Claire Letemendia - The Licence of War

Seville, Spain. 4th October 1643

At the holiest moment in the Mass, as bread and wine became the body and blood of Jesus Christ, Don Antonio de Zamora was counting under his breath. Uno, dos, tres, quatro … He had spied his target on the previous Sunday, only to lose her among the faithful crowded into the vast nave of Santa María de la Sede, yet today God had placed her conveniently close: a row ahead of him, just across the aisle. Cinco, seis, siete … It would take no more than twenty, he estimated. Diez, once, doze … She began to fiddle with a hairpin in her expensive lace mantilla. Diez y seis, diez y siete … Her spine stiffened; he might have stroked his finger along it. Diez y ocho, diez y … On the count of nineteen she turned, as if he had tapped her on the shoulder, and the look upon her face confirmed what he already knew: that he was as handsome and desirable as in his youth. Regretfully, he lowered his eyes. While he needed a new mistress, he could not afford another spendthrift sevillana . He might ask Gaspar to find him a simple country girl and employ her at El Caballo Blanco, to save on her keep and enable him to visit her at his pleasure.

When Mass ended, Antonio ushered his family from the cool, dim cathedral into the blinding autumn sunlight, past the beggars gathered at the steps: the maimed on crutches or dragging their sad carcasses through the dirt, and a gaggle of gypsies and their children, whining and flattering. An ancient wretch with stumps for arms had the effrontery to pester him. “I fought in the northern wars as you did, sir — spare an old soldier a coin!”

“It is the Feast of St. Francis,” Antonio’s wife said, reaching into the pocket of her gown.

“A saint who chose poverty over riches,” Antonio reminded her. “And each Sunday it is the same with you, Teresa. Cease your foolishness, or we’ll soon be begging ourselves.”

They walked in procession towards their coach: he and Teresa; their surviving son, twelve-year-old Felipe, and sole unmarried daughter, María de Mercedes; Teresa’s elderly widowed aunts; and lastly the servants. Antonio felt both pride and a secret amusement that the crest of his parentage, de Zamora y Fuentes, was emblazoned on the door of the battered vehicle. He could maintain the semblance of rank. But what was rank without money? He was even in debt to Gaspar. The mistress might have to wait.

His cogitations were interrupted by a harsh breath from Teresa, who dropped her hand from his sleeve. “Look over there.”

She pointed to a gypsy standing alone, vainly trying to soothe the fretful child she was carrying. The girl wore a ragged dress and shawl faded to dingy grey, and her black hair was matted with dust. The set of her features and her large dark eyes possessed striking beauty. Such a waste, thought Antonio: her charms would coarsen with breeding and hardship. And however boldly they sang and danced, full-blooded Roma women could not be had, except by force. Intimacy with an outsider meant exile from their kin.

“I agree she is an alluring creature,” he observed.

“I am not speaking of her,” said Teresa. “Look at her babe.”

The brown-skinned boy was around six months of age and resembled his mother, except Antonio was shocked to see that his irises were a distinctive pale green. “How very strange,” Antonio said. “Do you honestly believe …?”

Teresa was already advancing on the pair. “What is your name, girl?”

The gypsy bowed her head obsequiously; she had not yet noticed Antonio. “Juana, my lady.”

“Show me your son.” Juana held him out; he was whimpering, clinging to her dress. “Who is his father?”

The girl opened her mouth to reply. But when Antonio approached her, she jumped back as though bitten by a snake. He shivered. Gypsies were supernaturally gifted; he had never encountered this one before, to his recollection, so what had she detected in him?

“She has told me all I need to know!” said Teresa, turning to sweep off to the coach.

Antonio restrained her. “My dear, you have woken in me the spirit of Christian charity. When did you last eat, Juana?”

“Three days ago,” the girl said, staring at his face.

“And your boy?”

“He had a crust dipped in water this morning.”

“Why are you by yourselves, and not with the rest of your tribe?” Juana said nothing. “Follow the coach to my house, and my servants will direct you to the kitchen, where you shall be fed.”

“Don Antonio, you are shameless,” Teresa scolded.

“On the contrary, amor de mi vida , I wish to correct your assumption. Are you going to let your son starve?” he inquired of Juana, who had not moved an inch.

“For his sake, sir, I accept.”

“When you have eaten, you must promise to come and thank us.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, as if she were granting him the favour.

He and Teresa joined their family in the coach, and the gypsy trailed behind a smaller cart bearing their servants. Silence reigned on the brief journey to the de Zamoras’ dilapidated ancestral home; and during the midday meal, Teresa darted peevish frowns at Antonio.

“Where is the girl?” he asked the servant clearing the table.

“She’s gobbled her weight in bread and soup, sir, and is reading palms in the kitchen,” the servant said.

“Fetch her.”

“What madness, Don Antonio,” complained Teresa. “She will seize the chance to steal a piece of our silverware.”

“Unlikely, my dear,” he said. “Practically every bit of it has been sold.”

Juana padded in with the child draped sleeping upon her shoulder. The food had brought colour to her cheeks, and a confidence to her bearing. She scrutinised each member of the family, and next the room. Antonio wondered if she could judge the state of his affairs from the peeling walls, woodworm-riddled floorboards, and moth-eaten tapestries. Then she performed an odd obeisance, half bow, half curtsey. “May the saints bless you, for rescuing me and my sweet innocent boy when we were at death’s door.”

“Answer me, Juana,” said Antonio, “who fathered your son?”

She hesitated, scuffing at the floor with a dirty toe. “He was … an Englishman, sir.”

“An Englishman, in Spain?”

“No, sir: I met him in The Hague two winters past.”

“What was his business?”

“He’d been a soldier.”

“Where is he now?”

Her lip curled. “God knows. He left me as soon as he knew I was carrying his child. And my people wouldn’t have me any more, because he was a gajo .”

“A gajo ?” echoed María de Mercedes.

“He was not a gypsy,” Antonio explained; so Juana was indeed an exile, and vulnerable. Yet her reply had elicited in him a peculiar unease. “How could you be certain he was from England?” he demanded of her.