A Divided Inheritance (32 page)

The next day, after her work was finished at the pottery, Luisa hurried back to the fencing school to see if the Englishman was still there, and what Papa had to say about
him.

‘Hey there, little pumpkin.’ Luisa ruffled Husain’s hair as she ducked under the lines of laundry, and crossed over the yard at the back of the house.

Husain stood up from where he was rolling his toy wooden cart in the dirt and hurried after her, tugging at her skirt.

‘We’re going to France, Papa says. He says we’re going on a boat. I like boats.’

‘What barrel of nonsense have you picked up now?’ she said, as she went to the water jar and scooped out some water to rinse her hands. Though she’d tried to wash them at the
pottery the grey river clay still lodged in her fingernails.

Husain fiddled with the hem of her skirt; he loved to crack off the dried daubs that always seemed to get there somehow, no matter how careful she was. ‘He says Señor Alvarez is
going to get us some horses and we’ll run away. I don’t know why we’re running away, though. Is it priests, Luisa, or bandits?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Come here and give me a hug.’ She hoisted him up and he wrapped his legs around her waist. She rubbed noses with him and then
said, ‘It’s all right. There’s no need to be frightened. We’re quite safe here. There are all those men with swords in the yard.’

‘No. We’re going next week. On a boat. Papa said I’d to pay respects to my friends this week because after that we might not see them for a very long time.’

A shadow fell across her heart; she put him down and went inside to where Mama was unloading a batch of fruit from a wicker pannier. Outside she could hear Husain clucking happily, making the
noises of horse’s hooves as he played with his cart.

Mama looked up as she stormed, ‘What’s this that Husain is saying about boats, and leaving? Am I the only one kept in the dark in this family?’

Mama put down the lemon in her hand. ‘Your father thought it best. There’s rumours that they might try to send the Moriscos back to Barbary, and if they do, then there’ll be no
choosing where we go. We have distant cousins in Bordeaux who might shelter us awhile until we can get to Fez. At least there we will be amongst friends.’

‘But—’

‘No. Listen to me. When I went down to the river with the laundry they were saying that there’ll be no welcome for us in North Africa. The Africans think we’re Spanish cheats
and liars. There’ll be no work for us there because they won’t trust us.’

Luisa opened her mouth to protest, but her mother carried on, ‘Don’t look at me like that. What do you expect us to do? We’ve Husain to think of. We’re doing the best we
can. We didn’t say anything to you because we knew you wouldn’t like it.’

‘But France? We can’t speak the language. How will we manage? I don’t want to be some French woman’s lackey. And sure as I stand, if we’re not welcome in Africa, we
won’t be welcome there either. Anyway, who said this?’

Mama went back to sorting the fruit and vegetables. ‘It was Aliya who told me.’

‘Her. Huh. What does she know?’

‘News is always first from her lips, you know that.’

‘She’s a blabbermouth. We never hear anything good from her big mouth. I don’t know why you even listen to her.’

‘Enough. I never thought I’d hear my own daughter malign our neighbours so. You know yourself, you never know when you might have need of them. These are dark times. Think of Daria
and Merin. Do you want to end up like them, locked up in the Castle of San Jorge? Well, do you?’ She threw down the knife, a look of frustration etched on her face.

‘You’re stupid if you believe anything Aliya says.’

‘Do not speak to me that way. Do you think I have only you to consider? Your father is half-blind. What do you think it will be like on those boats? A pleasure outing? Wake up, Luisa. You
can pretend you are Spanish all you like, but they can see it even if you can’t – the Morisco blood flowing in your veins. If you don’t come with us to France, they’ll send
you to Africa. Or put you in the cells at San Jorge. Which would you rather, heh?’

She blazed back, ‘I’m not a Morisco. I’m a Christian. I don’t understand Islam. It’s your fault. Why won’t you just do as they ask? Attend to what they say in
church. It’s not so bad. In fact, it makes more sense than anything in the Qur’an. Other people do it. Why not you? Then we could all stay here and be safe.’

Mama stared at her with her mouth set in a line, said nothing though her eyes had turned glassy. She unpacked more lemons from the basket.

Luisa pleaded with her, ‘It might not happen. Nobody’s said anything about it at the pottery. How would you feel if you uprooted our whole family again and it was all just gossip and
scaremongering?’

‘I am out of patience!’ Mama hurled a lemon at Luisa, but it missed and hit the wall behind her.

The air in the room seemed to grow thick.

Mama had never in all her life thrown anything at her. She saw her mother stoop to pick up the lemon from the floor. She swallowed before she spoke to Luisa in the measured tone of voice she
sometimes used for Husain. ‘However much you protest, you know we will do as your father says as usual. And his mind is made up. Señor Alvarez has agreed to help us.’

‘I’m not going.’ The words were almost a whisper.

‘Suit yourself. We will go without you.’ She pushed the bowl of lemons to one side, tipped the patatas into a bowl and began paring them with grim concentration.

Luisa could not answer. She took up the bowl of lemons and the knife, turned her back on her mother and walked away, out into the yard. There the new Englishman, Mr Deane, was practising again
in the late afternoon heat. She had hoped to be private, so the sight of him made her angry. She ignored him and went to the shady bench under the vines. Her heart beat fast under her bodice from
the argument with Mama.

If they went to France then she would be left alone. She had never been without her family before. But heaven help her, nothing would make her go with them, she’d rather die on Spanish
soil than go to France. She’d miss the pottery, the tavern where she danced, everything familiar. Why would she want to go to a place where she had no history, no past? But then, she thought
bitterly, what would it be like to stay behind, when her whole history had gone to France without her?

She picked up one of the fruits and dug the knife into the peel. She suddenly resented having to make the lemon drink that the men consumed so much of. She peeled off the rind, cursing as the
juice stung in the small cuts in her fingers.

Mr Deane was practising a backward-stepping pattern with the sword jutting forwards from under his elbow, like a boar’s tusk. She did not mean to watch him, but he was right there in front
of her. When he saw her looking, he thrust his weapon forward, with enough attack that the end of his rapier quivered from the force. She looked back down at her peeling. The rind dropped by her
feet and one of the hens from the back yard had somehow found her way in and pecked and scratched at it.

‘Shoo.’ She hustled the hen angrily back through the small door that was set into the back gates and shut it after her. When she got back to the bench Mr Deane was sitting there.
‘I could not resist the smell of those lemons,’ he said.

She sat down on the other side, with the bowl between them. She made an effort to talk normally, as if nothing was the matter. ‘It takes ten lemons to make the drink you are all so fond
of,’ she said. It came out as an accusation, but he did not flinch.

‘It’s very good, that stuff. We need it in this heat. I called in to the smithy this morning, to pass the time of day with Guido and Gabriel. Gabriel was still talking about Maria.
Have you seen her today?’

‘Yes, I see her most days. That’s where we get the lemons. She works at the fruiteria.’

‘Oh yes. I remember now. I’m sorry if we upset her.’

‘No. It’s not your fault.’ She paused, then said, ‘It’s hard for all Moriscos right now.’ He raised his eyebrows so she went on. ‘Seville is full of
rumours again. It’s nothing new. But my parents believe them all, every time. And they took away our neighbours for cooking meat on a Friday. It was horrible. They beat them, and dragged them
away. We haven’t seen them since. Mama’s scared they’ll come for us next. Now my father wants us to move to France.’ She grimaced. ‘And Señor Alvarez has agreed
to help us,’ she said miserably.

‘Will you go?’ He watched as she plopped the peeled lemon into the bowl.

‘No. I don’t know anything about France.’

‘I’ve just come from there.’

‘I thought you came from England?’

‘I was in France for a while before I came here. But I couldn’t stand it, that’s why I’m here.’

‘Why?’ Curiosity had got the better of her.

‘I was looking for a fencing master. Everyone I met in France was an “expert” who wanted to add you to their list of successful conquests. But most of them could barely hold a
rapier point side out, so I gave up in the end, it was an insult to fight such men.’

‘But what was it like, France?’

‘Cold. And people close their shutters on you if you cannot speak their language. I had a hard time finding a place to stay when I was travelling. Mind, they certainly know how to eat.
Best beef stew I’ve ever tasted.’

Luisa frowned. The beef stew worried her immediately. Father refused to eat meat until it had been blessed. ‘Are there many Moriscos there, do you know?’

He looked apologetic. ‘I’m sorry but I don’t know. I didn’t take much notice.’

‘Did you see any mosques, or hear a muezzin calling folk to prayer?’

‘No, not that I can recall. But then, I wasn’t looking for them. I’m sure there must be. Your father must think it’s safer there, or he wouldn’t have suggested
it.’ She frowned. It was not what she wanted to hear. He paused a moment and looked away into the distance. ‘I’d listen to your father. Like most parents, he is probably only
trying to keep you safe. And if Señor Alvarez thinks it’s a good idea . . .’

She twisted a piece of lemon peel in her fingers. He was trying to be pleasant, she knew, but he didn’t understand. ‘I can’t speak French,’ she said stubbornly.

‘Neither could I. But I got by with sign language.’ He mimed rubbing his stomach and pointing to his mouth. The effect was comical and in other circumstances would have made her
smile.

‘I might have guessed. All you men can think of is your stomach.’ An awkward silence was broken by the sound of talking, as at that moment two of the other men appeared at the front
gate with their arms cases.

‘Looks like it’s time for the evening session.’ He stood and bowed. ‘I shall look forward to tasting your lemon water, Señorita Ortega.’ His bowing made her
blush, but she dropped her head quickly to hide it. She was sorry she had been so rude, but she felt like an impostor; she was unused to young men treating her this way, like a queen.

She watched him cross the yard and saw the others smile and greet him. He looked back once and caught her eye. Inadvertently she found herself lifting her hand in a wave.

The next day Zachary unwrapped his new blade from the oilcloth and laid it on the bench.

The hiltsmith looked up from where he was grinding an amalgam in a mortar, put down the pestle and wiped his hands on a rag. He turned the blade over, and pursed his lips in approval. ‘It
is like a woman’s weapon, this, so light and fine. But a good edge on it too, I see. Let me show you some designs,’ he said, fetching some vellum sheets. ‘Something small like
this can take a swept hilt rather than the usual basket.’

Zachary looked over the patterns and chose an elegantly curved confection, all flowing vine-like curves, with a cherrywood handle. When he had negotiated a price, he left the blade with the
smith, feeling for all the world as if he had abandoned his only child.

As he came out of the hiltsmith’s door he breathed in the smell of the wind. It was the first time he had felt some respite from the heat. It was good to be alive, he thought, as he walked
jauntily down the Calle de las Armas towards the Guadalquivir river and the tied pontoon bridge to Triana, where the fleet was anchored off the sandbank, masts bristling up against the sky.

As he made his way across the bridge, the tied planks shifted slightly over the boats that supported them. The first time he had crossed he had found it disconcerting and had been tempted to
grab at the stake and rope handrail to steady himself. But Sevillians had used it as a common thoroughfare for generations, and even carts and horses trundled over it. The bridge was busy at this
time with packhorses and he had to queue. A few more folk pressed up behind him, all anxious to get to their day’s labours.

He was about a third of the way across when he saw them. A familiar knot of marching men. He looked again to make sure. Don Rodriguez and a group of his men were approaching from the other side;
they had a man between them in chains. They must have come from the Castle of San Jorge which loomed large on the opposite bank of the river.

Zachary licked his lips. His mouth was dry. He turned to go back the way he had come, but the route behind him was blocked. Those in front were clearing the way for the group, who were in armour
and had the air of officialdom that uniform gives men.