A Most Uncivil War

By Nicolas Lalaguna

‘Over the course of the long, hot summer months Marianela is never far from the young man's thoughts. Pedro had been using his monthly trips to the market in Zaragoza as an opportunity to visit a gypsy girl in a brothel there, but from the moment Marianela arrives, neither the bordello nor the prostitute hold quite as much fascination for him.’

Beginning in 1917 and running across the twentieth century, A Most Uncivil War tells the story of a young man, Pedro, struggling with his position as a landowner and head of the house. Giving in to his adolescent desires for one night, he sets the family on a path that culminates in estrangement, irreconcilable lies, brutality, glimpses of utopia, executions and eventual tragedy. 

A Most Uncivil War is based on the true story of the hundreds of thousands of people that gambled their lives during the Spanish Civil War, fighting for a just and equal world, and who eventually paid the ultimate price in the first line of defence against the fascist axis. It tells the ideological struggle of the 20th century projected on to a canvas of a simple farming family in rural Aragon.

A Most Uncivil War represents the trials and tribulations of the Spanish population at a time when fascist insurgents and revolutionary anarchists were at war in the villages and cities. This book offers a view into the Spanish Civil War that is often overlooked in fiction, and will appeal to fans of historical novels, as well as those with a strong interest in Spanish history.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Jul 10, 2018
• ISBN: 9781785896675

Nicolas Lalaguna

Born and raised in London, Nicolas Lalaguna has worked in the commercial and not-for-profit sector as well as writing essays. His first novel, A Most Uncivil War, received widespread praise.

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Copyright © 2022 Martin Parsons

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the

publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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With eternal gratitude to the people of Spain who paid the ultimate price showing us that another world is possible.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Epilogue

Chapter 1

In the east of Spain between Teruel and Reus there is a small village. It is similar to many of the villages in the region and as the midday sun looms high overhead, the whitewashed walls hold the stifling heat amongst its narrow, dusty streets. Separating the bleached buildings from the cloudless, blue sky high above, red tiled roofs perch on the top of each house like a beret. On one side of the village, within a walled garden, stands a stately home overlooking the industrious villagers in the streets and fields. Branching off from the fast-flowing Rio Guadalope to the east, the circulatory system of tributaries and irrigation channels keeps the fields surrounding the village lush.

The cool, fresh waters from the distant mountains soak through the orange earth ensuring that the peaches are juicy and the olives are sweet, before they take the train to Zaragoza or Barcelona. For many of the villagers 1917 will be no different to previous years. But for a few it will be very different.

Outside the church Pedro stops and ties his horse up. It whinnies and shuffles its poorly shod hooves. The baking summer sun beats down on the back of his shirt. He looks up towards the sky and shades his eyes as he takes a red neckerchief from his pocket. He wipes the sweat and dirt from his neck. Two barefooted children run past him, kicking up clouds of dust. Pedro watches them and smiles before entering the cool sanctuary of the village church.

Pedro looks up the aisle between the pews and sees his mother, dressed in black, kneeling at the feet of the young priest. He ties the damp neckerchief loosely around his neck and watches the priest rest his hand on his mother’s bowed head. He can only just hear the priest’s Latin blessing as he bends his knee and crosses himself.

Pedro watches the priest and his mother walk down the central aisle towards him. The priest nods his head in greeting, Good day, Pedro. I have noticed that you have not joined your mother in morning mass recently. I hope the godless communists don’t have you questioning your faith.

Pedro bows his head. No, Father; thankfully with your blessed lessons no one could stray from the righteous path. I have been busy with work in recent weeks. Nothing more than that. I will, of course, be here on Sunday.

The priest smiles and clasps Pedro’s shoulder. Good, and it is fine work that you do. The soft, fleshy hand is more used to counting the collection and gains little purchase on the shoulder sculpted from years tearing at the baked clay in the fields. The priest allows his eyes to scan the man in front of him. He successfully hides his contempt for all the evidence of a life toiling in the sun staring back at him: the sun-leathered skin, the crow’s feet, the scarred and calloused hands and the mud-caked sandals. Unaware of the priest’s disdain, Pedro thanks him for his goodwill and turns to leave. His mother follows him.

Mother and son walk through the streets, the horse’s hooves gently padding beside them. Each house they pass has closed shutters in the windows and curtains hanging over the doors. The black of her mourning stands out from the dust-stained whitewash surrounding them. She links arms with her son. Remember the new girl will be arriving today. You will need to clear a space for her in the storehouse. Pedro nods his head.

As they turn the corner into their street Pedro sees her for the first time. Standing in the sun with one bag at her feet and an address in her hand, Marianela’s sixteen-year-old eyes fix his gaze. She quickly looks down at her feet with embarrassment as his studious stare dances across the contours of her body, clearly evident under her simple dress and apron.

His focus is broken as his mother hits her across the shoulder with her stick. Stupid girl, what are you doing just standing there? Get inside the house. Red faced and with eyes moistening, she runs into the house, scolded and feline.

Pedro takes the sack of vegetables from the saddle and follows them in. His mother takes the sack from him and pushes Marianela towards the back door with the end of the stick. She turns to Pedro who is still standing in the doorway. Go and get washed. I won’t have you saying grace and breaking bread with the soil still on your hands. Without waiting for a response she follows the girl through the house.

Before turning to leave, he glances back toward Marianela just in time to catch her doing the same towards him. He watches her pull back the curtain over the door and the sun rush across her, pouring into the shadows of the hallway behind her. He turns, leaves the hallway, and takes the horse to the storehouse at the back of the building.

Chapter 2

Over the course of the long, hot summer months Marianela is never far from the young man’s thoughts. Pedro had been using his monthly trips to the market in Zaragoza as an opportunity to visit a gypsy girl in a brothel there, but from the moment Marianela arrives, neither the bordello nor the prostitute hold quite as much fascination for him. It is not long before it is in his imagination that his desires are being realised.

*

The summer eventually gives way to the autumn, and the electric storms subside as the harvest nears. The weeks pass and the furtive glances between the two teenagers grow as they both refuse to admit their true feelings towards one another. His fear of rejection and her lack of self-esteem paralyse them both into inaction and the tension of their unrealised desires builds. Sensing an impending liaison, Pedro’s mother invites her widowed sister to live with them and help watch over the two teenagers.

With October fast approaching, the word from the cities grows ever grimmer and the morning newspapers talk of unrest at home and abroad. As the preparations for the annual fiesta take place, word of the impending second revolution in Russia reaches the village. In the tavernas, houses and fields the conversations grow increasingly tense. The labourers whisper of unionising, strikes and revolution; while the bosses speak of birthright, security and divine destiny.

Every evening Pedro goes to the Casino where he listens patiently to the other smallholders spitting angrily as they drink. At the back of the main square, the Casino, with its bar, restaurant and members fees is the main meeting point for the land owners. Every evening he nods as they describe the savagery of the landless peasants working their fields. He smiles as they explain how the workers grow more ungrateful on a daily basis. He tightens his lips and murmurs his agreement as the conversation inevitably turns to anger and then hatred.

When he can listen to no more he goes across the square to his favourite taverna, a far quieter and less busy end to his day, where he imagines a simple life working the land and raising a family with Marianela.

Over the course of the evening he continuously reminds himself to applaud the climbing tensions surrounding him in case one of his drinking companions catches a glimpse of the dreams running through his mind. Behind the mask he paints for himself Pedro feels ever more alone in a village full of strangers.

As the celebrations reach their climax on the first night of the fiesta, the main square is busy with the rich in their best clothes and the poor in their blue overalls. Family and friends from across the region have joined the villagers as they wander from one taverna to another. The music and dancing spill out of the buildings creating a melting pot of soundtracks filling the streets. The labourers drink cheap wine and eat simple foods while their wealthy neighbours drink foreign digestives and smoke cigars from recently-lost colonies.

Pedro accompanies his mother and aunt through the streets as they take in the sounds and smells of the festivities. The evening passes as they make their way around the square, nodding their heads in recognition of their neighbours. It doesn’t take long for Pedro to notice Marianela sitting with some of the maids from the other houses. Pedro’s mother, Soledad, sees his attention shifting and follows his gaze to the tables where the girl sits.

Marianela notices Pedro watching her and whispers furtively behind cupped hands to the other girls. Soledad sees the girls whispering and giggling. Soledad fans herself rhythmically as she watches the maids.

For a brief moment the older woman begrudges them their adolescent entertainment before quickly reassuring herself that these few stolen hours of naïve enjoyment will soon be replaced by an interminable monotony of lives scrubbing floors, bathing the infirm and surrendering to the advances of their masters. Soledad calms her jealousy knowing that the girls’ dreams will soon be crushed, just as hers once were.

Unaware of the anger she is generating, Marianela watches Pedro continue walking past the tables. She then notices the man’s mother watching her and so quickly looks away so as not to catch her eye.

The paraffin lamps hanging from the trees and the candles on the tables create brief pockets of light in the square, while the growing intensity of the music reaches into the shadowed corners. The streets surrounding the main square are cold and dark in comparison; they are barren of life save for the solitary candles in the houses of the sick and the still-working.

After several turns of the square Pedro walks his ageing chaperones back to the house. They reach the door and his mother turns to him, I don’t expect to see you back tonight, but if you see the girl, send her home; she needs to finish the cleaning and preparations for tomorrow’s lunch. Pedro nods and turns back towards the main square. Once around the corner he picks up his pace to a fast walk.

Pedro enters the square and pauses to scan the crowd. He sees the object of his desires sitting on a bench with the other maids. Sitting near to her he sees three men who sang with him as boys in the choir. Marianela watches him as he seizes the opportunity to bring himself closer to her and joins the men at the table. Her stomach grows tighter and she feels her cheeks warming with anticipation.

The revelries continue late into the night and Marianela and Pedro are seldom far from each other’s sight. Before the sun breaks cover from behind the horizon Pedro notices a tiredness in Marianela as she allows herself to fall back into a chair. He takes his chance, bids farewell to his friends and hurries to her side. Standing over her he summons his courage, It is late and you have much to do for the lunch. I think it is best that we leave now.

Looking up into his deep brown eyes she feels her heart racing. Of course, Don Pedro, please forgive me.

They hurry from the square with him striding purposefully several steps ahead of her. She follows subserviently behind with her head bowed. Buoyed by the drink and the months of fantasising, he stops to let her catch up. He pushes her against the door of the storehouse at the back of his house. Over the sound of the distant music he hears her sharp intake of breath. He kisses her deeply, opens the door behind her and pushes her backwards into the storehouse.

He closes the door behind him and half-lifts her off the ground. She surrenders her body to him. The tips of their tongues caress each other’s as he lowers her down onto the sacks of grain. Running his hand up the outside of her stockinged thigh and hitching up her skirt as he does so, he soon feels her smooth, soft, bare hip against his calloused palms. She rains kisses down on his neck.

Chapter 3

The weeks pass and neither of them speak to anyone of that night. Pedro manages the workers in the gardens of the duke by day and oversees his own fields in the evenings. He tries and fails to push the memory of that night away by focusing on his work and duty, but the guilt lies heavy across his shoulders.

Marianela’s youthful dreams of meeting a man that would love and lift her from the inevitable desperation of her future are cruelly dashed as she struggles through each day. She fights to not let her dream of happiness die inside her, but as each day passes, so the memory fades a little more.

Each evening he returns home with a growing heaviness in his heart. Each night he watches silently as his mother and aunt seemingly take pleasure in breaking the light that Marianela radiates.

When she catches him watching her longingly from across a room her dreams momentarily rejuvenate. In an instant she feels her stomach tying in knots and her cheeks flushing again. But the moments are only ever fleeting and are always broken by the cacophonous yelling of one of the older women.

Pedro slowly begins to accept the role he believes he must play, and feigns nonchalance as he tries to ignore Marianela’s pain. In truth, he jumps inside with every demand screamed at her and smarts with every stick that strikes her. Unbeknownst to the two women, but obvious to Pedro, with each ritual torment any glimmer of hope once visible in the girl’s eyes is slowly snuffed out.

*

The winter evenings draw in and the temperature drops. With each day more of the women in the village wrap themselves in their shawls and the men in their jackets to stave off the cold. The storehouses holding the autumn’s surplus slowly empty.

As the weeks pass Marianela struggles with a paralysing anxiety as she waits for her overdue menstruation. She tries to reassure herself that it could be the poor diet, but in her heart she fears the worst and wrestles with whether to tell her mistress or not. The passing of time increases her desperation and, eventually, she finds the courage and the opportunity.

Marianela sits nervously watching her mistress doing needlework. The intricate patterns of yet another doily throw their shadows from the candlelight onto her lap. Soledad’s sister has gone to bed earlier than normal and Pedro is at one of the bars playing cards. Marianela steels her resolve.

Soledad looks up at Marianela. What is it, girl? I can feel you watching me.

Meekly, Marianela crosses the room and kneels at the other woman’s feet, all the time looking down submissively. Her voice falters as she speaks, I am sorry, Dona Soledad; I do not want to upset you but I believe I may be sick. Soledad rests her tools on her lap and fixes her gaze on the girl. The older woman mentally prepares to give the girl another beating.

Without looking up, Marianela quietly continues, I am sorry, Dona Soledad, but I have not had my bleeding for many weeks now and I don’t know if I am unwell. Marianela feels the weight of anticipation lift; but it only lasts a moment before it is instantly replaced by a very real fear of the woman’s response.

Soledad pushes Marianela backwards as she stands up. The lace work on her lap falls to her feet. Pulled from one emotion to another, thoughts crash against her like waves. Her mind races. She looks down at Marianela and sees a brazen whore who fornicates in the streets like an animal. Her thoughts rush to her son. In her mind she asks herself whether it could be him. She remembers the way they look at each other and begins to understand. She feels the world close in on her, her knees weaken and her emotions pull her back down into the chair.

In the quiet of the house the coals in the brazier hiss and Marianela’s breathing builds towards a sob. Racked with rage, Soledad throws herself to her knees beside the prostrate girl, takes the back of her head in one hand and slaps her increasingly harder across the face with the other. She spits furiously, You godless whore. The palm of her hand crashes down on the girl’s face like a metronome. Parading yourself like a common bitch. Again, the hand connects.

Her anger increases as it finds its outlet. I should beat you to death. As the slap makes contact the girl’s eyebrow splits and blood splatters across the floor. You’ve taken our Lord’s name and shamed him. The force of the next hit throws Marianela’s head to the floor. Her cheekbone and nose crack loudly as they slam against the tiled floor.

Soledad grabs Marianela’s head by her hair and drags it up. You will pay for what you have done to me, she cries as her palm crashes against the girl’s face for the final time. Spent, the old woman lets go and the girl’s head falls limply back to the floor.

Marianela’s bleeding nose trickles a sickening metallic taste down her throat and onto the back of her tongue. Salty tears dilute the blood covering her face as the semi-conscious girl coughs blood and phlegm onto the cold stone tiles below her face.

The front door opens and Pedro steps into the house. He stands still as he tries to take in what he is seeing. His mind wrestles with two competing thoughts: shock and inevitability. The seconds pass and the urgency of the moment becomes clearer as his mind draws in to focus.

He rushes across the room and kneels down beside Marianela. He carefully lifts her shoulders off the ground and pulls her close to his chest. Her semi-conscious head lolls limply against his white shirt. The blood pulsing from her eyebrow and nose quickly soaks through to his chest.

His voice shakes with anger. What have you done to her, what is wrong with you?

Dona Soledad’s eyes tighten and her voice is shrill. You ungrateful child, you have done this. You are just like your father. You will see. You’ll suffer for your sins just as your father did.

Pedro picks Marianela up into his arms and rises to his feet. Looming high above his mother he looks down and, unblinking, stares directly into her eyes. His irises hide behind dilated pupils. His voice trembles with fury. Hold your tongue, widow; I am the man of this house and you will remember that, you will not speak to me or of my father so.

He turns away and walks across the room. He lowers Marianela down into the chair and turns back to his mother. Wake your sister and tend the girl’s wounds. In silence. I shall make up a bed for her in the pantry. We will discuss this once she is resting. As he leaves the room he mutters to himself, Sons of bitches.

Once Marianela is sleeping on a makeshift bed in the pantry, Pedro, his mother and aunt all sit down in the hallway in silence. Pedro stares at the floor as he tries to calm his anger. Soledad allows her gaze to skip around the room as she forms a plan.

Pedro breaks the silence, whispering only loudly enough for his relatives to hear. What has the girl done this time to deserve that? If I had not returned would you have killed her?

Soledad takes her opening steps, The girl is with child. Like an animal, she has been fucking in the streets; during fiestas, delivering food to the peasants in the fields, letting drunks into the storehouse at night. Alas, she won’t give me any of their names.

Pedro stares back down at the stone tiles where she had been laying. He feels betrayed; guilt and disbelief struggle inside him as he listens to his mother. Soledad sees the seeds of her lie begin to take root. She continues, The Jezabel spoke of luring a gentleman to her bed also. Whoever he is, this must never come out. To protect his name and dignity, you understand.

Pedro’s gaze flits from one point on the floor to another. Sensing her plan is working, the woman continues, Of course, you are right, son; we must not punish her for this. She is like an animal and we cannot expect her to behave any other way. It is our Christian duty to look after the whore and child. But we must make sure that this will never happen again. You must replace all of your farmhands immediately. She pauses again to study his face. Satisfied, she continues, I will seek God’s guidance.

Soledad watches him as she speaks. Pedro feels his heart and mind in turmoil as he desperately clings to the security of his mother’s reassurances. His tight shoulders visibly slump. In a voice loaded with surrender he finally responds, We are agreed then. We will discuss what to do next in the morning.

Silently, and one by one, they retire to their beds where sleep eludes them.

Chapter 4

The following morning at breakfast Pedro issues his decree, I will go to the police station and speak with Manolo. Then I will inform the estate manager; the duke is in the south but will need to know of this. He looks up from his plate of melon. Neither woman responds so he continues, Mother, you will seek advice from the priest. Aunt, you must tend to the girl. I will return for lunch. He pauses again. He looks at both women before continuing in a more deliberate tone, We are to speak to no one else of this matter.

The juice of the melon glistens on his chin, reflecting the thin shards of sunlight breaking through the shutters in the dining room. He empties his coffee cup, wipes his mouth and stands up. He looks at his mother from under a furrowed brow before turning to his aunt. Aunt, get the girl fit to work. He then turns from the table and strides out of the house without looking back.

Soledad stands up and steps away from the table. Do as he says, sister; I will go to Father Nicolas. Following in her son’s footsteps, she quickly leaves the house, only pausing to wrap her black shawl around her head and shoulders.

The aunt sits in silence for a moment. Her eyes scan across the breakfast things, never truly focusing. With a heavy sigh she lifts herself out of the chair and begins clearing the table.

In the pantry next door, Marianela flinches as she gently dabs her fingertips at her swollen eyebrow and cheek. With one hand on her stomach she quietly weeps, rocking backwards and forwards on the side of the bed. The only signs of the previous night’s events are the desperate map of bruising, swelling and cuts across her face. Her once fresh-faced radiance has been replaced by a battered and broken countenance.

*

Pedro finds the Civil Guard Manolo sitting outside his office in the main square. The heavyset man, in his late twenties, has a coffee by his side and a cigarette in his hand. The smoke hangs close in the air to him and stings his bloodshot eyes. He watches Pedro walk towards him.

Pedro gestures towards the chair beside him. I was wondering if you might have a few minutes to speak. I was rather hoping you might be able to help… or rather, advise me on a small matter. Manolo nods towards the chair, still scrutinising the other man’s every movement.

Pedro sits down and takes a cigarette from the tin inside his jacket. Manolo leans forward to light it for him. What can I do for you? the guard asks.

Pedro draws deeply on the cigarette before answering him. The smoke rolls lazily from his mouth as he utters each word, It appears that some of my workers have been using our maid as a whore.

Manolo maintains his matter-of-fact expression and tone, And you would like me to teach her a lesson?

Pedro notices his own feelings of guilt taking root in the pit of his stomach. He glances indifferently at the people going about their business in the square and tries to retake control of the situation. My mother insists that it is our holy duty to take care of the girl. She is only a simple peasant and does not yet understand the ways of the animals in the fields.

Almost imperceptibly, Manolo raises one eyebrow. I see. So you want me to deal with your animals?

Pedro draws deep on the cigarette again, becoming very aware of the need to hide his true feelings. The girl will not say which one did it. I must replace all of them.

Sensing an opportunity to assert his authority, Manolo agrees, It would be my pleasure. Bring them to your storehouse at sunset with everything they own. All of them. I will send them packing, but not before making an example of them.

Very aware of what Manolo is capable of, Pedro fights to hide his worries. Thank you, sir. He pauses before continuing, And my family thank you for the peace you bring to our village.

*

Hurrying into the church, Dona Soledad finds Father Nicolas on the dais straightening an altar boy’s collar. He turns around when he hears Soledad’s footsteps on the stone floor. Forgive me interrupting you, Father. I seek your holy counsel, she says with her head bowed.

Of course, child, he replies, gesturing to the pew beside him. What is it, what troubles you? The altar boy quietly leaves and the priest sits down.

Soledad continues, Father Nicolas, the girl that helps in the house has been dishonoured by several of my son’s labourers. She is a stupid girl that knows little of the animal instincts of such men. In her naivety she has allowed them to defile her.

The priest shuffles in the pew, rearranging his cassock as he takes out his rosary. He begins running the beads through his fingers. Continue, child.

Soledad watches the beads of the rosary on the priest’s lap. My son is talking with Manolo and Garcia to deal with the men involved.

The priest nods his head. That is the right thing to do. But what perplexes you, child? Why do you seek God’s counsel?

Not realising she is doing it, Soledad mimics the movement of the priest’s hands, rubbing the tips of her fingers together on her lap. I feel that it is our duty to support the girl as she was in my care when it happened. Father, I need to know if this is God’s will. The words hang in the air for a few seconds as the priest looks down at the rosary making its way between his fingers.

Soledad waits, unsure whether to continue speaking and before she has a chance the priest breaks his silence. The peasants are simple creatures, like dogs, for instance. It is true they are devoid of the human capacities for love and respect, but your instincts are right, they are part of the holy creation. The bible teaches us of the holy son and the prostitute. It tells us that it is our duty to guide these soulless creatures and to protect them from themselves.

Father Nicolas smiles condescendingly at Soledad before continuing, You are right to worry, it is exactly these sorts of unholy acts of depravity that lead the peasants into the clutches of the Bolsheviks. Hearing his own words, the priest contrives to present a more sympathetic air. You are right to have come to me. It is your goodness that lets you see the hand of the Devil guiding these animals. He pats the pew in front of him, You are not to worry. God’s wisdom will guide Garcia and Manolo; I will see to that. You, in the meantime, will tend the whore and her child with a firm hand and guidance from the holy spirit.

Signalling the end of the discussion, Father Nicolas stands up. Good. Dona Soledad, regular confession for you and your son and you are not to let this worry you. Send the child to me, I will help her learn. God be with you.

After crossing herself and muttering a prayer she turns to leave. And with you, Father.

*

In the kitchen of the manor house Pedro stands awkwardly, shifting his weight between his feet. The cook and her workers busy themselves preparing meats for the smokehouse. The smell of the garlic in the sausages fills the kitchen and clings to the clothes of those in it.

Garcia, the duke’s estate manger; a tall, thin, middle-aged man, enters the room. Good morning, Pedro. I didn’t expect to see you today, what can I do for you? Uncomfortably, Pedro explains the situation as succinctly as possible. With each sentence, Pedro tries to downplay the potential impacts on the duke’s house. Grasping the ledger close to his chest, Garcia listens intently. While the other man speaks the estate manager watches him over the spectacles perched at the end of his beak-like nose.

Garcia waits a moment after Pedro finishes talking before responding. With an air of superiority he replies, I will, of course, let the duke know the situation in my next telegram, but it sounds like you have everything in hand. None of those implicated worked on the duke’s estate so I can’t imagine it is important enough for him to involve himself. I would say on his behalf though that you must bring this situation to a swift and satisfactory conclusion. Ensure your peasants comport themselves in an appropriate manner in the future. As head gardener and your family, beneficiaries of the duke’s good will, you represent his excellence. Keep your workers in line or your family will find themselves back in the fields.

Pedro listens nervously; head bowed, he nods at the end of each sentence. Pleased with himself, Garcia draws the conversation to a close, I can’t stand here all day solving your problems. You are well aware of the numerous attentions for my time. So if that is all, I will bid you farewell. Not waiting for a response he turns and leaves. The kitchen staff glance nervously at one another as Pedro stands unmoving, watching the other man go.

After leaving the kitchen Pedro walks through the gardens under the blinking shade of the olive trees. He always feels the responsibility of his father’s legacy in the gardens most; the high walls are a constant reminder of his place. Today, perhaps more than most days, he is under no illusions of the powerlessness of his position.

As he walks towards the rear entrance he thinks of all the different turns of event that have brought him to this moment. A father who chose to die for the glory of Spain and leave a child without a father, and a wife without a husband. He remembers the old duke bringing the news of his own father’s death to the house.

He reaches the gate and lifts the lever. In his mind he can still hear the magnanimity in the duke’s voice as he ordered his mother to place the boy in his employment as if it were an act of charity. He remembers his