Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

Looking up, Barney got what he hoped for: a glimpse of Señor Ruiz’s seventeen-year-old daughter, Jerónima. He walked even more slowly and stared at her, drinking in the pale skin, the lush waves of dark hair, and most of all the large, luminous brown eyes accentuated by black eyebrows. She smiled at him and gave a discreet wave.

Well-bred girls were not supposed to stand at windows, let alone wave at passing boys, and she would get into trouble if she were found out. But she took the risk, every morning at this time; and Barney knew, with a thrill, that it was the closest she could get to flirting.

Passing the house he turned and began to walk backwards, still smiling. He stumbled, almost fell, and made a wry face. She giggled, putting her hand to her red lips.

Barney was not planning to marry Jerónima. At twenty he was not ready for marriage, and if he had been he would not have been sure Jerónima was the one. But he did want to get to know her, and discreetly caress her when no one was looking, and steal kisses. However, girls were supervised more strictly here in Spain than at home and, as he blew her a kiss, he was not sure he would ever get a real one.

Then her head turned, as if she had heard her name called, and a moment later she was gone. Reluctantly, Barney walked away.

Carlos’s place was not far, and Barney’s thoughts moved from love to breakfast with a readiness that made him feel slightly ashamed.

The Cruz house was pierced by a broad arch leading through to a courtyard where the work was done. Piles of iron ore, coal and lime were stacked against the courtyard walls, separated by rough wooden dividers. In one corner an ox was tethered. In the middle stood the furnace.

Carlos’s African slave, Ebrima Dabo, was stoking the fire ready for the first batch of the day, his high dark forehead beaded with perspiration. Barney had come across Africans in England, especially in port cities such as Combe Harbour, but they were free: slavery was not enforceable under English law. Spain was different. There were thousands of slaves in Seville: Barney guessed they were about one in ten of the population. They were Arabs, North Africans, a few Native Americans, and some like Ebrima from the Mandinka region of West Africa. Barney was quick with languages, and had even picked up a few words of Manding. He had heard Ebrima greet people with ‘ I be nyaadi? ’ which meant ‘How are you?’

Carlos was standing with his back to the entrance of the house, studying a newly built structure of bricks. He had heard of a different type of furnace, one that permitted a blast of air to be blown in at the bottom while iron ore and lime were fed into the top. None of the three men had ever seen such a thing, but they were building an experimental prototype, working on it when they had time.

Barney spoke to Carlos in Spanish. ‘There’s no iron ore to be had at the waterfront today.’

Carlos’s mind was on the new furnace. He scratched his curly black beard. ‘We have to find a way to harness the ox so that it works the bellows.’

Barney frowned. ‘I don’t quite see it, but you can get a beast to work any mechanism, if you have enough wheels.’

Ebrima heard them. ‘Two sets of bellows,’ he said. ‘One blowing out while the other breathes in.’

‘Good idea,’ Carlos said.

The cooking range stood in the courtyard a little nearer the house. Carlos’s grandmother stirred a pot and said: ‘Wash your hands, you boys. It’s ready.’ She was Barney’s great-aunt, and he called her Aunt Betsy, though in Seville she was known as Elisa. She was a warm-hearted woman, but not beautiful. Her face was dominated by a big, twisted nose. Her back was broad and she had large hands and feet. She was sixty-five, a considerable age, but still full-figured and active. Barney recalled his Grandma in Kingsbridge saying: ‘My sister Betsy was a handful of trouble when she was a girl — that’s why she had to be sent to Spain.’

It was hard to imagine. Aunt Betsy now was cautious and wise. She had quietly warned Barney that Jerónima Ruiz had her eye firmly on her own selfish interests, and would surely marry someone a lot richer than Barney.

Betsy had raised Carlos after his mother died giving birth to him. His father had died a year ago, a few days before Barney’s arrival. The men lived on one side of the arch and Betsy, who owned the place, occupied the other half of the house.

The table was in the courtyard. They usually ate out of doors in daylight, unless the weather was exceptionally cold. They sat down to eggs cooked with onions, wheat bread, and a jug of weak wine. They were strong men who did heavy work all day, and they ate a lot.

Ebrima ate with them. A slave would never eat with his owners in the large household of a wealthy family, but Carlos was an artisan who worked with his hands, and Ebrima toiled side by side with him. Ebrima remained deferential, however: there was no pretence that they were equals.

Barney had been struck by Ebrima’s clever contribution to the exchange about the new furnace. ‘You know a lot about metal working,’ Barney said to him as they ate. ‘Did you learn from Carlos’s father?’

‘My own father was an iron maker,’ Ebrima said.

‘Oh!’ Carlos was surprised. ‘Somehow I never imagined Africans making iron.’

‘How did you think we got swords to fight wars?’

‘Of course. Then... how did you become a slave?’

‘In a war with a neighbouring kingdom. I was captured. Where I come from, prisoners-of-war normally become slaves, working in the fields of the winning side. But my master died, and his widow sold me to an Arab slave trader... and, after a long journey, I ended up in Seville.’

Barney had not previously asked Ebrima about his past, and he was curious. Did Ebrima long for home, or prefer Seville? He looked about forty: at what age had he been enslaved? Did he miss his family? But now Ebrima said: ‘May I ask you a question, Mr Willard?’

‘Of course.’

‘Do they have slaves in England?’

‘Not really.’

Ebrima hesitated. ‘What does that mean, not really ?’

Barney thought for a moment. ‘In my home town, Kingsbridge, there is a Portuguese jeweller called Rodrigo. He buys fine fabrics, lace and silk, then sews pearls into them and makes headdresses, scarves, veils and other such frippery. Women go mad for his things. Rich men’s wives come from all over the west of England to buy them.’

‘And he has a slave?’

‘When he arrived, five years ago, he had a groom from Morocco called Achmed who was clever with animals. Word of this got around, and Kingsbridge people would pay Achmed to doctor their horses. After a while, Rodrigo found out and demanded the money, but Achmed would not hand it over. Rodrigo went to the court of quarter sessions, and said the money was his because Achmed was his slave; but Justice Tilbury said: “Achmed has broken no English law.” So Rodrigo lost and Achmed kept his money. Now he has his own house and a thriving business as an animal doctor.’

‘So English people can have slaves, but if the slave walks away, the owner can’t force him back?’

‘Exactly.’

Barney could see that Ebrima was intrigued by this notion. Perhaps he dreamed of going to England and becoming a free man.

Then the conversation was interrupted. Both Carlos and Ebrima suddenly tensed and looked towards the entrance arch.

Barney followed their gaze and saw three people approaching. In the lead was a short, broad-shouldered man with costly clothes and a greasy moustache. Walking on either side of him and a pace or two behind were two taller men who appeared, from their inexpensive clothing, to be servants, perhaps bodyguards. Barney had never seen any of the three before but he recognized the type. They looked like thugs.