A Divided Inheritance

by Deborah Swift

  ‘And this is such a fine position here, overlooking the river,’ Mr Bradstone said.

  ‘I have always thought so too,’ she agreed.

  ‘Mr Bradstone was asking whether you might like to accompany him to view his ships on the east docks?’ Father said.

  She opened her mouth to reply, but then paused. She wondered about Zachary’s words, and decided to try to be more enigmatic. After all, she did want Hugh Bradstone to like her. ‘I thank you, sir. If you tell me the date, I will consult with my diary and see how it might fit with my other engagements.’

  ‘Other engagements?’ Father was incredulous. ‘What other engagements?’

  ‘Oh, this and that.’ They stared at her expectantly. ‘I promised a friend I would meet her to look over some cushions she is embroidering, and then there are one or two supper engagements –’ Damn Zachary, it was all much more awkward than she had envisaged. The three men watched her flounder, before she blurted out, ‘If you send your manservant with the date I shall see if I am free. My maid will bring you my reply.’

  ‘Very well,’ Mr Bradstone said, seeming not to take offence in the slightest. ‘I will send word with the time and place. I hope we will meet again soon.’

  She made obeisance to him once more, her heart all a shiver. After that the men retired to her father’s chambers and she was left alone again in the chamber.

  Of course it was nigh-on impossible to settle to any of her usual activities whilst the handsome Mr Bradstone was just beyond the door, so she pretended to supervise the servants clearing the dishes, and hovered uncertainly at the fireplace, toasting her feet in the unaccustomed warmth and waiting for some sign that the men might re-emerge.

  They would be talking of her, she was certain of it, and she dreaded to think what Zachary might be saying. She wanted Mr Bradstone to think well of her. Hugh Bradstone, her father called him. It was a good, old name. She liked the sound of it.

  She reappraised their chamber with the battered panelling and the threadbare rugs. If only, she thought, imagining them replaced by fine tapestries and sumptuous carpets. She could do a lot worse, she reasoned with herself. They would make a fine couple. Hugh Bradstone was a good-looking, devout man of some means. And he seemed pleasant-natured too. Exactly what she had always hoped for in a husband. Except that she had not thought she was ready for marriage, that was all. It would take a little getting used to if her father was set on it. But then she glimpsed a sudden sense of freedom: she would be her own mistress, away from Father and his stinginess, away from this irksome cousin. If Bradstone asked for her hand, she supposed she would agree. She felt a fleeting sense of loss, the sort of loss when a choice of a new hat is made and you suddenly realize that you can no longer have any of the other just-as-beautiful hats in the milliners.

  Chapter 7

  Zachary relaxed on his bed, arms tucked behind his head, and sighed contentedly. Perhaps his uncle had thought him so unused to the finer things of life that he would never notice gristle on the meat. But for once his supposed cousin Elspet had ordered a decent cut of venison, and there had been a plump braised partridge to go with it, not to mention a whole duck stuffed with onions and herbs. All in honour of the Yorkshire fur-trader.

  I could get accustomed to this, Zachary thought, easy as jacks.

  When the conversation with Bradstone had got too dull, Zachary suggested that they played a hand or two of cards in Uncle Leviston’s chamber, and his uncle readily agreed. Needless to say, Bradstone fluffed the bidding and lost without knowing why, and in the end Zachary had to deliberately lose so as to keep Uncle Leviston’s face.

  Zachary undid the laces on his breeches to let his full stomach have a little more room, and pondered the evening’s events. Bradstone was about as sharp as a feather bolster. Cousin Elspet was taken with him, though – why did women always go for well-wrapped fellows with nothing between their ears? It was a mystery. When he told her to give Bradstone a bit of a chase, he wasn’t expecting her to turn chilly so suddenly – he meant for her to tease him a little, not to turn cold as a trout.

  He might be a bit short on stuffing, but at least Bradstone was keeping to the old faith and wasn’t one of those who sway back and forth and never quite make up their minds. By the time Bradstone left, there was the beginnings of a match made, he’d stake his life on it, and it would not surprise him one jot if dear Cousin Elspet were to be wed and bedded by the autumn. And God willing, it would fall sweetly for him too, then, for he could continue unharrassed as Leviston’s nephew.

  He could get used to living at West View House, he really could. After Bradstone had gone home, Leviston confessed that when his wife and child had died he had blamed himself, and was so beset with remorse for his unfaithfulness that he had not searched for him as Magdalena, his mother, had asked. Only after his narrow escape from death by the plague had he begun searching, curious to see how his only son had fared. Now, to Zachary’s great benefit, he was desperate to make amends for neglecting him all these years, and could not do enough to please him. And Zachary felt himself growing fonder of the old fool, despite the feeling of guilt that niggled him.

  From Elspet’s earlier apology, and her conversation, he guessed she could not have had enough time to read his mother’s letter. He felt for it now, where it was tucked inside the pocket of his breeches, out of sight of Elspet’s prying eyes. He sighed, reassured. The parchment was still there. He took out the Calvary wood, worn smooth by his mother’s touch, and rubbed it between his fingers.

  Nevertheless, it would be as well if Elspet were provided for, and even sweeter if she were a few hundred miles away in Yorkshire. It was hard to keep a lid on his past, and she was sharp as nails.

  A few days later, Zachary met Gin Shotterill in their old haunt, the Green Man, for the usual ratting. When the bout was over they watched the men lead their whimpering dogs away, tails curled like eels between their legs. Shotterill emerged from the crowd round the pit rails and handed over his winnings.

  ‘Knew that brindled bitch was no good right from the start,’ Gin said.

  ‘Her ears were back even before she was let loose,’ Zachary said. ‘Still, that was a fine match with Thatcher’s dog.’

  ‘He peppers them beforehand. Makes ’em snarl. By the time they get in the ring they’d go for a bloody bear, if he’d let ’em.’

  Zachary glanced to the corner, where the landlord of the tavern was bargaining over the dog, trying to do a deal. The dog was straining at its collar, teeth bared, eyes on the make-shift pit where a few pathetic rats still writhed on the bloodstained boards.

  ‘Do you not fancy a dog, Deane?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not for the moment, anyhow. Can’t see Uncle Leviston abiding another dog. They’ve got two already.’

  ‘What’s he like, your uncle?’

  ‘Niggard-pursed. Hard to get him to open his palm for decent food and beer.’

  ‘Still, you’ve got a better billet than before. Can’t complain, can you? I can’t get over it, you being related to a man like that.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Zachary had told Gin the bare minimum. The less he knew, the less likely it would be he’d slip up.

  ‘You don’t seem very keen,’ Gin said. ‘What’s the matter?’

  Zachary weighed his words. ‘Nothing. I suppose he’s all right – if you like pulpit bashers. But I tell you, it’s a strain having to mind my manners – not to spit or swear because there are ladies present, and to unbuckle and leave my swords in the hall every time I go in or out.’

  ‘Ladies? What sort of ladies?’

  ‘Not that sort. My cousin.’

  Gin elbowed him in the ribs, and grinned, eyebrows raised in question.

  Zachary warned him, ‘Now don’t get any ideas.’

  ‘Go on, what’s she like?’

  ‘Too tall, too serious, and too attached to her rosary beads for you.’

  ‘Oh. One of those.’ They threw on their cloaks and made for the door, stepp
ing around the crowded tables, and out into the fresh air. Immediately they were outside there was a high-pitched yell from a street trader. Zachary turned in irritation.

  ‘Mounseer Lagardy, finest fencer in the whole of France!’ A young lad thrust a handbill into Gin’s grasp.

  ‘What’s it say?’ He passed it to Zachary.

  He glanced at the title. ‘Hark at this! Tonight at eight of the clock,’ he read, ‘at Hanging Sword Alley, by the Signe of the Fish Hook, Monsieur Lagarde will demonstrate his Schoole of Defence: The Sword and Dagger, The Short Sword and Gauntlet, The Single Rapier and The Case of Rapiers. Fencers are invited to try their skill against Monsieur Lagarde and his fearless students on this Field of Honour.’

  ‘How’s your mettle, Deane?’

  ‘Not too bad. Been doing a few hours a day.’

  ‘You going to have a go? He might be good.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  Gin slapped him on the shoulder and laughed. Without a word they set off towards Hanging Sword Alley.

  The Alley was not the easiest place to find for those who didn’t know it – it being just a crack in the wall near to Water Lane by the Thames. They had to press their weapons close to their sides to even get by. The sign of the Hanging Sword was jammed crookedly between the buildings at a perilous angle. It looked as though it might tumble at any moment and cosh someone, but as yet it never had.

  Once through the needle’s eye, though, the place seethed with young bloods, lounging against the walls or perching on the ale benches outside the taverns. On each house swung a sign with the fencing master’s insignia – the fighting bull, the rampant lion, or swords crossed in diverse ways.

  They walked past the sign of the fighting stags where Zachary’s old master Signor Pietro had his school, and on to the Fishhook, where they turned right into a walled courtyard. Fish were unloaded and gutted there when it was not being used for fencing. The cobbles were slimy with fish entrails and the place stank enough to peel the inside of a man’s nose. Two lads in twill jerkins were brushing over the yard with straw and sawdust. Zachary and Gin stood to watch them work, along with a few others awaiting the entertainment.

  Gradually a crowd gathered. The wall sconces were lit against the approaching dark. A few men impatiently stepped from foot to foot, or circled their shoulders, warming their muscles.

  ‘They don’t look much.’ Zachary nudged Gin, who made a derisive snort. Zachary recognized the hangers-on from other bouts. They were puffers, most of them, and despite this attempt to impress the onlookers, most were endowed with more brawn than wit.

  A commotion in the crowd was followed by a shout and a flourish as the man Zachary presumed to be Monsieur Lagarde strolled in, accompanied by two or three mealy-mouthed apprentices carrying his arms.

  Gin turned to him. ‘Bandy legs,’ he hissed.

  They sniggered. Zachary took note of Lagarde’s yellowish complexion and wispy beard, assessing his form. He was a man of about forty years old with two frown lines scored vertically between his eyebrows, presumably from screwing up his eyes too hard.

  Lagarde bowed to the audience who stamped and clapped lustily. One of his youths stepped forward to introduce him, in a thick French accent, and relieved him of his cloak, before handing him a rapier. Lagarde leapt into a low stance and twirled and brandished the blade in a show of speed and bravado.

  The crowd laughed and jeered, but he ignored them as he and one of his students began a match designed to show off his skill. Zachary sighed and shook his head. Lagarde fought well enough, but then so would he, if his student conceded every point and left himself wide open for his thrust.

  ‘Hey, will you look at that!’ Zachary protested, outraged. ‘He let him win!’ He turned to Gin. ‘It’s just a bloody dumb-show. Men like that make me mad. I could do better than that with one hand tied behind my back.’

  ‘Calm down,’ Gin said. ‘What did you expect? A fight to the death? It’s entertainment. He’s got to please the crowd, and he’s a living to make, like all of us.’

  In front, a man jumped forth from the crowd and spat on the ground. Lagarde, though a little breathless, accepted the challenge and Zachary and Gin pressed nearer to see what would come of it.

  They fought noisily with rapier and dagger, neither with much skill as far as Zachary could see and, with a lucky strike, Lagarde thrust the point of the dagger through the challenger’s shoulder. A cheer went up. Zachary groaned.

  ‘The Frenchman prevails!’ shouted someone.

  ‘Not bad,’ Gin said.

  ‘Fake!’ Zachary shouted. He could not help but remember the movement of that white-haired foreigner in the tavern near St Paul’s, his swooping sword, and the strange Spanish technique he said was called La Verdadera Destreza. The words were embedded in his memory; he had repeated them so often lest he forget the name. It meant The Skill, and that foreigner would have whipped this bandylegged Frenchman and not even broken sweat. It made him angry that men such as Lagarde should take money from gullible folks for lessons.

  ‘Who’s next?’ called one of the young men.

  Zachary propelled himself forward.

  Gin Shotterill’s hand reached out to stop him but Zachary dodged it, and jumped into the open space. He paced round Lagarde, taking advantage of the breathing room, his rapier fixed steady between them. Now he could see the Frenchman’s eyes, and they were narrow and determined. But Zachary riposted with his most penetrating stare, and Lagarde quavered. His eyes still on Zachary, he threw away his rapier and dagger and a youth ran up and handed him a long sword.

  ‘Two-hand sword, is it, you want try?’ Lagarde said.

  ‘If you wish,’ Zachary called back, coolly.

  Lagarde was trying to catch him short, but Zachary called his bluff and he, too, threw off his arms.

  Gin Shotterill appeared from the front row and gathered up Zachary’s tackle. ‘Be careful,’ he called.

  Zachary glared back at him. ‘Someone hand me a long-sword!’ he shouted.

  A long-sword bobbed and danced over the heads of the crowd. Zachary grabbed hold of it to find it much weightier than his own at home, and badly balanced; the edge toothed as if it had been used for hacking wood. He hoped he could wield it. He wanted to make this charlatan eat the dust.

  He brought the sword up over his shoulder, and swung it around his head a few times. His arm muscles burned. The crowd gasped in excitement, for he was short, and the sword was a monster of a thing.

  He and Lagarde circled each other. The Frenchman made the first pass and Zachary leapt nimbly out of reach. Whilst Lagarde recovered Zachary swung the blade overhead and let the momentum slice it towards his opponent’s poll. With a grunt he hauled it back up at the last moment so the tip just touched Lagarde’s head with a little tap.

  Lagarde staggered backwards looking up, and placed his hand to his hair in puzzlement. The crowd laughed. Zachary turned to them and waved his free hand in a flourish.

  Lagarde was rattled. He lunged clumsily with the point of his sword, but Zachary dodged sideways and the blade struck forward into empty air. As he passed, Zachary was able to turn the flat of his blade and neatly spank him on the backside.

  The crowd went wild, cheering and laughing. Lagarde turned to see where the blow had come from, making the crowd guffaw even louder. His mouth began to tremble and his breath escaped in a wheeze. He ran with a yell, all control gone, and sliced a glancing diagonal towards Zachary’s shoulder. It clashed against Zachary’s blade and sent a jolt like a lightning strike up into Zachary’s shoulder. For a moment they tussled there, locked together until Zachary wrestled his weapon free.

  Having the advantage, Zachary pursued him with the sword threshing side to side. But Lagarde backed away, fearful now, holding his blade out like a cross until his back was up against the wall. Intent on more sport, Zachary gave a trim flick and Lagarde’s sword flew from his hand and clattered to the ground.

  Zachary lifted Lagarde’s dou
blet with his point. ‘Hey, won’t you take a look, his knees are knocking together!’

  The crowd let out a cheer, but the cheer turned into boos, as a hand coiled around Zachary’s neck and something stung him through his sleeve. He twisted round. One of the French students’ faces was right up against his own, the ire burning in his cheeks. A dagger in his hand dripped blood.

  ‘Arrêtez! Enough!’ the lad hissed, trying to prevent Zachary from humiliating his master further.

  ‘You dog!’ Zachary cried, looking in amazement at his arm where blood was soiling his sleeve. ‘This was supposed to be a fair fight! You cut me from behind!’

  There was a yell of protest. Straight away, Gin and a throng of men from the crowd launched themselves forth and set to beating about the youth. From the corner of the yard more of Lagarde’s students leapt to join the fray.

  Zachary whooped. A fine battle had burst out, with each man desperate to see some of the action. The yelling and commotion drew folk from the rest of the alley and soon the whole yard was afire with everyone trying to whack Lagarde and his students. Zachary took on the nearest lad who was slashing wildly with a billhook. Just when he was about to pinion the lad to the wall, a shove from behind landed Zachary face down in the yard. The fish smell nearly choked him and he scrabbled to stand up.

  His nose was bloodied and his doublet smeared with slime. The man he had been fighting was gone. Incensed, he darted about the yard looking for Lagarde, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  He ran up to Gin, panting. ‘The yellow dog. He’s left his scholars fighting his cause. What a rogue. Look at his men, though, you can tell he’s got no skill.’ He pointed to where some of the French students lay groaning on the ground.

  A warning volley of fire threw everyone into a panic.

  ‘Quick.’ Gin Shotterill grabbed his arm. ‘Out through the tavern!’

  A group of the King’s men had sealed off the yard.

  They sheathed arms and dodged inside the fusty dark of the inn. They crashed past the tables towards the door, but when they got there it was barred by two more of the King’s men. They turned tail and headed back to the yard but there were men bristling with pikes at the back door too.