A Divided Inheritance (18 page)

‘Do we have to wait? Cannot the servants see to the dogs and send your things on after us?’

‘The servants are still bemused by Father’s death. I need time to organize them until Zachary returns, and who knows when that will be. I cannot leave it to someone else or the house
will run to ruin, and if I put someone else in charge, it will be too many changes.’ She knew as she said it, it was herself she spoke of, she who had too many changes.

A fleeting expression of irritation crossed his face. ‘Well, I suppose I could go on ahead without you. A month should be sufficient. Then I shall expect you at Tockton.’

A month. Only a few weeks more in her lovely house. And then Zachary would take control of it and she would be in Yorkshire, leagues away from everything she knew and loved. She should be
grateful, for who else would take her now her dowry was tied to her cousin’s whims? Hugh had saved her, caught her as she was falling. And he was the handsomest man in town, a man with a fine
estate and a good reputation. Why, then, did she feel it as a sentence?

She was still grieving, she reminded herself; perhaps later she would allow herself to feel as fortunate as she knew she was.

Seville, Andalusia

Zachary inhaled the tang of forged iron, the woody aroma of burning charcoal, and lifted his hat up and down to let the air waft his forehead dry. The smithy was wide open to
the street and the heat of its furnaces rolled towards him in a wave, despite the sharp early morning sun. Above the entrance hung a cracked sign with a pair of crossed swords over a white dove and
the name Guido de Vega. The name he was looking for. Beneath that sign was an even more decrepit and badly painted one, stained with smoke, which indicated a member of the swordmaker’s
guild.

‘You want a blade?’ The smith spoke in Spanish.

After two weeks of being in Spain, Zachary had remembered his mother’s tutelage and replied in the man’s native tongue, ‘The finest you have.’

‘It will cost.’ The smith put down a dagger he had been working on and strolled over, wiping his hands on his leather apron. He looked Zachary up and down.

‘I can pay.’ Zachary bristled slightly and drew himself upright.

The smith spat sideways into the dust before going and lifting down a sword from the row that was hanging from the rafters like a display of shining silver teeth. His journeymen and apprentices
stopped what they were doing to stare. He held out the sword on the flat of his palms.

Zachary took it and examined it, fingered the engraved mark of a feather near the top of the blade. ‘No
.
One like that, I can buy anywhere. I’m after something special. A
twin-edged sword – something light and, how do you say it? – skinny, like a rapier.’ He mimed a whip-like cut, extending his sword arm in front of him in a swoop.

The man narrowed his eyes. ‘A blade I can make you. But I will need to hear the clink of your coin first.’

Zachary pulled out a pouch. ‘I fought three duels in France for this. And still I stand.’

The smith was impassive, unimpressed, but it was true. The craze for duelling had infected France like a fever. More were dead there from duelling than from the plague here in Spain, and Zachary
had made his fair share of these conquests.

‘Put it away,’ the smith said. ‘A blade can be made. But you must come here every day.’ He moved closer, his bulk masking the heat from the fires. The tang of his sweat
caught in Zachary’s nostrils. He lowered his voice as if to tell a secret. ‘A sword must have soul. It must be a part of the hand that wields it. You want to own your sword? And not
have it own you? Then what will you give?’ He went to hang the blade back up with the rest. ‘Be here at seven tonight,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘and we will make a
start.’

Zachary was dismissed. Did his ungentlemanly past show so clearly, then, that a smith felt he could order him around? Unable to think of a suitable retort, he shoved his pouch into his breeches
and walked away. He heard laughter behind him. Devil fetch Guido de Vega. He did not like his attitude and there must be plenty more smiths in Seville. He walked up the Calle de las Armas,
bypassing the hilt-smiths and scabbard-makers, examining weapons on display.

But the others he looked at were inferior, the blades soft or brittle. Or the smith too anxious to get hold of his purse, making unlikely promises of delivery the next day. But the truth of it
was, he could not get Guido de Vega or his smithy out of his mind, for he had heard of his skill in Toledo and had followed him to Seville. He wanted a sword with Guido’s feather mark, and he
knew nothing else would do.

So it was that he found himself back in the same barrio that night. Walking in the Calle de las Armas was like a journey through hell. The noise of hammering, the glow of
fires, the shouts of the smiths and their apprentices as they quenched the hot iron in belches of hissing steam.

The night air was thick, for close by were the potteries with their kilns, coughing out more soot. All the fire trades were here in Triana, where the river separated them from the main city of
Seville, in case of accident.

When Zachary arrived, Guido gave him a curt little nod of amusement, and handed over an apron without comment. It was blackened and scorched and heavy as armour. Zachary fastened it on, ignoring
the apprentices’ sniggering as it fell way past his knees.

‘Pay no heed,’ Guido said, handing him weighty gauntlets to match, and then tongs with a lump of grey matter between their teeth.

Zachary took the tongs and nearly dropped them. The metal was much heavier than he had expected.

Guido laughed, hoiked it back out of his hands, then plunged it into the furnace. Moments later, he extracted it, glowing orange, and dumped it on the anvil. Zachary watched Guido’s
forearms bulge as he wielded his hammer in long, swinging strokes. After a few moments, he rammed the flattened lump back into the furnace.

‘Now,’ he said, passing him the tongs. Zachary closed his nostrils as he drew the lump out again. The piercing heat almost singed his eyebrows and moustache, but he refused to look a
fool before Guido’s boys. The lump was a dull orange glow – like a sunset.

He lifted the hammer and, as it landed on the metal on the anvil, it jarred his arm, but he raised the hammer again and crashed it down. From the corner of his eye he saw one of the journeymen
disguise a smile. He gritted his teeth and pounded even harder. He’d show them, the cheeky dogs. The sweat dewed on his brow and dripped on to the metal until it sizzled and disappeared.

The metal turned pale pink and suddenly there was a crack and the metal split asunder. He faltered and Guido was by his side in an instant. He clicked his tongue.

‘You want to kill the steel before you have even begun? You must coax it, like a woman. Bring it up to heat, then work it. When you feel it become unresponsive, take it to the heat again.
Use your eyes and your nose. Now, again.’

And a little irritated, he started anew. Three times he tried, but the metal would not shape for him as it did for Guido. Each time, just as it was almost flat, the metal cracked and the
apprentices sniggered into their sleeves. By now his arm and shoulder were leaden and his face was wet with sweat. Anger rose up inside him.

‘Devil take it!’ he cried, dropping the hammer and peering into his palm. His hand was blistered from the handle and his head pounded louder than the hammer.

‘Enough!’ Guido called. ‘Pick that up again and hang it back over there.’

Zachary deliberately left it where he had dropped it. ‘I can’t do it,’ he said. ‘I can’t work with that stuff. You’re giving me inferior metal.’

‘Is that what you think? Not so. It is exactly the same as mine.’ Guido’s voice was level and reasonable but it only enraged Zachary more. ‘Come, then, choose your
own.’

Guido beckoned and strolled to the back where the iron from the bloomery stood on the sandy earth, waiting to come into the workshop. He gestured to it. Zachary looked, and saw a row of
misshapen lumps of raw metal, each indistinguishable from the other. He knew he could not tell good from bad, especially at night, but he made a show of walking up and down and, finally, he pointed
to one of them.

Guido gave him a tight smile. ‘Fetch it in, then.’

Zachary lugged it in with his sore hands. It hurt, carrying this rough lump of metal, despite the fact that it was cool from standing in the night air. Zachary was determined not to show how
much it cost him to bring it in and heave it with his blistered hands on to the work bench. As he stood and contemplated it, Guido dismissed the other artisans from the workshop. The tools were
cleaned and put away, the fires damped. Work was clearly over for the evening.

‘Tomorrow I will work with this,’ Zachary said.

‘Not tomorrow. Tonight. Juan, leave number two.’

Juan was about to put the lid on one of the furnaces, but now he stopped mid-movement, his eyebrows raised.

Zachary thought of a cool drink and his soft bed. He was more than ready to return to his lodgings. ‘I think I’ll wait till tomorrow, get a fresh start,’ he said.

‘No. Now. You do it now, or you do not come back tomorrow.’

Guido waved a finger at Juan, who shrugged, left the fire and went to dress in his doublet and cap. Catching Juan watching him, Zachary said carelessly, ‘Fine. It makes no difference to
me.’

The tongs felt rougher than before and the metal a dead weight. He heaved the lump into the furnace. He was nauseous from the heat and his pounding head. Juan had left, but a waiting slave
pumped the bellows and Zachary watched for the heat to infuse the metal and make it glow. This time, he thought, gritting his teeth, it would be perfect.

He could barely lift the hammer any more; his muscles were like water and his hands shook. He sensed the strings of his neck, tight as twisted cords. He swung the hammer down time after time,
jaw clenched against the impact, shirt stuck to his back. The apron pressed against his thighs like a plank.

Nearly flat. He put the bar into the furnace one more time. When it came out he lifted the hammer and let it fall for a few more turns of the hour-glass. The metal was beginning to turn pink but
one more hit should do it.

When the metal cracked again the sap drained from his body, the disappointment so sharp it took his breath. He hurled the hammer down and his whole body was shaking. He rushed to the edge of the
street where he vomited into the dust. Bile splashed on to his boots. He was aware of passers-by stepping around him with disgust, but he bent double and heaved again. He propped himself against
one of the wooden pillars that formed the overhang and panted for breath, trying to stem the water seeping from his eyes.

Guido appeared beside him and wordlessly helped him out of the leather apron. What freedom to be out of the weight of it! Zachary slumped uncaring to the ground, leaned against the post, wiping
his eyes and mouth. Guido returned with his cloak, his hat and his sword belt and he struggled to his feet. It was humiliating to be helped him into them like an old man. His shirt stank of sweat
and iron dust but he was too tired to resist, and besides, he could not look Guido in the eye.

‘Tomorrow. Sunrise,’ Guido said.

‘Yes,’ he mouthed. It had to be a jest. He had no intention of ever going back.

The next day, Zachary was unable to stir from his bed. His back was almost bent double like an old ploughman’s, his hands stiff and sore. He flexed his hands. Damn, they
moved as if he were still wearing those thick leather gauntlets.

He had dismissed his English servant weeks ago, preferring to travel alone. But with his Spanish lodgings came a house slave, Ana, who had prepared a meal of chickpea bread, spiced sausage and
peaches, and had served it up with a flagon of ale. When she slid the tray under his nose he had never seen anything so welcome. His mouth was parched, so he downed the ale in one draught. He
leaned over the balcony to enjoy the view below, to see the black lace mantillas of the women going by beneath.

He was glad to be in the centre of the city. His lodgings were owned by the silversmith Luis de Ribera – a set of rooms with a grille-work balcony overlooking the bustle of the Calle de
Virgenes. The place had been recommended to him by someone he had met in France who had also stayed there on his Grand Tour – and very airy it was too. He chortled to himself. Old Leviston
would be speechless to see him, already in Spain, convinced as he was that Zachary was following his proposed route of lace producers and dusty Roman ruins. My God, but England seemed like a
distant memory now. Was it really only a month ago that he had been shivering in those grey docks with that grim old man and his old-fashioned, stiff-mannered daughter?