallowed. But then she might not be in Spain much longer, the world was changing so fast. She had the sense of stepping off the edge of something, allowing herself to fall.
He turned her round, to look into her face. ‘I meant it,’ he said quietly. ‘Did you know, you are more beautiful than any view.’
She shook her head, but the protest had no heart behind it. ‘Mr Deane, I am just a girl from the pottery. You are a gentleman . . .’
He laughed. ‘I am not a gentleman. At least I wasn’t until six months ago. I was a . . . well, never mind. But you are a dancer, and I am a fencer. There is something in common there, I think.’ He rested his other hand on her shoulder.
‘You fight well,’ she said, desperately looking for conversation, knowing that they were both gripped by something they could not control. ‘I heard Señor tell Papa you are one of his best students.’
‘Really? He really said that?’
She nodded. ‘True, as God is my witness.’
‘Then I could kiss you.’ He brought his lips down towards hers, and very slowly, inevitably, she turned her face towards his in an invitation.
His lips rested on hers lightly, she felt his arms close around her back. She moved into him, tingling all over. She wanted to draw him close, for the moment never to stop. His hand wound itself into her hair, she opened her throat to press her mouth to his with more fervour. When he withdrew, his hand came out to stroke her forehead, but she broke away, disorientated. The world had changed in a moment. What had she done?
‘I must be getting back to the pottery.’ She had a suddern urge to turn back time, for everything to be as it was, safe and familiar.
‘But I thought you said you had an hour?’ His hand kept hold of hers.
She was panicking now, it was all too much. Her thoughts were in confusion. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come, I shouldn’t have brought you here, I must go.’ She broke away and turned, hurried down the stairs.
‘Then I’ll come with you, escort you back to the pottery,’ he said from behind. She heard his boots clatter down the stairs after her. When she got to the door at the bottom of the servants’ stairs, it was jammed. She jerked at it until it swung open but he caught up with her in the passage.
‘Luisa, I was too forward,’ he said. ‘Forgive me. I should have been less—’
‘Please don’t say anything else. We will forget about it, yes?’ She tried to be calm and reasonable, but her body was alive to his presence. She paused and looked up at him standing away, the brim of his hat screwed up in one hand, at his dark questioning eyes. ‘It’s just I –’ She could not move. She heard her own voice come out of the darkness, ‘No, kiss me again.’
Chapter 40
For a month, Elspet and the men trained in the art of fire. They learned to draw the sword like the sudden shooting up of a flame. Over and over they slipped it from the scabbard so that the movement became seamless and sudden.
Elspet dreaded that she would fall behind, that she would become a liability in the training, and that the señor must secretly think her a burden. She knew her arm looked weak and ineffective next to the men, especially Zachary, who was becoming fast as a whirlwind. She redoubled her efforts. They practised the quick leaping quality of the blade with point-strikes and thrusts, and in the evenings Alvarez made them study all types of flame.
They even watched the flame trickle along a fuse to a heap of firepowder – such a small pile like a sprinkle of salt – until she had to clap her hands to her ears at the crack of the explosion and shield her eyes from its brief flaring light. The whole time she watched Alvarez with a fierce attention, both to learn from him and because he held for her a fascination she could not fathom.
Zachary had been forced to accept her presence. Since the death of Wilmot he seemed less intimidating. Señor Alvarez treated her with exactly the same respect as he did the other students so Zachary had been coerced into doing the same, simply because Alvarez expected it. Her cousin kept his face blank when she was asked to partner him. And even he had to concede that no more students had come to the señor’s door for training, and with there being five men it was better to have her as a partner than no partner at all.
Lately, Elspet noticed that Zachary was distracted, always looking out of the window. Alvarez was tough with him and made him stand an extra hour in the en garde position. As for Elspet, she relished it all. She tied her skirts further into her waistband and left off her sleeves. She had never worked so hard in her life; her muscles ached, her chemise was soaked, her right hand blistered from gripping the sword. She worked with them all now, with Girard Thibault the artist, with the courteous Dutchman Alexander Souter, with the young devout Spaniard Pedro Gutierrez, with the watchful Frenchman Etienne Galen.
By the time they had moved on to training with the element of air, the weather was cooler. One of the days she partnered Etienne to practise speed, timing and distance. When they had finished their drills, he saluted her with a mock bow. ‘You do well for a woman,’ he said.
She reacted automatically, ‘No, I feel like a cack-handed fool next to you men.’
‘You take on the stance better than we, and you have a natural grasp of distance. We men, well – we have so much already in our bodies from other teachers. It is hard to let it go, yes? But you have no need to un-learn someone else’s methods.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Come, let’s sit,’ he said. She went over to the bench. Etienne made to perch next to her, so that she had to move tight up to one end. He wedged himself in beside her.
‘Will you fight?’ he asked.
Fight? The idea had not occurred to her. She had not thought beyond the training. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. I’d be no match for a man.’
‘Then why do you do it?’
He was looking at her, an intent look in his pale eyes.
‘I suppose I just fell into it somehow. I was here in Spain to see my cousin – Zachary. And I cannot go back home without him. So I will train with him until he is ready to leave.’ It sounded reasonable, as she said it.
‘But why? You could go back to England without him, surely?’
His questions were making her uncomfortable. She decided to be honest. ‘My father left his business to us jointly and no funds can be released until Zachary signs for it. I am dependent on his charity f
or now, and he will not return with me to England until his training is done, in the spring. I stay to keep him to his word.’
‘So Zachary Deane is a rich man? I would not have guessed it from his bearing.’
‘I . . . my father was in trade, and—’ She stopped herself. Etienne was sitting far too near to her. His breath rasped close to her ear.
‘What trade is that?’ Etienne asked.
‘Oh, nothing. Lace. The haberdasher’s trade,’ she said, standing. ‘Excuse me, I must get a drink.’ She walked away and as she glanced back over her shoulder she saw his eyes were still fixed on her.
In the patchy shade of the vine, Zachary was pouring a drink. ‘Etienne seems to have taken a liking to you,’ he said. It was the first time he had opened an exchange with her in a pleasant tone of voice.
‘We were just talking, that’s all.’
‘Well, he was watching you all morning when you were working with Girard. I know because Etienne was my partner, and he couldn’t keep his eyes on the game. At first I thought he was watching Girard, but then I realized it must be you he was looking at. You have an admirer.’
Discomfited, she poured herself some watered ale from the jug, and ignored him. She did not like Zachary making such personal comments. She remembered how keen he was for her to be wed. She found herself wishing it was Señor Alvarez who was her admirer, and not the over-familiar Frenchman.
As if her thoughts had summoned him, Señor Alvarez appeared. Elspet tried to act with a nonchalance she did not feel. They stood aside to let him near the table. Señor Alvarez turned to her. ‘Mistress Leviston, if you are to continue, we need to discuss when you will make payment. I’ll be in the library this afternoon. We can discuss it then.’
‘Of course,’ she said, but he had caught her off-guard. She had never thought about how she would pay. She looked around to catch Zachary’s eye but, curse him, he was gone, like a wily fox into the forest. ‘Yes, I’ll come this afternoon,’ she said.
After he left, she stood a moment, crestfallen. This would be the end of her training.
The library was dim after the brightness of the yard. Señor Alvarez was waiting, his black hat on the table before him, so she was surprised all over again by his white hair. ‘Please sit,’ he said, but she stayed standing.
She blurted out, ‘I’m sorry, but I cannot pay. There is no money left. I cannot even feed myself or my maid. I’m sorry. I’m grateful to you for paying the burial expenses, as I said. And I am thankful for what I have learned so far, and I’ll send money as soon as I am able, but I cannot train with the men any more.’ She was almost in tears as she turned to leave.
‘Wait.’ His voice was commanding.
She hesitated. ‘I can’t pay, so it is no use my wasting your time.’
The apprentice was getting the books out for afternoon study, and quietly placing them out on the tables. The thought of the books and the study she would miss made her catch her breath.
‘Please – do take a seat.’ Señor Alvarez gestured at the chair.
She sat. He tapped his fingers on the table, and then rubbed his hand over his upper lip. His face was tanned from the sun, slight creases lodged around his eyes.
‘Mistress Leviston,’ he said, ‘I do not yet understand why you are here, but you are here nonetheless. And as you are here, there must be some purpose behind it. So you will be trained. And payment will be exacted.’ He paused a moment and then smiled. ‘I have never had a female pupil, so you must pardon me if I occasionally forget your sex.’
‘But how will I pay?’ she protested. ‘I have no funds at all until I can persuade Zachary to come to England, and he says you will not let him relinquish the training, even for a short while.’
‘Once someone has begun, I must keep up the pressure. If the momentum I have built up is lost, then the training must begin again. Few came to study with me, and times are . . . uncertain.’ He sighed. ‘Zachary and his companions are my hope for the future of La Destreza. Who knows, perhaps you will be my last students.’
‘But could you not make an exception?’
‘No. No exceptions. I am sorry.’
‘Then I cannot pay.’
‘You will pay with your effort and with your dedication to the art. That is the law under heaven; nothing will be given without a proper exchange. And in the meantime, how are you paying your maid?’
She looked down guiltily. ‘I have not been able to pay her these last two weeks. And I cannot tell her to leave my employ, she has been ill with the sweating sickness, and besides, where would she go?’
‘You must pay Martha. That is her name, is it not? As a condition of the training. The payment to me will wait, but you must not keep your maid without giving her fair recompense. What do you own?’
‘Nothing. A few travelling trunks, my clothing, a few silk shawls, mementoes of home, that is all.’
‘Can you sell any of it?’
‘Well, I’m not sure I could . . . I mean, I don’t really want to part with them . . .’
‘You are mourning Mr Wilmot, are you not?’ She nodded. ‘So you are wearing only this dark gown. Can you wear the silk shawls for the training?’ His eyes were arresting and slightly amused. She squirmed under his gaze.
‘No, I suppose not.’ She thought of the tawny silk with the ecru lace trim, and the French navy damask with the seed-pearl fringe, both packed with camphor to keep off the moths. All her gowns had farthingales and stiff busks. And it was true, she had been in the same sleeveless gown all week.
‘Come with me.’ He stood abruptly. ‘Alfonso – call in the gentlemen for afternoon study. We are going out.’ The apprentice bowed, picked up a bell and rattled it.
Alvarez put on his hat and led the way downstairs with Elspet following. They passed the men clattering up the stone steps; Zachary’s eyes questioned her, but she ignored him. Alvarez’s stride was long and loping, and yet he did not seem hurried in the slightest. To her surprise he headed out of the yard and down the street. Elspet jogged at his heels.
‘Do you feel the need for a chaperone?’ he asked over his shoulder.
‘No,’ she called.
After a fifteen-minute walk he led her through the Gate of Macarena and outside of the city walls. Before her was a vast sand-coloured building in the classical style. Señor Alvarez halted. ‘La Sangre,’ he said. She had no trouble understanding the word – it meant blood.
Work was still going on there; the paths were unfinished, and labourers could be seen lugging barrows of masonry. She stared at its tile-covered towers rearing into the sky at each corner. Flanking the main entrance were two impressive family escutcheons and some sculptured stone figures which appeared to be Faith, Hope and Charity. The figure of Faith showed a young winged woman with a sun radiating from her chest, and a spear in her hand. She was entranced by it.
‘Is this what you wanted me to see?’ she said. ‘It’s beautiful.’
‘No. Though you’re right. The carving is very fine. But come, we will go inside,’ he said.
She followed him into the shadowed cool of a long entrance hall, galleried with columns and colonnades. Ahead of her was the entrance to a church. So it was not a palace, after all, but a place of worship. Nobody stopped them, the long gallery was empty. A woman in a nun’s habit crossed hastily from one side to the other, her sandals slapping on the tiled floor. It made Elspet think of her sister, Joan.
The nun paid Señor Alvarez no attention at all. From somewhere in the chambers beyond the columns came the sound of someone moaning as if in pain. The lofty ceilings echoed and magnified it. Down the long paved walkway they walked until a waft of frankincense tickled her nostrils.
The church. He was taking her into the church. She puzzled over what this had to do with her payment for fencing lessons. Above soared a vaulted nave and dome, and before her an alabaster altar lit by flickering candles. She made the traditional genuflection, and stood off to one side as Señor Alvarez did the same.<
br />
‘Ah,’ he said. Ahead of them a woman turned to see who had come in. At the sight of Señor Alvarez, her passive face split into a smile. She bustled over. A sister wearing a hempen habit in faded grey.
Elspet had thought her to be an older woman, but on closer inspection saw she was not much older than Elspet herself. The misshapen clothes gave her that appearance, and the fact that her hair was invisible under the nun’s veil.
‘Good to see you, Ramon.’ She leaned forward and embraced Señor Alvarez on both cheeks. Elspet noticed her feet were bare. Long bony toes protruded from under her skirts.
‘Sister Josefa, this is Mistress Leviston. I’ve come to give her a little tour.’
‘Good, good. Follow me, then. Sister Paulina is admitting a few more whilst I am away. A woman just passed away, hence my prayers.’ She talked as she walked. Señor Alvarez listened intently, stooping to hear her words.
They returned the way they had come and turned sharp left into a corridor from where Elspet heard more moans. As they turned into the room, the first thing that hit her was the stench and the flies. Instantly she bent to cover her mouth and nose. When she looked up again she took in the rows of trestle beds, and palliasses laid on the floor, and the curious eyes of all the occupants.
‘Is this . . . a hospital?’ She could barely utter the words. Señor Alvarez was already approaching the first bed where a woman in a malodorous brown garment churned in the bed.
Josefa whispered to her, ‘Her fever is acute. Its progress is quick, and the symptoms violent. See these livid spots? They show a putrid state of the humours, so we call this fever malignant. She will not be with us much longer, I fear, but then she is only one of many.’
She gestured around. It was a scene from hell. Some of the women, and they were all women, were ill with the pox. Their faces were unrecognizable because of the disease. Others were wounded, and the blood was vivid red or dark brown on their bandages. Now she understood why this place was called La Sangre.
Why had he brought her here? She dared not breathe, for fear of catching some pestilence. She kept her mouth firmly shut. Her hands clutched her chemise at her neck.
A Divided Inheritance Page 33
