A Divided Inheritance

by Deborah Swift

  ‘God speed. The rest of us will follow after you,’ said Alvarez, as Etienne mounted. ‘Make sure to come and tell us if there are troops on the road ahead, or anything else to hinder our safe passage. If anyone stops you, tell them you are on your way to relatives in Sines.’

  ‘I will,’ Etienne said. He mounted his black horse.

  ‘Good luck,’ shouted Alexander, as he and the señor dragged open the big back gates. ‘See you in Tavira.’ Etienne spurred on his horse and it galloped out into the dusk.

  When all was prepared, the mules loaded, the carriage set and ready to go, they went to fetch Alvarez and found him kneeling in the arms room, checking each blade as though for war. He gave them all a circular metal plate to wear under their soft hats. ‘You may wear this if you wish,’ he said. ‘These good people are under our protection. It is a big responsibility.’

  It was sobering. The remaining men glanced at each other and left quietly, carrying the crown protectors in their hands. Zachary noticed they all took a little longer to prime their blades then, and Pedro loaded his firearms while they waited; none of them spoke.

  A few hours later as the sun grew low in the sky, he peered into the open carriage. Elspet waited pinch-faced there, dressed in a borrowed black cloak with the hood up to cover her hair and face. Luisa huddled inside too, wearing one of Elspet’s gowns. She shrank back against the leather upholstery.

  Zachary held open the door and said, ‘Till later. Go safely,’ and Luisa looked back at him with eyes full of emotion. A surge of love welled up in his chest. He gripped her hand tightly a moment, and shut the door. ‘God speed, be safe,’ he repeated through the window, glancing at Elspet, who sat still as an icon, but replied with a nervous smile. She had not mentioned their conversation, but he had felt a heaviness drop from his shoulders like a winter cloak now he had told her. They were free of each other, he realized, but paradoxically it had made him value her more. He sincerely wished her well.

  After Alexander had climbed up in front, they rumbled away through the gates. On the horizon he saw the flash of fire over the city. Pray God Alexander would take care of them both.

  The waiting was hard. His mind was on Luisa and how she might be faring. Nicolao and Ayamena held fast to each other’s hands. Alvarez and Nicolao were to go next. Nicolao called out to Husain to be good, but Husain, seemingly oblivious to the tension in the yard, was still running around, chasing after one of the hens with a pointed stick. Nicolao kissed his wife tenderly. ‘Salaam,’ he whispered, and Alvarez helped him mount.

  Alvarez and Nicolao and the mules clopped out, with Alvarez leading the way. ‘Give us an hour before you leave,’ he instructed Pedro.

  Ayamena bravely bustled about, loading the cart with a few last-minute items gleaned from the stables that the King’s men had not touched – a leather bucket for water, a sack of grain, even the hay nets. ‘We’ll take anything that’s left,’ she said. ‘Never waste anything. You never know, we might be able to sell it on the way.’ Meanwhile, Pedro waited patiently in the driver’s seat.

  They listened for the cathedral bell; its mournful note made them acutely aware of the passing time. Finally, Zachary mounted and said, ‘Come on, Husain, time to go.’

  Husain pouted. He was still trying to catch the hen, which was more and more determined not to be caught. ‘But she should be inside the hen house with the others. It’s raining.’

  Zachary put his finger to his lips. ‘Quiet!’ A noise of shouting close by, out on the street. He tried to remain calm. ‘She’ll be all right. Leave her be now, and climb up.’

  ‘No.’

  More urgently now: ‘Come on, or we’ll go without you.’

  A hammering on the front gate. Shouts from outside of ‘Moros, moros!’

  ‘Sounds like more trouble,’ shouted Pedro. ‘Let’s move!’

  Zachary’s voice cut through the noise. ‘Señora Ortega, call Husain!’

  Pedro stood up to look over the wall at what was happening. ‘Go ! Go!’ he yelled, cracking the whip. The horse startled and leapt forward, with Ayamena Ortega clinging to hold on as it lurched away. She turned her head and bawled, ‘Husain!’

  Husain was transfixed by the commotion at the front, standing there with the stick in his hand, his mouth open. Ayamena stood up and bellowed at him again. She was still screaming for her son as the cart careered out of the back gates.

  The door in the wall rattled and there was a great thud. The wooden planks bowed as if under a great force. Another thud, and another. A crack of splintering wood and the door burst open. A mob of angry people surged into the yard. Townsmen with cudgels and the King’s armoured swordsmen, spiked bucklers in their hands. Bristling behind them, the butts and barrels of soldiers’ muskets glinted in the remains of the light.

  Husain appeared to shrink. He quailed a moment, then ran, but his legs wouldn’t carry him quick enough.

  Zachary was shouting but it was as if Husain had been overtaken by a great tide. The rain slashed down from the sky. The yard filled with men and the smell of damp leather and metal. Husain stumbled and disappeared under the sea of people, his stick waving before it was dragged out of sight.

  Zachary turned his horse and plunged back into the crowd. Some cleared to give him space but most were intent on breaking into the buildings; they trampled over the splintered wood and swarmed in through the doors. He couldn’t see Husain.

  He pulled his horse around, frantically searching the crowd, but there was no sign of him. He leapt off and ran into the kitchen, shouting, ‘Husain!’ People were everywhere, blocking his view. Outside the gate a crowd was chanting, repeating the same phrase over and over, like the roar of a bullfight: ‘Moros! Moros!’

  Zachary craned his head over the forest of heads and helmets. A man in dripping plate armour rose up in front of him, his great back blocking his path. He turned to him and said, ‘Dirty bastards. Looks like they’ve gone. You seen them?’ Zachary shook his head. A musket butt dug into his back as someone turned.

  He still could not see Husain. Where was he? Using his elbows to clear breathing space Zachary pushed his way through the damp backs upstairs towards the training hall, but did not get far for the crush of people coming in the opposite direction.

  They forced him back down into the yard where his horse was still loose. A man was hitting the poor beast with a switch to move it away, but it neighed and churned in the centre of the milling crowd. All was confusion. The leaders of the mob, satisfied the building was empty, pressed out through the back gates, but seeing nothing out there flooded back through the yard and into the street. The sheer force of momentum dragged Zachary with them. Almost lifted off the ground, he struggled to keep his footing, thought he might be trampled in the crowd.

  Then he saw Husain. It was just a glimpse, between the backs of the men in front. A man in full plate armour and helmet had him gripped tightly by one skinny arm.

  Zachary tried to squeeze his way forward but could not move far, he was impeded by the backs of the taller men in front. He was stuck, but even from there he could see the street was already full of terrified people, most half-dressed, presumably Moriscos dragged from their beds and guarded by the angry rabble of townspeople and the King’s musketeers. They were herded together in a knot like beasts.

  ‘Mama!’ Husain cried, searching vainly amongst the faces of the crowd. Zachary shoved harder, but could make no headway. The soldier dragged Husain into the corral of Moriscos, where a woman who looked as though she wanted to be kind took hold of his shoulder. Husain flinched away and cowered, whimpering, unsure who to trust. A gash on his forehead trickled blood down on to his nose. He had lost a sandal, and had one bare foot. His hand still clung to the broken remnants of his stick. Zachary’s heart sank. Around the small group of Moriscos seethed an impenetrable wall of armour and guns.

  Zachary was crushed on all sides. There was no room to draw a sword, even a dagger. He shouted, ‘Husain!’ again, but it was no use, the
crowd were moving away up the road. For a few moments he was dragged, stumbling, with them.

  With a huge effort he turned round, the blood pounding in his ears. He dodged and weaved through the thinning crowd and leapt through the broken gate back into the yard. His horse shied away from him, snorting, the whites of its eyes flashing. Curse the bloody animal. He caught hold of the slippery reins, but the beast was spooked and would not stand still or let him mount. When he finally managed to wedge a toe in the stirrup the horse bucked, trying to unseat him, but he clung tight, clapping his heels against its sides. As he pointed its nose out of the back gates, Pedro ran in.

  ‘I told her to wait further up the road,’ he panted. ‘Where’s Husain?’

  ‘They’ve taken him. I couldn’t –’ Zachary was still wrestling with his side-stepping horse.

  ‘Oh, God in heaven. What will we tell Ayamena?’

  Zachary did not answer but helped Pedro mount behind him and kicked his horse on. A hen squawked and flustered out of the way of his galloping hooves. As they pounded out through the gates he spied a small straw sandal trodden into the mud.

  Ayamena was already clambering down from the wagon when they skidded to a stop. Her face was stricken. She looked from one to the other. ‘Where is he?’ Pedro slid down, but she had seen the answer from his face. ‘We will go back,’ she said. ‘Turn the wagon.’

  Pedro put his hand on her shoulder and said gently, ‘There is no point. They will take your son to the children’s camp. All the Morisco children are to be held there until they can be rehoused with Christian families. If you go back they will send you somewhere else from your son anyway.’

  ‘No,’ she protested, her voice rising, ‘I’m going back for him. I’m going back –’ She began to run down the road, manto flapping, but Pedro was too quick and reached to catch her, struggling, in his big arms. She sank to her knees in the mud.

  Zachary dropped to his knees beside her. He caught hold of her hand. ‘I’m sorry. I could do nothing to stop them. But I swear by Our Lady and all that’s holy, I will go back and find out what I can, once you are safely away from here.’ He put his arm across her shoulder.

  She wept into his chest. ‘But he’s all alone. What will I tell Nicolao? We should have gone together. It will be no life if we are not together.’

  ‘Hush,’ said Pedro, stiffening. They listened. There was a faint sound in the distance. ‘Get back on the wagon,’ he shouted. ‘Stick to the plan. We will be no use to Husain if they take us, they will shoot us if they think we are – how do you say? – resistance.’

  Zachary pushed the grieving Ayamena back on to the wagon. ‘You will be safe with Pedro,’ Zachary said, ‘he will take care of you. I’d trust him with my life.’

  Pedro looked surprised. He was not used to compliments from Zachary, but it worked. ‘Get up here,’ Pedro said gruffly. ‘We will go and find your husband and daughter. Zachary will find out where your son is, and see what can be done. That’s right, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Zachary said.

  Ayamena was dragged away by Pedro in a bear-like grip, and the wagon jogged off.

  Zachary looked back at the city of Seville, the black silhouettes of the buildings lit up by blasts of gunfire. Bells were ringing all over the city. His heart was torn. In the village near Tavira, Luisa would be looking out for him. Waiting to get on that boat. He had promised her. But how could he go to her, and tell her her brother had been taken, and it was all his fault?

  The city looked like a black fortress. Somewhere in there, a six-year-old boy was terrified and looking for his mother. He remembered being a boy, and the misery of being suddenly alone. He remembered the butt of his brothers’ boots and the certainty that nobody cared enough to help him. Zachary turned his horse and galloped back towards Seville.

  Etienne struggled to release himself from the guards’ grip, but they would not let go. The grand house had been emptied of furniture but was full of men in full plate armour. As he was dragged upstairs the only portrait still hanging on the wall was of Felipe III, and the face had obviously been used for target practice. Perhaps it had not been such a good idea after all, to come to Don Rodriguez.

  ‘He says he has news of a rebellion. In Portugal – Tavira.’ The guards dropped him to his knees before Don Rodriguez.

  ‘Is this true?’ The big man loomed over him.

  ‘Yes. Alvarez and his men.’ He staggered to his feet.

  ‘Alvarez the fencing master?’

  ‘He has a party of swordsmen with him, and a group of Moriscos ready to stir up trouble in the villages.’

  ‘You said they would cause no trouble.’

  ‘I thought—’

  ‘Where is this? And how do I know this is reliable information this time?’

  Etienne took the scroll he was supposed to deliver to the Quevedo family and passed it over. Rodriguez took a moment to read it through narrowed eyes.

  ‘And just what’s in it for you?’

  ‘For me?’ Etienne swallowed.

  ‘Yes. Why are you telling me this?’

  Etienne felt a squirm of fear. ‘Because you pay me to keep you informed about what Alvarez is doing. How he trains. And because I’m a good Christian. Why else? It’s our duty to report these things to the authorities, and—’

  ‘You are an untrustworthy little shit, aren’t you? Do you mean it’s because you were afraid to be caught with them? You’re a coward, Galen. Men I can’t trust are no use to me. Take him away, have him sent to the San Jorge. A spell in there should help him to know his own mind.’

  Etienne cried out, ‘No, not that! Not the San Jorge! I’ve done nothing wrong. Only what you asked, what any good man should—’ But the guards had already seized him and were hauling him away. He saw the ornamental tiled floor with its gilded olembrillas pass under his eyes. ‘Wait,’ he cried, ‘I’ll do anything!’

  Don Rodriguez watched him go. The grovelling Frenchman’s report had the aura of truth about it. It seemed more than likely that Alvarez could be negotiating with Moriscos from the Portuguese villages. Alvarez was capable of mustering men, but it might take time – after all, he had no readily available army behind him, no discipline. Alvarez tried to keep his men as individuals, and that was fine for duelling, but too unpredictable for war. Only one thing made a man obey orders, and that was if the fear of disobeying orders was equal to, or greater than, his fear of the enemy.

  Alvarez had never been able to see that. Now he knew why; the man was just Morisco shit like all the other vermin they were moving out of this city. Good thing Carranza was dead; he would have been horrified to see how Alvarez had debased his art.

  But if Galen was right . . . Rodriguez read the paper again. It seemed genuine enough, and promotion was in the air, he could smell it. He thought how fine it would look to the King if he quelled such an uprising. He strode from the chamber and called for his sergeant.

  Chapter 48

  Elspet peered out from the hood draped to hide the scar on her cheek. Next to her lay two razor-edged daggers. The hilt of the sword dug into her hip bone as the carriage jolted down the road. She glanced at Luisa, and wondered if her stomach too was churning with fear.

  She remembered Etienne asking her if she would fight. She shivered involuntarily. Pray God it would not come to that. Luisa stayed grim and silent in the seat opposite her. Elspet could think of nothing comforting to say.

  Near the city gate she heard a low murmur, and looked out to see the glint of armour, and white steam rising from a long snake of people – Moriscos from the neighbouring towns on their way to the embarkation points. Trepidation filled her. Just outside the gates she felt the inevitable slowing of the wheels as Alexander tried to pull off to the side of the road.

  Luisa seemed unperturbed, her oval face pale, the knit of her brows hardly changed, but Elspet wondered what she could be thinking. These were her people. She imagined Nicolao and Señor Alvarez following in their wake and hoped they were
close behind. There had been no sign of Etienne, though, he had not been back to warn them of this blockage on the road.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Elspet asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Luisa. ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘Just keep quiet, don’t say a word.’

  The tramping of soldiers’ boots. A man in a plated helmet and breastplate jutted his head through the window. ‘Where are you going?’

  Alexander appeared behind him. ‘I am Dutch. Here are my papers. I am escorting this English lady to Sines. This is her maid. When we heard the proclamation we were trying to get out of the city. We wanted to get out of Seville and to her brother’s before you brought in the Moors, but we see we left it too late.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be on this road at all. We’ve two thousand Moriscos to bring down to the port. You’ll have to turn back.’

  ‘He advises we turn back,’ Alexander said to her.

  ‘Quite impossible,’ she said in her best English. ‘I have to be in Sines by the end of the week for my brother’s wedding. Tell him to move his people off the road.’

  Alexander widened his eyes as if she had taken leave of her senses, but the guard smiled. ‘Women!’ he said. ‘I think the señorita would not thank you, if you continue on this road,’ he said. The two men laughed, complicitly. ‘I am sorry, señor, but you must move. No one goes out of the city today. The road ahead will be blocked too. Wait until we pass, then return home. Tell the womenfolk to come out and stand off to the side.’ He gestured them out of the carriage with the point of his musket.

  They stood in the drizzle by the side of the road, which was already a thin slime of yellow mud. Alexander and the boy dragged the pair of horses off to the side of the road, the carriage spattering them with water from the wheels. She caught Alexander’s eye and they exchanged worried glances. His face was taut and drawn, and despite his height he struggled to control the horses which trampled over his feet. Finally, he had them standing quietly.

  ‘You are armed,’ said the guard. He had found her daggers in the carriage and now eyed her sword-belt.