A Divided Inheritance

by Deborah Swift

He set off up the stone steps and she followed. At the top of the stairs they passed through the upper chamber with its strange circle and cross pattern painted on the floor. She would have averted her eyes, but two young men were fencing there, nimbly stepping from one point to the next, their swords just touching and then moving apart. The cardinal points of the circle were inscribed with Roman letters and the young men repeated the same exercise over and over. She could not help but slow, to stare at what they were doing.

  Señor Alvarez stopped too, and the two men’s movements became more precise, more concentrated. His very presence seemed to intensify what was happening in the room.

  ‘Better,’ he said to them, before beckoning to her. One of the men flushed furiously red.

  What kind of a man was this Señor Alvarez, she wondered, who could fluster a grown man so?

  He moved her through into a corridor with two doors off it. One of the doors stood ajar and with his gentle push it opened silently and they were plunged into cool darkness. As her eyes became accustomed to it, she took in that it was full of books. Many many volumes – open on the polished wood tables and others in trunks below. Spread out on the table were old maps, and a book open at a page with the same circle as was drawn on the floor below, but with the addition of a spreadeagled man drawn over it.

  ‘Ah,’ she said, understanding, ‘the Vitruvian, like on your sign. My father described this to me.’ She moved in for a closer look.

  ‘Ah, yes. You know of Vitruvius. But this is the circle of Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa. Not just the circle, but how to square the circle, that is the secret. The circle is the foundation of our training, we use it as the map of our science of arms.’ Seeing her lack of comprehension he added, ‘Just as sailors use a compass to avoid the reefs and banks of the sea, so we use our circle to order our movements, protect ourselves against attack.’

  She let out another ‘ah’ of understanding. So the diagram was not a pagan symbol, but more like lines on an archery court where the men could train direction. She pointed to the illustration before her. ‘It is beautiful, this engraving,’ she said.

  ‘Harmonious order is beautiful,’ he said. It was an awkward moment, as if he had forgotten she was not one of his students to lecture and instruct. He softened his tone. ‘You can sit here. No one will interrupt you, morning study is finished. When you hear the men lay down arms in the yard you will know it is time, and you can speak to Mr Deane.’

  He bowed formally and left her alone in the room. He was an attractive man, she thought, yet she had seen no sign of wife or family, just the servant women, and an old nearly blind man who tap-tapped with his stick across the yard.

  The light filtered in yellow as butter through the grille of the small window. There was a curved iron balcony that threw black shadows across her feet. The room was larger than Father’s study but had the same familiar aroma of paper and leather, except here the tables were buffed to a high sheen and there was no patina of dust, no reek of stale tobacco. Here the books looked like exhibits.

  She turned a few more pages of the Agrippa. Numerous pen drawings of the human form were captured there, annotated with faintly engraved captions and numerals. Next to the open book stood two other matching volumes upholstered in vellum; they were closed. She gently lifted the covers to read the title pages and realized that it was a set of three volumes, ‘De Occulta Philosophia.’

  Occult philosophy. Father would turn in his grave. It was his own fault, she thought. But for his obsession with Zachary Deane, she would still be safe at home in West View House.

  Father’s voice came back to her, ‘Devil worshippers, heretics, most of them.’ If anyone ever mentioned Agrippa he’d snort and dismiss it scornfully as ‘a lot of old horsefeathers, mystification for mystification’s sake’.

  But here it was, and the lure of it was like forbidden fruit. Soon she was drinking in the words, amazed at the new ideas held between the pages.

  Agrippa, this man from Germany who lived a mere century ago, this learned man who could quote Ovid and Virgil, who was so well-read, was no grizzled old sage – he was only twenty-three years old when he wrote this. Her own age! His dates of birth and death were engraved on the fly leaf. His voice spoke to her over the years, she sensed his enthusiasm for the task, his feverish writing to fill these books with everything he thought he knew or understood in his short lifetime.

  She read of the four elements – earth, air, fire and water, and a fifth that joined all that existed in heaven and earth. She paused, raised her eyes from the pages, puzzling over this mysterious fifth element.

  As she pondered this, her heart jumped, a wave of heat suffused her face. The strange thought came to her, but I know this diagram already. She pressed the backs of her hands to her burning cheeks to cool them, unsure what had occurred. The diagram looked exactly as it had a few moments ago, except that now she realized it was familiar to her. Was this magic? She shivered. This Cornelius Agrippa – he was reaching out to touch her, even though long dead. The thought persisted, would not let her go.

  She looked over her shoulder, as if to catch his presence in the room, but there was nothing. Intensely alert, she kept on reading, possessed by his words.

  By the end of the afternoon, she had devoured most of Book One. She was so engrossed that it was a little while before she realized that the yard had filled with young men sparring under Señor Alvarez’s tutelage. The tang of their clashing blades called her to the window.

  Six men arranged in two lines. Zachary was practising at the far side of the yard. He was clad only in his shirt and looked smaller still from up here, but fierce, like a terrier. His tall friend fought opposite, perspiring in the heat, a stiff ruff round his neck. His movements were sharp and staccato, well-controlled. In comparison, Zachary’s leaping looked wild and erratic.

  From up here she watched Señor Alvarez’s black hat move down the row of students, taking each in turn as a partner, his rapier balanced easily in his hand, and every now and then he intercepted with a light cat-like touch to halt their moves and show them how it should be done.

  He glanced up at the window, and then called out, ‘Stop!’ The men stopped instantly, exactly where they were, like a tableau. She found she, too, was holding her breath. A horsefly buzzed past, she heard a cry from the street. Zachary’s friend’s muscles twitched in his calves as he struggled to retain his pose.

  Señor Alvarez walked up to one of the men, a dark Spaniard, whose sword was trembling with the effort of maintaining the position. ‘If your arms are aching, it is because you have not gained the relaxation necessary to use the rapier with no effort. Your body maintains too much tension.’ The man did not so much as blink. Señor Alvarez strolled round as Zachary stood like stone, eyebrows furrowed, an expression of grim determination round his lips. The master had absolute control.

  ‘Lay down your arms.’

  The tableau suddenly burst to life and the men rambled to the edge of the yard, stretching out their arms and shaking their legs, sheathing their weapons to free their hands to rub their shoulders. Señor Alvarez nodded up at her, and she hastened from the room, hitching her skirts as she half ran down the stone stairs and into the yard, to stand opposite Zachary who was turned away, picking up his satchel from the ground. When he stood back up, he took a startled step away.

  ‘You will hear me out,’ she blundered, in the heat of the moment. ‘If you are my brother, then you will behave as a proper brother should, and make provision for me. In all Christian charity, you owe me that much.’

  Zachary was backed up against the side of the house, and could not easily move. His eyes swivelled from side to side, searching for a way to escape her gaze.

  His companion took himself politely away, to where the rest of the group were untying their scabbards. He whispered a few words to the others and they looked over with curiosity.

  Zachary frowned, aware of the fact that this woman in the yard was drawing all their glances. Ove
r in the corner, Señor Alvarez leaned against the rough-cast kitchen wall, his arms folded, watching openly from under the brim of his hat.

  ‘Very well,’ Zachary said, in a forced tone of pleasantry. ‘If you insist on tormenting me with your presence, I suppose I shall have to discuss the matter. Five minutes I’ll give you.’

  He sauntered over to the bench, and she followed, feeling somewhat stupid, as though she had fallen by mistake on stage in a courtyard drama.

  She noticed the other men begin to disassemble, to pick up their arms and make their way out of the door in the wall, but Señor Alvarez did not budge, he watched as a puppetmaster might watch his puppets.

  She was already talking to Zachary’s back. ‘Mr Wilmot is ill, and I need to pay the physician, and for our bed and board. If you could see your way to advance me a loan, just until—’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘But just a—’

  ‘I’m telling you, I can’t. I have no money. Not until Greeting proceeds with the damn sale.’

  ‘But my father gave you a good purse, and a trunk of coin, and another of plate.’

  ‘It’s gone. A man has to live, and pay his passage. I have used it to pay for my lodgings here and in France, and my training – six months in advance. Now, if you in your wisdom had not instructed Greeting to hold the sale –’

  She lowered her voice, aware that they were attracting attention. ‘Have you nothing at all?’

  ‘Nothing but a few pesos. I was not expecting a delay. But I’ll write to Greeting again and tell him to proceed with the sale no matter what your opinion. So until then, no.’

  ‘Oh no, please don’t. Not yet –’ She was taken aback. ‘Wilmot tells me that the business is not in such good shape as it was. He advises you to wait, at least until the fleet from Britanny docks safely and its cargo has been sold.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘The business is in debt. That’s what Wilmot’s being trying to tell you. There is no money. Not until the Brittany fleet comes home.’

  ‘Is this some sort of ruse?’

  ‘On my life, no. Father had money in Bainbridge’s ships.’

  She saw the facts sink in, watched him put his head in his hands. He stood and paced up and down. She heard him thump one fist into his other palm and spit out, ‘Damn, damn, damn.’

  He came back to the bench. ‘How long before the fleet comes in?’

  ‘Just a month more, God willing. Lace has to come from all over the region. But it might be many more months before the goods yield profit.’

  ‘Months?’ He was taken aback.

  She capitalized on the moment. ‘We would have time to look at the household goods. If you could just . . . I mean, there are items from the house . . . some personal things I would like to keep. Won’t you come home to England, assess the business too, make a proper inventory? Mr Wilmot would be glad to assist you.’

  ‘No. I can’t come back to England now. I will stay here at least six months to finish my training with the señor.’

  ‘Why so long? Can you not come earlier?’ She pressed this slight movement in her direction.

  ‘Once you leave this salon, you cannot return. Señor Alvarez insists the training has to be done with no break.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Ask Señor Alvarez. It is his rule. Once you begin training you must carry on for at least six months, so the body becomes obedient, he says. So I could not come until April. Then, perhaps, if the weather—’

  ‘You mean you will hold on the sale until then?’

  ‘No, I mean – I didn’t say that –’

  ‘But you just said you will come back to England in April and look into it properly.’

  ‘I said I’d consider it. As long as you leave me in peace.’

  This was just a platitude, she knew. If she was to leave, there would be no guarantee he would keep his word. She dare not trust him. As far as she was concerned, blood was not thicker than water but like oil to it – ever destined for separation.

  ‘Wilmot and I are sworn not to go back to England until you come with us, to make proper arrangements.’

  ‘That is folly. I have no desire for your company, or that of your steward. Go home. You will do nothing here except make me angry.’

  She walked away from him and sat down deliberately on the bench. She would sit, then, and not move from this place.

  He watched her, his hand combing through his hair, a frown of frustration etched into his features.

  Suddenly, he walked towards her. ‘All right,’ he snapped. ‘I did not know about Bainbridge, about the losses. I will be generous. I will hold on the sale until next April, by then the ships should be in and the state of the business should be better. But only if you keep out of my sight. I never want to see you here again. I will come to England in the spring when my training is done, God and the weather willing. You may go home now and wait for me there. I will write to Greeting. Tell Mr Wilmot to inventory the business ready for sale.’

  He turned on his heel and marched away from her. As he passed Señor Alvarez, she watched him speed his step and bow his head as if embarrassed.

  Elspet took out a kerchief and dabbed her forehead, before screwing it into her fist. She did not know whether to be relieved or dismayed. Certainly she did not relish the thought of telling Mr Wilmot of this conversation. Had he not enough to deal with, without knowing that he was going home to no future employment or livelihood?

  Chapter 33

  By the end of the week, Zachary was exhausted, not in the body but in the mind. He slid his sword into its scabbard. Perhaps Luisa Ortega had been right, and the regime at Señor Alvarez’s school was no sort of training for a man. It was frustrating, this exactitude, this point and thrust along a fixed line.

  Señor Alvarez was a hard taskmaster – one finger width off the line of attack and he made you repeat and repeat. But Zachary was determined to come up to the mark now that finally he had found him, though it galled him not to be duelling straight away; after all, folk always said he could handle a weapon. But this geometry, it was hard. And the tiny adjustments to posture. What was worse, now he had to contend with Elspet Leviston and the tiresome Wilmot.

  He cursed under his breath. That the lace business was not the gold mine he had anticipated was a body blow, as if a purse had been snatched from his grasp. Had he gone through all this soul-searching and deception for a few measly coppers?

  Deep in his own morose thoughts, he threw on his cloak and set off down the street. Of course he had only agreed to go back to England to get rid of her. April was a long time off; maybe something else would have occurred by then, the Brittany lace fleet would be in and he’d sell at a profit. Then, praise the Lord, he wouldn’t have to go back to England.

  Alexander ran up behind him. ‘Hoy, Zachary! Wait. Will you take some ale at the tavern?’

  ‘All right. But let’s go to the one on the other side of the town, not the one we usually go to.’ He feared bumping into Rodriguez or his men.

  ‘Whatever you prefer.’ Alexander’s long strides easily kept up with Zachary’s breathless pace. ‘That Englishwoman who waits for you every day, is she your wife?’

  Zachary suppressed an indignant laugh, but did not slow. ‘No, not my wife –’ he hesitated for a moment as he jostled past some folk coming in the other direction – ‘my half-sister. When my father died she and I fell to blows – she wants to lay claim to my inheritance. Now she pursues me, even to Spain, to make me relinquish my English house to her.’ The words sounded more reasonable than they deserved. He wished he could tell Alexander the truth, but it was all so complicated.

  Alexander dodged a mule and cart, and persisted, ‘She must be strong-minded to sit alone in the yard, with no maidservant there to accompany her. And Señor Alvarez noticed her – I saw him talking to her this morning.’

  ‘I wish he wouldn’t. After all, it’s none of his business.’ Zachary looked at Alexander sideways
as he walked.

  ‘It is, if she’s in the training yard every day. He’s particular about who comes in and out. He doesn’t like the work disturbed, and quite right. It’s distracting, having her sitting there. It makes the men act differently.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Zachary stopped. He could feel Alexander’s disapproval.

  Alexander nearly cannoned into him. ‘Well, she’s an attractive woman. It brings out the competitive streak. It’s not good for the training.’

  ‘I didn’t ask her to come.’ Zachary was indignant. ‘It’s nothing to do with me – I can’t shake her off. She’s like a horsefly, she won’t leave me alone.’

  ‘What does she want of you?’

  ‘Look,’ Zachary said, ‘I can’t tell you here. Let’s get out of the sun.’ He dragged Alexander sideways into the shade of an olive tree where a small handcart displayed fruit juices. They ordered two lime juices from the turbaned man behind the cart and he handed back the change with a wizened, leathery hand.

  They propped themselves on the falling-down wall that surrounded a patch of unwanted bare shrub and thistle.

  ‘I think she wants me to give her a settlement. I’m not sure I will. After all, it’s my house and I don’t owe her anything. It was left to me by my father. But I’ve agreed to go back to England, provided she keeps out of my sight,’ he said. ‘I don’t want her hanging around the school either.’ As he said it his conscience prickled, but he ignored it.

  The turbaned man set down a tray with two blackened pewter cups with wooden stirrers sticking out. Alexander thanked him and swirled the lump sugar round in his cup.

  ‘When?’ he asked him.

  ‘Not for a while. At least six months.’

  ‘Good. The señor doesn’t like you to break your training.’

  ‘I know. And I feel like I’ve hardly learned anything yet. Why do we have to do all these diagrams? And the gematria with Señor Ortega? It’s so slow. I feel like I am treading water.’

  ‘It’s part of his training. To have the patience, I mean. And anyway, where’s the hurry?’