A Divided Inheritance

by Deborah Swift

  ‘Best you don’t know. That way you will not be tempted to let anything slip.’ Etienne was about to protest, but Don Rodriguez waved him away with a gesture. ‘I know you think you would not, but I know Frenchmen and their big mouths.’ He cast a few more coins on to the table, which glinted in the light from the torches as if they were red-hot. ‘An extra five reales for you if you leave the bolts open, understood?’

  Etienne scraped the discs from the table and they chinked as he added them to his bulging purse.

  Chapter 42

  The day after her visit to La Sangre, Elspet was back in the yard at the training, wearing the carsey gown. By this she hoped to signal to Señor Alvarez that she had followed his wishes. He was right; selling her things had felt like making a commitment, and now she was dedicated to the art of La Destreza just as much as the others.

  The men looked and nudged each other, sensing something different about her when she arrived, but their faces were kind. She had tied her hair away from her face, like the Barefoot Beata, Josefa. She attracted no attention now on her way to the fencing school as people assumed her to be a nun or a beata in her homespun and sandals. She soon discovered the new clothing was much less of a hindrance and granted her much more freedom of movement.

  For the next few weeks, as the weather had grown colder and wetter, they continued to study the books of Agrippa, Plato and the masters of geometry. They copied Dürer’s diagrams and stepped through their measures on the painted circle and cross in the upstairs chamber under Señor Alvarez’s watchful eye. The circle was fading a little under their scuffing feet, the letters and lines worn faint through use.

  She always enjoyed partnering Alexander and Girard, and the stocky Pedro Gutierrez. She avoided Etienne if possible, for he kept seeking out her eye, and was forever making an excuse to stop and hold her too closely by the arm to show her a technique.

  Zachary seemed softer, less angry somehow, though there was still tension in her relationship with him. We are unhappy bedfellows, she thought. But she was beginning to understand him a little. Like him, she relished the feeling of learning this skill, of feeling her whole body move behind the sword. The early mornings were for drills and repetitive exercises of thrust and parry, pierce and feint. And in the evenings they studied the elements. They had moved on from fire and air now, and were working with water.

  She had hoped the training might become easier or gentler, but no. She had to train to flow round an obstacle like water, and it was a skill she struggled to master. Her evasions were stilted or jagged. She could not find the correct footwork. If her sword arm was in the right position, then her feet were making the wrong move. Señor Alvarez showed them again and again, his movements fluid as honey.

  They were working with sharps now, and the training yard had become a serious place. She saw Luisa walk close up to the wall to get safely to the front gate, and already Alexander had a nick to his thigh and a blood-spotted bandage tied around it. Today she was partnered with Zachary. They had only made a few lunges up and down the yard when Zachary suddenly cried out, ‘My fault!’ He dropped his sword on to the ground and rushed towards her. For a moment she was unsure what was happening, but then she put her left hand up to her cheek. When her hand came away it was smeared red with blood.

  Everything seemed to be happening at once. The men gathered around, and Alexander thrust a kerchief towards her. Zachary was leading her to the bench, apologizing all the while. ‘Press it hard on the wound,’ called Pedro from behind the throng.

  She had not even felt the cut, but now the thought of it made her legs weak.

  ‘What’s this?’ cried Señor Alvarez from behind. The men moved aside to let him through.

  ‘It’s my fault, I wasn’t quick enough,’ Elspet said, ruefully.

  ‘Let me see.’

  She lifted away the kerchief which was blotched with blood, and tilted her face up to him.

  ‘It’s deep,’ he said. ‘It will leave a scar. Who were you working with?’

  ‘Me,’ said Zachary.

  ‘What were you doing? Have you no sense to keep your blade away from a woman’s face?’ Señor Alvarez said.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Zachary, ‘I lost concentration, and it moved off target.’

  ‘Here,’ Alvarez pressed the kerchief back to her cheek, and covered her hand with his. ‘Someone fetch Señora Ortega. Quickly now.’

  Elspet was aware of the touch of the señor’s warm dry hand, and his solicitous concern. She hoped he could not see how her heart was beating.

  ‘Don’t fret,’ Elspet said to him, taking back the kerchief herself. ‘I’ve said, it was not Zachary’s fault, none but my own lack of skill. It’s to be expected, if you train with blades. And I don’t want different rules from the men.’

  ‘That is admirable, but it does not excuse Mr Deane. He should not aim for a lady’s face. Not in training.’

  Zachary came running back then with Ayamena, who pushed the señor to one side. ‘It is not so bad,’ she pronounced. ‘Just a flesh wound. Now leave me to dress it.’

  The men drifted back to their drills, all except the señor, who loomed over Elspet as Ayamena did her work.

  Señor Alvarez took Elspet’s hand as Ayamena put four stitches into the wound, and she clung on, as now the piercing pain of the needle made her want to twitch and move away. ‘Try not to smile or move your face,’ Ayamena said.

  ‘Close your eyes and hold tight; it will help,’ said the señor. She found she was more aware of gripping the señor’s hand than she was of the pain.

  When she opened her eyes afterwards it was to see his dark eyes looking straight into hers. ‘Are you all right?’ His tone of voice was so tender, tears started in her eyes and she could not answer him, but a look ran between them, swift and bright as quicksilver.

  ‘Still now!’ snapped Ayamena. ‘I need to dress it. Señor, move out of the way, so I can put my bowl on the bench.’

  His hand slipped from hers and she had the urge to pull it back.

  ‘I think, rest today,’ he said quietly, still hovering nearby. ‘I will plan some observation work for this afternoon. Or do you need to lie down? You may use my quarters if—’

  ‘No, no,’ she said, ashamed of the thought that had arisen, of how much she would like to see where he slept. ‘I would like to join the men. Alexander just carried on again when he was cut. I shall do the same.’

  ‘I admire your determination, Mistress Leviston. But I beg you, stay here in the shade a while. And take some liquor, for the shock.’

  ‘I’ll look to her,’ Ayamena said firmly. ‘You can away now, to your men.’

  Señor Alvarez hesitated a moment, shuffling from foot to foot, but Ayamena fixed him with a frown, and he walked away towards the other side of the yard where the men had gathered in a small knot. Within a few minutes they were back to their drills, and he was back to his usual decisive manner.

  ‘What are you putting on it?’ Elspet asked Ayamena when he had gone, screwing up her eyes as Ayamena dabbed at the wound with her fingers.

  ‘Plantago, polygonato, aloe vera, so many. Allah is merciful. All good herbs for cuts and swelling. Though I think now I should need some medicine for wounds of the heart, heh?’

  Elspet said nothing, but Ayamena shook her head at her, raising her eyebrows in question. Elspet looked down to avoid Ayamena’s smile.

  Later that afternoon as they walked down the path to the river, Zachary stopped her by a hand on the arm. ‘Elspet,’ he said, ‘does it hurt much?’

  ‘No. Ayamena has dressed it and it feels a little tight, that is all.’

  ‘It does not look too bad. I expect there will be a scar, and for that I apologize. Scars are different for women, I know. We men do not set such store by our appearance.’

  ‘You could have fooled me. You always seem to sport the latest fashion in doublets and cloaks.’

  ‘Touché!’ He laughed.

  They hurried along the edge o
f the water to catch up with the rest. Señor Alvarez set them to observe the currents, and how the ships floated on them. They sat on a rocky headland just outside the city walls, watching the wide snake of river on its way to the sea. Elspet found herself contemplating the way Señor Alvarez’s white hair curled from beneath his hat rather than observing the water as she had been instructed.

  Señor Alvarez turned to look over his shoulder at her, and she was flustered by his gaze so she turned to look towards the city where a group of colourful Morisco women slapped their laundry against a rock. Something caught her eye on the horizon and she held her hand over her eyes to shield them from the setting sun.

  ‘What are all those ships doing, gathering out there just beyond the point?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Girard said. ‘Perhaps they are awaiting a cargo of oil or of grain.’

  ‘But we don’t export anything much these days,’ said Pedro.

  ‘Silk,’ said Girard. ‘You export silk.’

  ‘Never mind the ships, watch the water,’ Señor Alvarez said, but she saw he himself had his eyes trained on the flotilla moored further downstream. Something in his watchful demeanour gave her a sense of foreboding. She followed his direction, trying to bring the darkening blur of masts into focus. He was motionless, his hand halfway to his face in a gesture he had not finished making. She averted her eyes, blinked, tried to return her eyes to the water, but the feeling of unease persisted. She shivered; dusk had brought a sudden drop in temperature, and for the first time in Spain she was cold.

  They watched the river for a good while, though the surface of the water reflected the fading sun, and she could not fathom what lay beneath. It was quiet here away from the city, and she should have been relaxed. But her cheek stung and throbbed now, and her head ached from the effort of concentration.

  Even as she watched, the current carried a lump of wood spinning and twirling towards the sea before it was sucked under water by a hidden drag. More ships had heeled into view now, and Señor Alvarez studied the nearest one intently as it slid into position with the others. A galleon, like a slave galley. The mass of ships were still, almost like a picture on a tapestry.

  ‘Time to leave.’ Señor Alvarez set off abruptly towards the town. He did not even look at her as he passed. She felt unaccountably hurt, but gathered her sword belt and arms quickly with the rest who trailed in his wake.

  ‘Perhaps it is the fleet waiting to bring in gold from the Indies,’ Girard said.

  ‘No, that cannot be true,’ Alexander argued, ‘they would sail right in, not lurk out there, out of sight of the harbour.’

  ‘But they’re not enemy ships, are they?’ Zachary said. ‘Some have the Spanish colours flying.’

  ‘Who cares?’ Etienne slapped Zachary on the shoulders and jostled him away. ‘I tell you, it’s just a fishing fleet.’

  It took a few days for the wound on her cheek to feel more comfortable, but as Ayamena had divined, Elspet’s feelings for the señor seemed to have grown, to the point where she was jumpy as a hare. He was in her thoughts all the time, and no matter where she was she felt his presence as a yearning she could not shake away.

  Over the next few weeks the rain made the yard slippery so they trained more indoors. Martha had become awkward. She refused to sit and watch the training any more, and Elspet could not force her; there was nothing for it but to leave her at home.

  Late one evening after training was done for the day, it was time to redraw the circle. The previous night they had repainted the floor with lime and now the room was lit by tall-standing candelabra at each corner. The breeze made the light sway a little, giving an underwater feel to the whole room.

  Girard seemed to think it his prerogative as an artist to be in control of the procedure, and his bluff voice issued the instructions.

  ‘Come on, fellows. I have to leave for Antwerp soon so I want to leave a little drawing behind. Something for you all to remember me by, eh?’

  ‘It won’t be the same without you. Someone will be lacking a partner,’ Zachary said.

  ‘I was never intending to stay at all. But that’s the señor – he hooks you somehow. Anyway, maybe he can persuade another woman. Maybe Ayamena would like to try?’

  They all laughed at the thought of the stout Ayamena with a sword and buckler. Elspet laughed with them, happy to have gained some sort of acceptance.

  ‘Now,’ said Girard, ‘pass me that tape.’

  Elspet meanwhile had a pouch of charcoal dust slung on her belt, and fed a string into it to coat it with the powder.

  Alexander and Zachary pulled the string taut between them and snapped the string down on to the floor to make the mark. The charcoaled string produced a long cloud of black dust, which made Alexander cough and laugh, but a perfect straight line.

  ‘Look at that!’ he said proudly.

  They continued to mark all the mid-points of the square and then join them with snap-lines into the circle and the cross, what Señor Alvarez called ‘the swordsman’s seal’. Elspet stood in the centre to hold the nail as Girard walked the circle with the stretched string and stick of charcoal.

  ‘Keep it taut,’ said Zachary when the line sagged.

  Elspet watched as Alexander labelled the lines on the diagram with the basic Latin inscriptions, diameter perpendicularis, transversa interioris, linea pedalis.

  ‘Mistress Leviston, fetch the gall, would you, from the kitchen,’ Girard said.

  She carried a single candle with her. A sudden clatter, and the impression of a moving shadow. Someone was in the kitchen and had knocked a pot to the ground.

  Her voice rang out sharp into the dark. ‘Who goes there?’

  She held her candle aloft and it fluttered in the breeze from the open door. She ran to the opening, shielding the flame with her palm, but could see nobody. The yard was empty.

  ‘Zachary?’ she called, thinking this was some kind of practical joke.

  No answer.

  She shivered, and swung her candle round the room, but the table was scrubbed clean, everything neatly stacked as Ayamena always left it. Perhaps it was a rat, or one of the cats.

  The pot of gall was where they said it would be, on the shelf next to the door. On the ground lay a fallen pot, cracked into two pieces. She picked it up and put it on the kitchen table.

  Someone must have left the door open, and it was blowing in the wind, that was all. She shut and bolted it before taking the paint pot and climbing back up to the upstairs chamber. There, the men propped themselves up against the wall, conversing in low voices, sharing a flagon of ale.

  She did not mention the broken pot, but thought she must tell Ayamena in the morning. The men put down their flagon and they set to work, inking the outline. It was painstaking work, using a wooden straight-edge, a hog’s bristle brush and a steady hand. Their shadows continually got in the way of the candles which were burning low.

  ‘Ah.’ A voice from the doorway.

  The brush jerked in her hand as she started and looked around. It was Señor Alvarez. How did he know, she wondered, that they had nearly finished?

  She raised her brows to Alexander and he smiled and nodded, as if to say, I told you so.

  ‘Don’t let me disturb you, mistress,’ Señor Alvarez said. ‘Finish your last few letters.’

  She knelt back down, embarrassed, dragging her skirts to the side. She picked a stray hair from the edge of the brush, and concentrated where the ‘L’ had gone awry to try to neaten the edge.

  ‘Very fine. Put the brushes down now, and bring more candles,’ Señor Alvarez said, when she was finished.

  They replaced the guttering stubs and stared down at the newly repainted diagram with pride.

  ‘Neatly done,’ he said. ‘And while it is fresh in your mind, we’ll do a little exercise.’

  They put down their things and waited expectantly.

  ‘Imagine,’ he said, ‘that the lines are light. Take your time to construct it upri
ght in front of you. The circle and the square. Every line. Make it bright.’

  Elspet swayed slightly as she tried to draw the image inside herself. The room sounded like the sea, full of their breathing. She was intent on the señor’s voice, she felt as if her whole body buzzed with it. The glow of the swordsman’s seal took shape behind her eyes.

  ‘Now, bring it inside yourself. Bring the centre to your heart and down to your navel, the circumference to the top of your head and the edge running under your feet.’

  At his words it entered her like a fire.

  He snapped his fingers and she blinked, as if suddenly brought back from a long dream. Around her the men looked dazed.

  ‘Dawn tomorrow, as usual,’ the señor said, and Elspet put her hands to her hot cheeks, took up her cape and stumbled away into the dark.

  Zachary looked up at the stars peppering the sky, the formation of the cross of Cygnus in the vast black above reminding him somehow of the design he had just painted.

  ‘Better get a good night’s rest,’ Etienne said. ‘We’ll be put through it again tomorrow.’ He peered back through the gate.

  ‘Come on, then,’ said Girard, slapping Etienne on the back. ‘What are you hanging about for?’

  ‘Just checking the señor is coming to bar the gate.’ He dragged it closed behind him.

  Outside the gate, they heard the scrape and clunk of the bar before parting to go their separate ways, except for Alexander and Zachary, who were walking the same route home. They waved to Girard, Pedro and Etienne as they crossed the road to go in the other direction. Zachary was about halfway down the street when he realized he had left his bag behind.

  ‘Hey, Alexander, I’ve left something. I’ll have to go back for it.’

  ‘Can’t it wait until tomorrow? We’ll be back there in a few hours.’

  ‘It’s got my whetstone and peening iron, and my leather polishing cloth in it. I’ll need them to grind my sword-edge ready for tomorrow.’

  ‘Can’t you do it in the morning?’

  ‘I’ll only be a few minutes. Just hang fire whilst I nip back for it.’