A Divided Inheritance (21 page)

She perched on the edge of her seat and waited silently while they settled themselves. ‘He won’t sell?’ she asked.

Hugh’s father gave a slight sideways nod of the head and fixed Hugh with a look. Hugh stood again, and announced, ‘I am sorry, Mistress Leviston –’ he was struggling for
words – ‘it’s this way. I find I no longer wish to be wed.’ He sat down again suddenly and looked at his knees.

She leaned towards him. ‘Oh Hugh, we can wait a while, if you wish. There is no need for it to be so soon—’

‘No.’ His father’s voice cut in. ‘What my son means is that he is breaking his engagement. He does not want to marry, Miss Leviston, not now and not at any future
date.’

‘Oh.’ The word sounded very small.

Her mind raced. Did he mean he did not want to marry
her
? So the will had made a difference after all. She looked to the father, but he would not meet her eye, and was drumming on his
thigh with his fingers.

She stood up again, hearing the rustle of her gown. ‘Might I ask you, Hugh, why you have changed your mind?’ Her question was too reasonable given that an explosion seemed to be
happening in her chest.

‘He does not want—’ His father started to speak but she interrupted him.

‘With all respect, sir, I am asking Hugh. He owes me some explanation at least. Hugh?’

Hugh pulled at his fall-back collar, and stretched his jaw, as if the words were stuck in his throat. Eventually, he said, ‘We went to Greeting. I wanted to buy the house and business from
your cousin. That’s when we found out . . .’

He did not go on, but she waited. Faint barking came from below.

Then he burst out, ‘Damn it, that you lied to us. Your father and you both, that Zachary is not your cousin, that he’s your . . .’

‘Your bastard brother,’ his father said. ‘That he is the son of a whore of Cheapside.’ His voice was rising now, getting louder. ‘That up until a few months ago he
was making a living stealing and cheating his betters. That there are records of him and his brothers in every gaol in the city.’

‘Is it true, Elspet?’ Hugh pleaded.

‘I –’ She was confused, she sank down in the chair, hand to her forehead, as if to press it there might bring her an answer. ‘Truth be told, I don’t know. I mean,
yes, they tell me Zachary is my half-brother. But I knew nothing of this – this other business, indeed nothing of him at all before he came to this house, my father did not tell me – I
mean to say . . .’ She struggled to find anything sensible to add.

Old Mr Bradstone cleared his throat and rose to his feet, leaning on his stick, preparing to go. ‘The facts are these. We have just found out that Leviston’s Lace is not the solid
business we thought it to be. There are debts. Add to this your personal history . . .’ he wrinkled his nose, ‘and what seemed a suitable match is regrettably no longer so. I am sorry,
Mistress Leviston.’ He did not look sorry, just self-righteous. ‘Come, Hugh, we have said what we came to say.’

She reached out a hand, a protestation on her lips.

‘No, do not get up again,’ Hugh said, his face red with heat, ‘Martha can show us out.’

Martha jumped up from her seat by the door and opened it. She seemed small and slight next to the two burly men, and her eyes darted in fear first to one gentleman and then to the other.

The full enormity of what it meant took Elspet’s breath. She leapt from the chair. ‘Wait!’ she shouted. ‘Hugh!’ She put her hand to his shoulder to stay him.

He turned but his eyes avoided hers.

‘Will you leave me now, when I need you the most?’ She heard the choke in her voice. ‘Zachary wants to sell everything I own. And you will let him take my reputation
too?’

Hugh made to move away. She clasped his arm. ‘Please, Hugh, think again. I will be a good wife, the best you could wish for – I am skilled in household accounts and with the needle .
. .’ She knew she was gabbling, clutching at straws. She was humiliating herself but could not prevent the words spilling out.

He shook his head. ‘I am sorry, I would not have—’

‘Hugh.’ His father summoned him briskly. Hugh shook his head wordlessly and strode to the door where it was held open for him.

Elspet cried, ‘I beg you, I am not my brother. I am honest and hardworking and . . .’ but her voice trailed away. She had caught sight of his father’s face which regarded her
with contempt as though she were the lowest worm of the earth.

In haste Hugh ducked away and out of the door. She saw two hats pass the window. A moment later hoofbeats rang out, followed by the rattle of wheels as their carriage pulled away. She stood in
the darkness of the hall, unable to move into the brighter light of the chamber.

‘Martha,’ she whispered, ‘leave me.’

Martha’s shoes clacked away downstairs. Elspet leaned her back against the front door to keep the world out, and the hall fell silent.

Whatever would she do? The house would be sold from under her feet. There was nowhere else to go, not even a husband and house in Yorkshire.

‘Oh mistress.’ It was Martha. She had crept back. The fearful look on her maid’s face reflected her own. It was a disaster.

‘Oh Martha,’ she cried, and fell sobbing on her shoulder. Martha patted her on the back, but Elspet had felt her stiffen, as though something in their relationship had already
changed.

August 1608, a year earlier
The Royal Court of Felipe III, El Escorial, Madrid

‘So what would you suggest?’ The young King’s voice was irritable; he found the older man’s ponderous manner irksome.

‘That we should enable all Moriscos to be educated as your father promised. After all, they are citizens of Spain.’

‘It has been tried. It achieves nothing, to compel them to undertake instruction, and well you know it. Quiroba is a more astute inquisitor-general than his predecessor. He has proved what
we already knew – they pay us lip-service in church, but beneath their nods and smiles lie hearts of treachery. And no sooner have they left our churches, than they band together privately to
carry out their heathen customs.’

The King picked up his glass of port and downed it before putting it on the highly polished walnut table, which was set like an island in the vast library. Immediately the glass was removed by
one of the courtiers and a fresh glass was clinked down.

Fr Fernandez, the Jesuit, who was small and old, was standing by the table sweating slightly. He had dreaded this interview. When the King asked for advice he did not really want advice, at
least not advice that conflicted with his own ideas. And here, looked down on by the painted frescoes of the gods of rhetoric, dialectic and grammar, he felt even more inadequate in his grey
homespun.

Despite the support of English Jesuits at court, he feared his opinion was a lost cause but, nevertheless, he had to try. So what if it was the last thing he did? He had already had seventy-two
years of good life.

He wiped his forehead and smoothed out a sheaf of unrolled parchments before the King. ‘Here are the documents showing the education programme for the Morisco seminaries of Seville, of
Madrid, of—’

The King interrupted. ‘My father said that he ordered a census of the Moriscos to be taken. Has that been done?’ He scooped up one of the documents with a well-manicured hand and
scanned it briefly before casting it back on to the table.

‘Your father was . . . well-intentioned, but I’m afraid he did not appreciate the difficulties,’ replied Fr Fernandez. ‘It is too awkward an undertaking. It will provoke
bad feeling if we single them out for anything, let alone to be counted. Anyway, the Church simply does not have the manpower; it would be too time-consuming for those in ecclesiastical
office.’ He picked up the scroll and held it out to the King. ‘Why not take a look at these reports: we have had a modicum of success with the re-education measures
and—’

‘But we need to know how many we are dealing with.’ The King paced the floor, his gold-leafed boot heels tapping on the marble tiles. ‘How can the Duke of Lerma plan how many
mercenaries will be required for their transportation if I don’t know the numbers of Moriscos I am dealing with?’

So the King was intent on expulsion. Fernandez sagged. ‘Is exile the only course open to us, your majesty? I fear even talk of an expulsion would stir a rebellion, like in the Alpujarras.
That was a travesty.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘So much bloodshed, so little change. Why not allow a little more time? We do not know how successful the Edict of Grace has been
yet.’

The King snorted as if to dismiss it. ‘The duke informs me the Moriscos are already whispering in the alleyways intent on another uprising, and that this time they will call on the might
of the Turks to help them. Can you imagine what that would mean?’

There was no answer he could give to the King’s rhetorical question, so Fr Fernandez clasped his hands and looked down at the hem of his robe.

‘No, the Crown should act first to purge Spain of this bad seed. I am beginning to think we should not wait until after the results of this Edict of Grace. The edicts are failing anyway,
my bishop says. Not enough confessions.’

Fr Fernandez cleared his throat. He felt the words come to the tip of his tongue, but dare not say them. That it was hardly surprising. That since the last
auto da fé
most
Moriscos were too terrified to come forward.

He moved away from the table and slowly straightened his aching knees. He made a small bow before taking a deep breath. ‘Pardon me for my bluntness,’ he said, ‘but I feel the
trials have become somewhat heavy-handed. Of course it is not the fault of your majesty,’ he hastened to add, ‘but the Moriscos see their kindred confess and repent, and vow to convert,
and yet still they are burnt for heresy.’

The King paused in his pacing and glared at him with his slate-coloured eyes. Fr Fernandez had his attention at last; he waited for the axe to fall.

But the King merely turned away and tapped his foot. The sight of his small beribboned shoe tapping like that in this vast cavern of books made Fernandez angry. It seemed too small a gesture for
what was at stake. He did not understand how this King could possibly have earned the title, ‘
El Santito
.’ He prayed, yes – three hours a day. He owned all these books.
But was he holy? Fernandez doubted it.

He must drown out that tapping. He threw up his arms in frustration. ‘How can we call ourselves compassionate men? In Aragon two women were executed, they tell me, just for wearing the
Moorish veil. How can we have come to this? That we burn people in God’s name, simply for wearing the wrong clothes?’

The King whipped round. ‘You go too far, Father. That’s not the point, and you know it.’

Fr Fernandez dropped his eyes as the King turned on his heel and ranged away from him down the length of the room. ‘Don’t be naïve,’ he called. ‘Wearing the veil is
forbidden precisely because it encourages them to band together and resist integration. Those that were tried and executed were proven traitors to the Faith. You know full well their dress was only
the outward expression of that.’

‘But the trials are a death sentence! How can we bring men to the Faith through repentance, if they know that repentance sentences them to the pyre?’ The priest’s voice echoed
against the domes and arches above.

The King tapped back towards him. ‘They die because they have not fully renounced their ways. Those who show their contrition by pointing out their Muslim compatriots are left in peace.
And surely once they have confessed and repented the Church can instruct them.’ He leaned his moustached face towards Fr Fernandez; his breath smelt of cloves and decay. ‘Or is it
beyond the wit of my bishops to educate a few slaves and servants?’

Fr Fernandez backed away. ‘Of course not, but education takes time, your majesty, you have to allow it time,’ he pleaded. ‘It can be as much as a whole generation before we see
the fruits of our instruction.’