‘Don’t you think it odd that the señor asked us to take the pattern into ourselves, and now this?’ Alexander said. ‘He knew, don’t you think, that something like this would happen?’
‘How?’ Zachary asked. ‘He can’t have known those men would come here and do that.’
Etienne said, ‘You’re not suggesting someone let them in?’
‘No, of course not. Just that he knows things – I think sometimes he has powers that we do not have – that somehow he knew something like this would happen.’
‘Pah,’ Etienne said, rolling his eyes.
‘You think he can tell the future? Like M’sieur Nostradame?’ Zachary was amused.
‘No, maybe not that, exactly.’ Alexander backed down, uncomfortable. ‘But don’t you think it’s odd?’
‘It’s all part of the training, that idea of putting the symbol into memory,’ Girard said.
Etienne spat into the dirt and wiped his lips. ‘A coincidence, c’est tout.’
‘Perhaps Alexander is right, I was reading the Agrippa. He has the opinion that everything is linked together in a chain of causal effect,’ Elspet said, venturing an opinion for the first time.
Alexander caught her eye and smiled, but Zachary said, ‘As far as I can see, if Señor Alvarez knew it was going to happen he should have locked the gate.’
Etienne protested, ‘It was locked when I left, I heard him do it, bolted from the inside.’
‘Then I think someone must have been inside the yard already, maybe hiding in the kitchen to let the others in,’ Elspet said. She told them about the noise in the kitchen and the broken jar.
‘Why the hell did you not say anything?’ Zachary spluttered. ‘We could have stopped them. Those three thugs nearly killed me. If it hadn’t have been for Alvarez, I would have been nailed to the ground by now with a rapier through the chest.’
She tried to explain but he shook his head in derision. ‘So much for being alert and watchful,’ he muttered. Then he leaned in towards the others, conspiratorially. ‘But I’ll tell you this: last night I passed by Don Rodriguez’s sword school.’
‘What?’ Etienne said.
‘You blazing fool. You went there after we left?’ Alexander was incredulous. But then his curiosity got the better of him. ‘Did you find out anything?’
‘No. Not a sign of those men. Maybe they weren’t from there after all. But there’s something going on. A whole army seems to be training there. In the middle of the night.’
‘How so?’ Girard asked.
‘There’s a long tent set up in the yard – alongside, like a barracks. I sneaked round the side and looked through a gap in the wall. There are piles of muskets and shot, and soldiers that looked like they were drafted in from all over Spain. They were parading and drilling in the yard in full plate armour.’
‘But Rodriguez’s men – they are swordsmen, not musketeers, are they not?’ asked Alexander.
‘No. You must have made a mistake. Spain is not at war. Unless the English plan once more an attack,’ Etienne said pointedly, looking at Zachary.
‘Hey! Don’t go blaming the English. Anyway, they’d come from the sea. This looked like a land force – foot soldiers, musketeers, pikes.’
‘Sounds like Don Rodriguez is planning a rebellion to me.’ Girard shook his head.
Etienne flapped his hand dismissively. ‘What for? Who he rebel against? I think Zachary makes a mistake. Rodriguez always has many men training. It signifies nothing.’
‘I’m telling you all, this was no ordinary training. And then I walked over to the bend in the river. There are more ships there now. There are sixty or more gathered on the Guadalquivir. Slave ships and mercantiles, and a host of other smaller craft.’
‘See, I tell you,’ Etienne said. ‘The English, they send a fleet.’
‘It’s not the English,’ Zachary said. ‘I can tell. These aren’t war ships – that’s what I’m telling you. They look like trading craft. It’s sinister, them all waiting out there like that.’
‘Have you told anyone?’ Elspet asked.
‘Told anyone what?’ asked Señor Alvarez appearing from the house.
They all looked to Zachary to see if he was going to say anything.
‘Nothing.’ He clammed up, and his face flushed bright red.
Señor Alvarez gave him an irritated look. ‘Idle talk wastes time and energy. Go arm yourselves.’
Elspet hitched up her skirts and tucked them into her apron. Zachary was already heading towards the pile of swords and bucklers.
‘No,’ Señor Alvarez shouted, ‘not with those,’ and he pointed to the corner of the yard where a motley collection of besoms and pails had been gathered. ‘The upstairs training hall – I want it spotless.’ They smiled regretfully to each other and got to work.
They worked hard all morning. They went about the tasks silently, partly because their disgust at what had been done was sobering, and partly because there was a lot to do. Zachary and Elspet worked in the library side by side. They washed the floor as best they could, wringing out the cloths in the bucket. What would Father have said to see them both scrubbing in the stench like servants? When she looked out of the window she saw Alexander and Pedro rinsing pages from the books in the trough and weighting them down with stones to dry in the breeze.
Zachary seemed not to notice her, his eyes were faraway as if he only had half his attention on what he was doing. This was unusual, for it was usually Girard the draughtsman who daydreamed out of the window. Zachary sat back on his haunches.
‘Why do you stay?’ he asked her in a low voice. ‘It has been many weeks now.’
For the first time she saw it was a genuine question.
She answered him frankly. ‘I don’t know. I wish I did. At first it was because I did not trust you, but now I suppose it is because I want to have my future settled – for you to come home to England with me, so we can sign the papers. I need to know how I will live now my father is gone. And it is all the more urgent now that Wilmot is no longer in charge of the warehouse –’ She paused, but then more words seemed to tumble out without her bidding – ‘and partly it is because I like the training . . . I mean Señor Alvarez, there’s something about him . . .’
He put down his cloth and met her eye. ‘Do they know about Wilmot? Greeting and the men at the chambers, I mean?’
‘Greeting. Oh – oh yes. I wrote. I had to. I asked him to put the head warehouseman in charge until I could return.’ She tried to keep her tone flat, without accusation. ‘And I had to write to Dorothy – David’s wife – of course, to tell her. I told her if I could, I would make a donation – for the children.’ She looked to gauge his reaction but he just nodded. ‘Wilmot was good to me, and I think it only fair. He might still be alive if it wasn’t for me.’ She stopped, aware that talking was not permitted. She heard the dribble of water as he wrung out the cloth.
He scrubbed the cloth over the patch of floor in front of him, then sat up again. ‘It’s a good idea.’
She was amazed. He was actually agreeing with her about something. She galloped on in a whisper, whilst he was listening. ‘There will be a lot to do, to get the business straight, and I’m not sure the deputy overseer has much head for figures, and I’m sure he’ll be ruling the roost with David gone. And the house has been locked up too long. All the drapes will need airing and . . .’ She flushed, realizing she had been carried away. The unspoken question hung there between them, though she did not push him to answer it.
‘After last night, I thought I had a duel to fight,’ he said. ‘I wanted to get even, seek revenge on whoever did this. And I hate to be beaten. But I am beginning to see that it serves no one if I go after them. No one but myself, I mean. It is only my pride it satisfies. They will think us cowards if we do nothing, but I do not care if men like that think ill of me.’
‘Who?’
‘Rodriguez. From the sword school in the city. I think it’s his men who did this.’
She put down her cloth. ‘Why? Is it something you did? Is that why they came?’
‘No, I had nothing to do with this. But I did fall foul of Don Rodriguez once, in an argument over a slave boy . . . never mind, it matters little now. I need to think. To think why I am fighting, who this is all for . . . and about making a life in Spain . . .’ He paused. ‘Because I think I might never come back to England at all if I don’t come soon.’
His gaze strayed out to the window, before it snapped back. ‘Alvarez is right. You have waited patiently. I will come back to England as you wish. For one week. I will talk to the señor, see what can be done. Find out when the next sailing is.’
He picked up the pail and walked off with it. She was so stunned, she could have been felled with a feather. Was he really prepared to break off his training? She could not believe it was possible. Yet had he not said to ask about a passage? She went to the pump to wash out her cloth and scrubbed her hands in a ferment of excitement. She was going to go home, home to her lovely house, home to London, to plain English food and lit fires in the hearth! She clasped her hands in a private prayer of gratitude. Perhaps Father was right, and she and Zachary would be able to make something of his inheritance together after all.
She set off immediately to tell Señor Alvarez their plans. By telling him, she hoped this would somehow solidify them; that once Señor Alvarez knew it would make it more real, for she still could not quite believe it. But Ayamena told her Señor Alvarez had ridden out with the artist Girard Thibault, to do some business and then to say farewell to him, and that the señor would not be back until later in the afternoon.
After the first flush of enthusiasm she was strangely deflated. It would look ungrateful, she thought, not to finish the training. As if she had not valued it – him – at all.
They studied in the newly scoured library as usual. The ruined books were drying still, and were awaiting the bookbinder, so Pedro said. But there were others that had been overlooked by their night-time visitors, so it was those that they were to study. Elspet had become fascinated by the history of fencing, and pounced upon a copy of Hugues Wittenwiller, a manuscript which looked to be of some age, and which some previous student had helpfully annotated by placing sheets of diagrams between the pages.
‘These aren’t bad, but not as good as Girard’s sketches,’ whispered Etienne, appearing late, but peering over her shoulder.
‘Señor Alvarez hasn’t given him permission yet to use them,’ said Alexander. ‘He can’t use the seal in his book unless the señor agrees.’
‘He’ll agree, I think,’ Elspet said. ‘I’ll miss Girard. It is a shame his training is done. And I’d like to see his great book when it is finished.’
In the afternoon the señor still had not returned so she trained with the half-sword, an earth technique, where the blade has to be grasped firmly by the fingers. At first they had worn their leather gloves, but now they learned to work without them. Alexander took hold of Elspet’s palm and pressed it to the blade, to show her that it was actually safer, the tighter the grip.
‘It is designed to cut as it slices,’ he said. ‘If it does not slip, it will not cut.’
As he held her hand it did not make her heart race, though he was pleasant enough. It was Señor Alvarez who had that honour. When she saw him pass through the yard at last, she gripped the cutting edge tightly, pushed the vertical barrier of the sword out before her like a shield, knuckles turned white with clenching.
After another quarter-hour she excused herself and took a moment to settle her breath and compose herself before ascending the stone steps. Her hemp sandals made little noise as she passed through the indoor training hall – clean and tidy now that more lime had been painted over the ink-spattered mess to make a simple white square. She walked around it in case it was still wet and saw that the library door was open a little. She paused a moment at the door, looking through the crack where it joined the jamb.
Señor Alvarez was there, sitting at one of the tables. Beside him lay a volume of the Agrippa and some of the torn-out pages. His head sagged into his hands. He slowly rubbed his palms over his face, pinched his eyebrows as if he had a headache, and let out a long sigh. When he looked up again his eyes were listless, his face grey. He picked up a torn page and slumped back on his chair, his face a picture of defeat.
Was this the invincible man who taught them to spar every day?
She knew she should knock, but could not bring herself to, so arresting was this new vision of Señor Alvarez. An urge arose in her to go and comfort him, but she stayed still. She saw him stare blankly out of the window into the distance.
A slight movement must have caught his eye because he looked up, suddenly alert. Almost immediately she saw him put on his formal teaching face. It was a strange experience to watch him construct the mask before her. She knocked then, and he called out, ‘Come!’
She went in. ‘Señor Alvarez,’ she said, ‘have you a moment?’
‘Of course,’ he said, the picture of joviality. ‘Please sit.’
She sat carefully, taking her time so that they might both regain their composure, and draping her skirts so they hid her bare toes. She looked him straight in the eye and said, ‘I’ve come to say that Zachary and I are leaving.’
The shock registered in a slight backward movement of his body, but then his calm returned. ‘Back to England?’
‘Yes. I have persuaded Zachary to come with me at last to go through the legalities of my father’s will.’
‘That is good news for you, is it not?’
‘As you know, I’ve been waiting months for him to agree, and after that I am afraid I will be very busy with the business in England and . . .’ She paused, choked; an upsurge of emotion threatened to overwhelm her.
‘And you will have no more time for Spain and the study of the sword,’ he finished for her. ‘I quite understand.’
His matter-of-fact response unnerved her. She retorted, ‘You make it sound as though I have not valued it. But I have. I will miss it a great deal. I have never felt so –’ she searched for the word – ‘so unfettered. Partly it is just Spain. In England, my behaviour would be unacceptable in the society in which I live. Partly it is you – your teaching here.’ She fumbled for words, but they escaped her. She found herself becoming more and more agitated, but still could not find words for what she wanted to say.
He waited.
‘ . . . There is some magic here that I will never find in England.’
He was shaking his head. ‘I am just a fencing master. But I hope you have learned something. It has been a privilege to teach you. I have never taught a woman before – it has given me much, the experience of it. Tell me, when will you leave?’
She dropped her gaze, before the words came out, more bald than she intended. ‘As soon as I can. Tomorrow, perhaps. I dare not delay in case Zachary changes his mind.’
‘So soon?’ Something unreadable passed across his eyes. ‘I thought . . .’ He paused, thought better of it, and said, ‘Well, I wish you well on your journey. You will come to say goodbye to the others before you go? They will expect it.’
She began to speak, but only a croak came out. Her shoulders started to shake and to her horror hot tears began to trickle down her cheeks. She covered her face with her hand. From between her fingers she saw him produce a white kerchief, which he pressed into her hand, and heard his even voice.
‘Mistress Leviston, it is good to cry. In Spain, tears are like the rains, they make the world a more fertile place. Do not be ashamed of your tears.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she stuttered. ‘I don’t know why I am crying.’
‘Your heart knows perhaps.’
Her eyes met his and she saw his pupils darken. His hand moved as if it would take hers, but it stopped just a little short, and he withdrew it and looked away out of the window.
She blew her nose and gestured to him that she would keep the kerchief. She tuc
ked it into her waistband.
‘What about Mr Deane?’ he asked.
‘I think Zachary intends to carry on his training, if you will let him. He is doing this for me, señor, so please do not punish him. Let him return here, if he wants to. I know it means everything to him, as it does to me . . .’ She brought out the kerchief again.
‘I am sure your cousin will come and talk it over with me.’ He sighed. ‘Girard Thibault too, he has gone. But I know he will not be back. His training is finished and he is going home to Antwerp. And now another.’ He shook his head. ‘A few weeks ago I sensed my training was needed, but now something in the air has changed; it seems most of my students seem to have other ideas.’
She could do nothing to reassure him. There did not seem to be anything else to say, so she stood up. Her knees trembled a little, and she was still blinking back tears. ‘I will come again tomorrow to say my farewells,’ she said, and floundered to the door.
Señor Alvarez did not move, but called out to her, so she turned to catch his words: ‘You will be missed, Mistress Leviston. The men will lack your company.’ And something in his tone told her it was the man speaking, not the mask, and it was he who would miss her, not the men.
Elspet asked Gaxa if she would go down to the harbour and find out about the sailings. Gaxa did not ask questions, for which Elspet was relieved, but just accepted the instructions. She used to think how pleasant it must be, to simply follow orders. But now she saw that it was different when you had been forced to hand over your personal power to someone else.
Whilst Gaxa was gone she packed what was left of her personal belongings. She left out her other gown, and a travelling cloak. The rest of her things would now fit in one large handbasket, with a bit of persuasion, so she packed them that way.
Gaxa burst into the room. ‘Nobody leaves,’ she said. ‘Not for three weeks.’ She held up three fingers. She gasped for breath as if she’d been running. ‘They’re sending the Moors back. The port is full of ships and soldiers.’
A Divided Inheritance Page 37
