A Divided Inheritance (51 page)

‘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 tucked 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.’

‘Why? What have they done?’

‘Nothing.’ She looked at her scathingly. ‘Just be alive, that’s all. But there’s trouble. They say they’ll get guns and fight.’

‘What about trade ships?’ Elspet said.

‘I tell you. Nothing’s going out. Not till they’ve gone.’

January 10th 1610

‘Fetch your father.’ Mama swung the basket down from her head but did not even unload it on to the kitchen table. Luisa could see by her face there was something
the matter.

‘What is it?’

‘Don’t just stand there, go and find him.’

Luisa was about to go to work at the pottery, so she considered arguing back, but Mama was distracted, her eyes shifting around the room as if they could find no place to rest.

Luisa made to comfort her, but she ignored her. She went straight out the back door to their sleeping chamber, and Luisa followed.

‘Go, can’t you!’ she shouted.

Luisa ran. As she hurried out of the door she glanced back to see Mama had sunk on to a cushion; she was swaying back and forth making little panting noises like a woman grieving.

She ran shouting into the small backyard where Papa usually taught Husain his Greek and Latin. Sure enough, there was Papa, sitting on a wooden stool with Husain chanting a catechism back to
him.

He looked up at the intrusion and frowned. ‘Mama says you’ve to come,’ Luisa said. ‘Quick! Something’s the matter.’

Mama never interrupted Husain’s lessons, for the time for his study was precious. Few hours remained when they were not all engaged in eking out a living with work or chores. So Papa
frowned and came straight away, Husain holding his arm to guide him, still carrying his scratching-board and point with him.