A Divided Inheritance (30 page)

Below him a family passed by. The man had his arm hooked into his wife’s elbow. Two young girls clung to her hooped skirt and scampered to keep up. The wife looked up at Zachary briefly
and smiled a greeting before sauntering on.

It gave him a pang of jealousy to see a family like that, bonded together as if nothing could ever divide them. He had never belonged anywhere. When he was in London, Elspet had seemed like an
unwelcome distraction and he had never thought of her as anything to do with him; she had not figured in his view of Leviston as family. Now Wilmot was acting as if Elspet was somehow
Zachary’s responsibility, but he had never been her kin, he knew. All that was a lie. He sighed. Obviously he could not have it cut both ways.

As he fastened on his doublet, he thought of his mother and hardened his resolve. The wheel of fortune had come round; that was all. Time for his chance at a fat life at last. And Wilmot, well,
he would be able to find another position. He was not too old and a man of his experience should be well-placed to pick up something else. After all, his mother had waited long enough for Leviston
to open his purse.

He pictured his uncle’s face smiling in satisfaction as Zachary pretended interest in his bobbins and bales, saw again the age-spots and the characteristic mole on his chin just above
where his beard started, remembered how he used to fold the bread into a square before popping it in his mouth.

Once you had sat at a man’s table, broken bread with him, then lies were so much harder. There was something holy about breaking bread with someone, even though you might never acknowledge
the fact. Damn Elspet, why did she have to come after him?

Zachary walked quickly, his hand on his sword, looking over his shoulder in case Rodriguez or his men should appear from a side street, but Gabriel’s sketchy directions
were enough to lead him straight to the Corral del Toro. He stood a moment outside, listening to the melancholy twang of a lute or cittern and a guttural wailing voice. The sound wavered, hung on
the night air.

This must be the
gitaneria
, the gypsy area. He’d heard tell in Toledo of the flowing-haired gypsy girls, with their peacock dress and loose morals, and ability to rend the heart
with song. He had not thought about women for so long that, despite Elspet Leviston, the thought of meeting a gypsy girl sent a frisson of excitement up his back.

The tavern itself was a dilapidated squat brick building backing on to a courtyard. Grass grew out of the tiles on the roof, and the central square was overhung with twisted vines casting
strands of shadow from the moon overhead. Pulling in his sword and buckler, he went through the arch into a square courtyard where sconces smoked against the walls. Rickety tables and
disintegrating rush stools filled the central area. The tables were illuminated by spouted earthenware lamps; each wick flickered with a thumb-sized flame.

Clearly this was not the sort of place Rodriguez would frequent, so he exhaled and made his way over to where he could see Gabriel’s bulky silhouette. He was leaning back against one of
the wooden pillars that supported the wispy canopy of foliage. Zachary dragged out a stool next to him and Gabriel grinned, pushing the jug of ale and a cup towards him.

‘You came!’

‘I need a drink,’ Zachary said, pouring the ale. He could not get over it – Elspet Leviston was actually here in Spain, the thought of it unsettled him.

Gabriel opened his mouth to speak, but before their conversation even had a chance to get started a jangle of strings cut through the chatter, and an old man in a ragged waistcoat started to
play. Poor old man, he was almost toothless; a shock of greying hair stood vertically from his forehead making his lined face appear even more swarthy.

‘What’s that he’s playing?’ Zachary asked.

‘ “
Cuando yo me muera
”,’ Gabriel whispered.

‘No, not the song, the instrument.’

‘Oh, guitarra morisca. They’re quite common among the gitanes in the taverns.’

Zachary had never seen anything like it, so small, yet the sound so penetrating. Nothing like the English lutes or citterns he was used to.

The old man dragged his fingernails over the strings in a series of crescendoing arcs, then sang, his instrument silent on his lap. He started with a long-drawn-out lamentation, followed by
words that seemed to rake across the room, his face screwed up in anguish. Zachary’s stomach lurched and from then on he was mesmerized by this man’s voice as he sang of the
irresistible attraction of love, its passion and terror, of the fear that you might lose your lover, or yourself into love’s madness:

‘That with the braids of your black hair they tie up my hands.’ The words startled him. It was so naked, his ardour. In England such a ballad could never be sung – it would be
all birds and trees and courtly euphemisms. Whilst the old man’s voice held sway, no one picked up a cup to drink, or moved to fill their pipe. His voice was a river, with rapids and
whirlpools, rough water and slow curves. Zachary was absolutely in his thrall. The old man’s clawlike hands gestured to the open sky above as he sang his last crooning note, eyes closed.

He spat noisily into the spittoon and cackled, showing his toothless smile. The spell was broken. Loud applause and movement returned to the tavern, girls bustled over with more ale, tankards
lifted once more. An itinerant seller in a gold-cloth turban and embroidered waistcoat appeared at their side and plied them with dried meat and fish. They bought meat which was tasty but salty and
caused Zachary to down another cup of ale. Seville was so warm, his thirst was never-ending.

He scanned the women at the tables, the way men do. He nudged Gabriel as his curious glance was returned by two dark-haired women leaning on the bar. He looked over and the two women turned away
and whispered to each other. One of them was shaking her head and frowning. The other, the taller one in vivid green, kept looking over and smiling.

‘Those two?’ Gabriel said.

‘Do you know them?’

‘I’ve seen the one in the green before. She’s nice, she works in the fruiteria. The other one’s a dancer, I’ve seen her dance, but never spoken to her. Shall we
offer them a drink?’

‘Go on, then.’

Gabriel waved them over. Behind them an eagle-faced man fixed Gabriel with his eyes. ‘Their father, I’ll bet,’ Zachary whispered as the girl in green approached, reluctantly
followed by the other.

‘I know,’ Gabriel said. ‘Don’t worry, we will be careful.’ As they reached the table he smiled and stood. ‘We would like to buy you a drink.’

‘We like to know the names of those we drink with,’ said the girl in the yellow shawl.

‘Gabriel Lopez and Zachary Deane at your service,’ Gabriel said.

Zachary stood too, to offer his seat.

‘Maria Nuñez,’ said the girl in green, sitting, ‘and this is my friend – ’

‘Luisa Ortega,’ said the other girl, pulling up another seat.

‘He’s English.’ Gabriel wagged his head in his direction. It sounded as if he was apologizing.

They fetched sweet Madeira for the ladies, but had barely begun a conversation when the thrum of the guitar started up again. Zachary was torn between wanting to listen and wanting to talk. But
Luisa had already put her cup down.

‘My time,’ she announced, and pulled her shawl from her shoulders to tie it tightly around her hips. ‘Save my seat, Maria.’ She hoisted her flounced skirts out of the way
of the tables and chairs as she made her way to the front.

In the lamplight her face was serious and gaunt. Her hair was wound in a heavy knot at the nape of her neck and fixed with a horn comb. She reminded Zachary of a bird, there was something
light-boned and insubstantial about her. She waited a moment before beginning a few tentative steps, her arms stretched above her head, slender fingers forming pointed beaks. She stamped her
sandalled feet in small staccato movements. Bells at her ankles gave a shimmering sound. Her back was long and straight, her skirts falling in a cascade of ruffles to reveal neat ankle bones and
sun-browned feet. She was beautiful. Zachary let out his breath; he had been holding it without knowing.

She swayed, eyes closed, to the rhythm of the guitar, hands curling down to her waist and back to above her head. Tack, tack. Her feet stamped. The guitar continued its rhythmic pulse.

Mid-movement she sighed and dropped her arms. She turned crossly to the guitarist and gesticulated; he paused in his play as she bent to talk with him. She walked back to their table, untying
the shawl from her waist and flinging it back around her shoulders.

‘Aren’t you going to dance after all?’ Gabriel asked.

‘No.’ She looked distressed. ‘No, I can’t dance tonight. I have no spirit for dancing.’

Maria reached over and pressed Luisa’s hand where it lay on the table. Luisa turned to Zachary, an accusing look in her eyes. ‘You are English?’

He started to say, ‘No, half-Spanish, but—’

She interrupted him. Her sloe eyes searched his. ‘A good Catholic, yes?’

He looked to Gabriel, who shook his head as if to warn him to keep quiet.

Luisa still looked at Zachary with an odd intensity. It frightened him, that look. Maria filled the awkward silence. ‘Luisa had bad news. Last week she had to move out of her house, and
now she’s just heard from her uncle that some of her friends in Valencia have been deported.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Gabriel spoke politely.

‘Don’t, Maria.’ Luisa frowned at her. ‘It’s none of their business. I just don’t feel like dancing, that’s all.’

‘What’s wrong? They should know. It’s no secret, is it?’ Maria said. ‘The authorities have always treated us like dung. And now a man at the bar has just told me
what they are spending our fines and taxes on.’ Her voice was bitter. ‘Guess what? A new gaol in the Castle of San Jorge so they can keep more of us
conversos
under lock and
key.’ She laughed mirthlessly. ‘Not only that, but the prison is to have a special chapel where we will receive instruction in the Catholic faith. They will force us to their God with
torture.’

Luisa gave her a warning glance. ‘Leave it, Maria. It’s not his fault.’

Maria ignored her friend. She thrust out her chin as if to dare them to react. ‘If we comply and take instruction meekly then they might deign to let us out of their stinking gaol a little
earlier. If not, there will be more taxes or more torture. More galley service.’

Zachary looked to Gabriel. He didn’t know what to say, he was unused to such outspokenness in women.

Behind Maria, her father was approaching; he must have sensed something was the matter. ‘Maria?’

She stood up. ‘You – Englishman, you want to know what life is like for us? Here, Papa.’ She took her father’s wrist and pushed his claw-like hands before Zachary’s
eyes. ‘See these – see these broken fingers? Galley service. Three years of it, where they beat your knuckles with an iron rod if you do not row quickly enough. What a waste.’

‘Maria, enough.’ Her father pulled his hands away but she did not stop. Her sallow cheeks were tinged with pink as she leaned forward, palms planted on the table, eyes blazing.
‘Too many good men have hands like these. My father was a calligrapher. And he must spend three years inside the belly of a stinking ship. Now he can hardly lift a pen. And you – you
are all the same. You expect Luisa to dance for your entertainment. To dance for nothing. Well, she won’t dance to please you or anyone else. Come on, Luisa.’

Maria untied her shawl and swathed it tightly over her nose and mouth in the Morisco way and pushed through the throng to the door. A man near the bar let out a whistle. She turned long enough
to send him a barbed look, her dark eyes framed by her scarf. Her father granted them a small bow, a laconic smile on his lips.

‘She means no harm. Good evening, gentlemen,’ he said.

Maria paused at the door for her father, and then swept out.

‘What a firebrand,’ Zachary said to Gabriel behind his hand.

‘She’s that.’

Luisa jumped to defend her friend. ‘It’s true though. To the authorities we are nothing but one big open purse.’ She pressed her lips together in disgust. ‘Señor,
how long have you been in Spain?’

Zachary confessed, ‘Just six weeks.’

She shook her head, and her gilded earrings tinkled. ‘Ha. Then you don’t know the half of it. In Valencia they have sent everyone of Moorish descent back to the Barbary Coast, but
they dare not do it here. Trade would collapse without our fines. Besides, if they did that, who would make their sandals?’ She glanced scathingly down at Gabriel’s hempen footwear.
Gabriel retracted his feet out of view under the stool. ‘Sandal makers and farm labourers. That’s all they think us fit for.’

Gabriel looked abashed. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘let me pour you some more wine.’

Luisa folded her slim arms across her chest but she did not leave.