A Divided Inheritance
Read A Divided Inheritance Online
Authors: Deborah Swift
For John, with love
Au coeur vaillant, rien n’est impossible
Motto from
Academy of the Sword
by Girard Thibault
You know a thing perfectly when you know the cause of it.
Carranza –
Dialogues
London, September 1599
Magdalena was afraid to sleep in case she did not wake. She was thinking of her sons; of Zachary in particular. How to convince him. There would be a chance, if only he’d
sit still long enough to listen.
She struggled to push herself upright in her bed. Her nightdress was damp with sweat, though she shivered with cold so much she had to drag the tangle of covers right up to her neck. No matter
that it was autumn and mild, and flies still buzzed lazily round her ale cup. Death hovered near, like the onset of winter. She put the vapour pipe to her lips again and inhaled deeply.
A picture of Zachary rose up in her mind; his darting eyes, his restless energy. He had grown wilder this last year now that she was confined to her chamber and there was no one to father him.
And as for Saul and Kit, they had no patience with him, never did have. They sensed he was different to them, God knows how, but they did.
When they pinched him, thinking she could not see them, it used to make her come running to chastise them with slaps. That was when she could reach them, but now she resorted to harsh words,
shouting and cursing at them like a shrew, but it was no use. The wily scoundrels – they knew she could do nothing. Not lying here stuck like a sow in a stall.
How in God’s name would Zachary fare, once she was gone? The dread for him rose up within her. Absurd, she thought, when he was almost grown now and a youth – no longer the wiry babe
in arms who suckled at her breast. Still, she feared for him.
She warded off another spasm of coughing by draining the lukewarm ale and lay back on the pillow. She stared at the peeling plasterwork on the ceiling, hearing the street cries outside and the
clop of hooves passing by. Her breath came heavily now, with memories of Zack’s tears, and the too-innocent faces of her elder boys.
How terrible to know this of your own sons – to see so clearly their cruelty and malice. She had never thought she could despise her own children, but Kit and Saul had defeated her. Their
venom came from nowhere, mysterious, risen in them like bile. As if their blood somehow remembered their father and his fists, although they had been only mewling babes when she had left him.
It shamed her, that she loved them, despite it all. These ugly-hearted sons. They would never change, and she was dog-tired of pretending that they would. Nobody sees the truth of their children
as a mother does. So, she must do what she could for Zack. She pushed the opium away, prepared to bear the pain if she could only scrape her thoughts back together, and keep her wits one last
night.
It was almost dark when she heard the door latch click, but she knew it must be Zack for he was always a few hours ahead of his brothers. He liked to enjoy a little time with
her alone, before Saul and Kit came in with their ale-breath and swagger.
She heard his weapons and his night’s pickings drop outside her door with a clatter. Too tired and sick to use the bedchamber, she slept in the main chamber now, on a pallet piled with
sheepskins and old cloaks, for she could never seem to get warm.
Soon some other family will lodge here, she thought, and I will be just a half-sensed presence, a scent of poppy left hanging in the air.
‘Zack!’ she called out, mustering her strength.
His dark curly head appeared round the door. He tiptoed in, although it was clear she was not asleep. She followed him with her eyes as he came, seeing him as if from a distance. Small and
skinny, his legs poked out from under an oversized cloak, a new one, by the look of it, of damson-coloured wool. He closed the open window, lit the sconces with a taper, and then paraded before
her, swishing the cloak, grinning, showing off its green silk lining.
‘
Qué bonito!
’ he said, in Spanish. ‘Can you believe it?’ he crowed. ‘The gent hadn’t fastened it properly, so I had it whisked off in a trice.
Had to run like a hare afterwards, though. Fine, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ she murmured, ‘it surely is. But come, sit a moment.’
‘Why, are you worse? What is it?’ His eyes were wide with concern.
‘Not worse, no. But I need to tell you something.’
He sat, unhooked the cloak and threw it over the bed, smoothing it with his fingers. His hands were none-too-clean as usual. He lifted a corner and brought it up to her face for her to see.
‘It will keep you warm, Mama. Look how tight-woven it is. I chose it specially, and the—’
‘Yes yes.’ She dismissed it with a small gesture and took hold of his hand to keep his attention. He squirmed a little, unused to this, but did not withdraw. There was fine dark down
growing on his upper lip. She was about to reach up to touch it but her eyes blurred. Unshed tears that she would not see him become a proper man.
She swallowed and took a deep breath, hoping her voice would hold. ‘In Spanish, eh? It’s easier for me.’ He nodded. ‘Nathaniel Leviston, whom you called uncle. You
remember him?’ The English name seemed strange amongst the Spanish words.
Zack was very still now, seeing her tears and recognizing something different in her tone. She pressed his hand. ‘Well, he has no sons. It could be he will be glad to take you in,
and—’
‘What do you mean, Mama?’ He never let her finish, always wanted to be ahead of the conversation.
‘When I am gone, he will come to find you. I have written to him. I pray I have not left it too late. But Zack, he is wealthy and, who knows, he thinks you are his kin, and he might be
prepared to help you if . . .’ she paused, trying to think of the right words, ‘if your brothers do not prove kind.’
He was already protesting. ‘But you aren’t going anywhere, Mama. You’re staying right here, until you get well. Wait, I’ll fetch you some more of your draught.’ He
tried to pull away, but she clung tight.
‘No. No more poppy,’ she said, breathless with the effort of speaking and of holding him. ‘Not tonight. I need to be clear in my mind. I need you to understand. There is no
money. I have nothing to leave you. Promise me. Promise you’ll go with Uncle Leviston. He will—’
‘Hush, Mama. You’re not making sense. It’s the physic. But I’ll promise to go with him if that’s what makes you happy.’ He stroked her forehead with his hand,
and she fell back, defeated, unable to summon the energy to insist more.
He did not know how serious she was. He promised as though it was of no account, like his promises to look twice before crossing the street, or his promise to wash his hands before eating. She
had so much more she needed to tell him; how to be a man in this world, what the important things were – faith, tradition, following your heart.
‘Come lie up here next to me, then,’ she said.
She drew him close, inhaled the smell of the dusty London streets and the outdoors from his hair. He let her, though she knew it was the last thing a twelve-year-old boy really wanted to do. He
was always on the move, never still. She pillowed his head in the crook of her arm.
She knew how to manoeuvre him to listen, so she squeezed him and told him of the time he was born, when he was so scrawny she had almost given up on him.
‘You were the size of a screwed-up fist, that’s all,’ she said, reverting to English, to draw him in.
It had been his favourite story when he was little. The tale of how he was so small she did not think he would survive, but she prayed to Our Lady to let him live, and her prayers were answered.
Zachary made no sound that he was listening, but his fingers closed round hers, so she knew she had his attention. She pulled him a little closer.
‘You were a proper little fighter,’ she said.
‘And one day I’m going to have my own school of the sword, just like Savioli.’
‘But before that, when . . . I’ve been trying to tell you, Uncle Leviston will come for you. He thinks he is your father,’ she said. ‘And it is his money that has kept us
all these years.’