A Divided Inheritance (37 page)

‘Once, in London. That’s why I came.’

The sun had moved behind them, low in the sky. Alexander squinted into his face. ‘If you’ve seen him, then you know.
La Verdadera Destreza
, the true skill. It’s not
just a name, it’s worth the long training. Many come, but not many stay – they have not enough faith. They are like you, my friend, and they cannot spot the true art when it is under
their noses.’

Zachary was surprised by the vehemence of Alexander’s words. He had not thought Alexander a passionate man. His Dutch stiffness and his formal way of speaking made him appear a little like
a respectable town clerk. Alexander carried on, ‘What does this duel hang on? I thought you had only been in Spain a short while. Is it someone at the smith’s?’

‘No, not there. Guido de Vega is sharp as his swords, but a gem. And the forge apprentice and I drink together sometimes of an evening. But Gabriel would be no good in a fight – he
hasn’t the training.’

Alexander waited, rolled a pebble under the sole of his boot.

Zachary weighed his words carefully. ‘I went to train with Don Rodriguez before I came here. It was not a happy experience. I have sworn to myself to fight his student, Fabian, when
I’m ready.’

Alexander sucked in his breath. ‘So you know all about Rodriguez and Señor Alvarez, then?’

‘No. What about them?’

‘They used to train together. They both trained with the legendary Carranza. But then maybe you didn’t know – news of Carranza’s death has only just reached us here in
Seville. He died in Honduras, where he’d gone to be governor. And since his death, inevitably, there’s dissent amongst his students.’

‘Why should his death cause trouble?’

‘Very few men were lucky enough to receive instruction with him. He was a scholar and a friend of the Duke of Medina Sidonia, and a busy man, so he took very few students. And all of them
nobles, high-ranking intellectuals. But Señor Alvarez and Pacheco de Narváez were both lucky enough to train with him. Now Carranza is dead, anyone who had the slightest contact with
him is claiming his reputation for their own and wanting to take over his legacy. The one shouting the loudest right now is Pacheco. They call his students “Pachequistas”. You’ve
heard of him?’

Zachary hadn’t. ‘What’s this got to do with Rodriguez?’

‘Don Rodriguez is one of Pacheco’s men. And Rodriguez is telling everyone that Alvarez’s methods are not the ones passed down from Carranza and that Señor’s
teaching is worthless. Of course Pacheco claims that his own method is exactly what Carranza taught.’ He snorted derisively.

‘What do you think? Is he right?’

Alexander rubbed at his beard before fixing Zachary with a look. ‘I don’t know. Carranza himself was a complex man. On the one hand, there’s no doubt he was a consummate
swordsman, but volatile – not easy to work with. But everyone says that to watch his swordplay was like watching a snake – fluid but deadly.’

‘And has Pacheco his skill?’

‘I’ve never seen him fight. And I have had little contact with Rodriguez. But the rumour is that Rodriguez’s methods are brutal beyond necessity. From what I’ve heard,
the Inquisition uses him when it wants to make sure there’s no one left to tell tales.’

Zachary nodded. He could vouch for Rodriguez’s methods. ‘And what about Alvarez? You say he learned with Carranza?’

‘I don’t know about his teaching, how much of it is Carranza’s. But I have an instinct about him, that he is a good man, a man of honour. Señor Alvarez claims he is a
true Carrancista. He told me he embodies the spirit of Carranza’s school. His methods may vary from Carranza’s, but the principles are the same.’

‘Principles. Don’t say that word again, I’m sick to the gut with it.’

‘But Alvarez says true knowledge is a living tradition that has to be adapted for each new generation.’

‘I’m not sure I agree with that, or what’s the point of tradition? That sounds like an excuse to me by someone who doesn’t really know Carranza’s methods
–’

‘You saw Señor Alvarez fight. What are you? A clouthead?’

‘No, I’m just—’

‘You’ve done nothing but criticize Alvarez since we sat down. If you don’t want to train with us, then go on back to England.’ Alexander sprang up and walked off down the
street without a word.

Zachary thrust the tray and cups back to the juice-seller and ran after him. ‘Hey!’

Alexander did not slow but shouted back over his shoulder, ‘Go back to Rodriguez, then. If all you want is to defeat his student in some sort of vengeance match, then go back to Rodriguez
and his mercenaries.’ He rounded on Zachary, his hands in fists. ‘It’s what you deserve if you don’t want to work. Rodriguez will give you his so-called
bottes
secrètes
that are nothing but deceptions. Then you can make a fine show. Everyone will say, “Look at him, the Englishman is the best swordsman in Seville.” ’ He spat
out the words, ‘But it will all be brute strength and fakery, not skill. His is a left-hand path. You want the true skill, you say. But for what? To make you a bigger man?’

Zachary blanched. He was rooted to the spot. Alexander trembled with rage. Zachary did not know what he had done to make him so vexed or to cause this outburst. And he had no time to reply, for
the Dutchman hiked off towards the centre of Seville with never a backward glance, his shoulders pulled back, his hand guarding his sword as he weaved his way through the throng of other
pedestrians.

A passing cloud threw the street into shadow. Zachary took a deep breath. It was as if he had been punched. He strained to watch Alexander’s retreating back, but all he saw was the top of
his plum-coloured hat before it bobbed sideways into the narrow wynds of the town.

Mr Wilmot had grown weaker, he had barely the strength to eat or drink now. When Elspet went in to ask Martha how she fared, Martha wept at her out of terrified eyes.

‘Help me, mistress, I don’t want to die. Take me home, I beg you, don’t make me—’ She leaned over to retch piteously, her body racked with the force of it.

The house slave brought some Spanish port mixed with watered ale and Elspet made Martha down a good measure of it in a drench, though Martha pleaded with her to leave her be; she did not want it
all to come back up again. Thanks be to God, it worked and Martha fell to sleeping at last.

Elspet was desperate to rest herself, for she was near dropping with tiredness. It was all she could do to kneel and make her prayers. When she climbed into the creaking bed she tossed and
turned, her thoughts jumbled together.

She recalled the strange effect of Agrippa’s diagram, the snatched phrases of Zachary’s dismissive words, both caught in the memory of the uneasy rattle of Mr Wilmot’s breath.
The three things chased each other, hunted each other down the mazed corridors of her thoughts, making her restless and full of agitation.

Although for the last few days there had been a breeze, the walls seemed to retain the heat so she threw open the window and lay only in her shift. The incessant buzz of insects filled her with
distraction and she swatted at them to keep them from nipping her bare arms and neck – with little effect, and in the end she wrapped her long hair round her neck like a scarf, though it
stifled her, but still she could not sleep.

The next morning, her head throbbed. Pray God she was not getting the same illness as Martha and Mr Wilmot. Her heart filled with dread. She lay in the pale early light, damp
with perspiration, and dozed a little. A noise at the foot of the bed roused her.

‘The physician, he needs paying, señorita.’ The Negro house slave stared down at her with eyes that took in everything.

‘Oh, oh yes,’ she said and swung her long legs out, reached for her skirts and bodice. The slave continued to stand there as she dressed, openly staring at her white calves.
‘Go tell him I’ll be there shortly,’ Elspet said.

The slave was back again in the time it took for Elspet to lace her sleeves, staring at her from the door.

‘How is Mr Wilmot?’ Elspet asked.

‘Bled them both. No good, see. His medicine is no good. You better ask Señora Ortega, the Morisca.’

Elspet did not answer, not sure a slave girl’s recommendation would do either of them much good. Elspet looked in her purse for some coinage. ‘How much?’ she asked.

‘Eighteen reales.’

Elspet swallowed. She knew already there was not that much in her purse, and the slave’s flickering eyes told her that she knew it too.

‘Mr Wilmot’s purse is in drawer,’ the slave said, ‘by bed.’

Elspet rifled through it for the coin she needed, uncomfortable that her penury was so transparent, even to a slave. She paid Morcillo, who was attired in immaculate black velvet doublet and
silken stockings. He looked askance at her unkempt hair, and her face still creased from sleep. His demeanour suggested a man who had never been hot in his life.

‘Señorita, I will return tomorrow,’ he said, ‘to bleed the gentleman again,’ and she could not gainsay it, no matter that she did not like him – not when
poor Mr Wilmot still languished there so ill. Of Martha, he made no mention. She supposed he thought her of little account.

As Morcillo went out, the slave girl threw the door closed after him and wiped her hands as if she had just hurled out the pigswill.

‘Señora Ortega – is cheaper,’ she said firmly, and walked down the stairs. A few moments later Elspet caught sight of her from the back balcony, marching off in the
direction of the river with the foul and overflowing laundry basket under her arm.

With a sense of foreboding, not knowing what she might find, Elspet looked in on the two patients. Thank God. She was relieved to see them both sleeping, pale as dough. She put her ear near
Martha’s chest to hear the thump of her heart, then stood back and rubbed her hand over her forehead wearily. She longed to go back to bed too, but she dared not.

She did not trust Zachary. No, she must get him to sign something before they set sail for England, something to prevent him from going back on his word. Her father had always pressed on her
that a signature was binding in law.

She tussled to draft a document she hoped he would sign, a document instructing Greeting to stay the sale and bestowing upon her a small settlement. She pushed her hair out of her eyes, and
wrote deliberately in her most legible hand, the ink drying almost as she wrote. That she had come to this. Forty pounds only, less than the cost of a new gown. The minimum she might need to start
some sort of life for herself. She rolled it up tight and tied it in a workman-like ribband.

If only Zachary would sign.

It was quiet without Martha to fuss around her. She had to tie her thick unruly hair in the manner of the Spanish, with a winding cloth to secure it away from her face. She eyed her English
boots which were sturdy for walking, but already she had grown fond of the new hempen sandals, so she tied them on instead and brushed her skirts down to hide her feet. She chided herself for being
so short-sighted earlier as to spend her money on sandals.

And then she realized – Martha.

She would have to tell Martha the stark truth – that she had no money to afford a lady’s maid, and neither would she be the sort of lady who could afford a maid in England. But even
worse, she had no way on earth of paying Martha’s passage home.

There was no alternative but to venture out alone, into the streets of bustling Seville. No one paid her any mind, for there were stalls along the streets with vivid canvas
awnings, and hawkers yodelling with all manner of goods – figs, pearl buttons, bright yellow songbirds, ripe persimmons. She was carried along towards the river in the throng of tinkers and
Turks, maids and madams, slaves and freedmen – all vying for walking space on the narrow dusty streets.

She crossed the pontoon bridge into the ramshackle barrio of Triana, grateful for the shade of the labyrinthine streets. She pressed herself against a wall to allow a donkey laden with fodder to
pass. Overhead the crumbling stone dwellings leaned towards each other to almost touch above her head.

She pushed open the door from the street and crept into the yard, the rolled agreement tight in her grasp. Within, the young men were already gathered in a knot around Señor Alvarez, who
was explaining about the blade, holding his own rapier out on its balance point on his palm.

‘Twelve divisions,’ he was saying, but she did not stop to hear him.

The men had their backs to her. She easily spotted Zachary in the middle of the group. She tiptoed past. Though Señor Alvarez did not acknowledge her, she sensed his attention sharp as a
thorn, and knew he was aware of her presence.

Feeling a little bold, she padded up the stone stairs and into the library. The books had been stacked under the table in wooden coffers. If only she could just spend the day reading. She wished
she didn’t have to talk to Zachary, did not need to steel herself for another confrontation. But it was essential to have something in writing. Reluctantly, she closed the open volume on the
table and moved over to the window instead.