The Cavalier in the Yellow Doublet (21 page)

“It’s time, I think,” said the captain, looking at his sword, “for me to pay a little visit.”

 

 

 

 

It was a shot in the dark. Three years had passed, but there was no harm in trying. In his drenched cloak and dripping hat, Diego Alatriste studied the house carefully. By curious chance, the house was only two streets from his hiding place, or perhaps it wasn’t chance. That area of Madrid was one of the worst in the city, home to the lowest taverns, bars, and inns. And if, he concluded, it was a good place for him to hide, then it would be for others as well.

He looked around. Behind him, the Plaza de Lavapiés was veiled by a translucent gray curtain of rain that almost concealed the stone fountain. Calle de la Primavera—“Spring Street, indeed,” he thought with some irony. At that moment it couldn’t have been a less appropriate name, what with the muddy unpaved street awash with filth. The house, formerly the Landsknecht Inn, was directly opposite him; thick trails of water poured from the roof down the façade, where some much-darned white bed linen, put out to dry before the rains came, hung like shrouds from the windows.

He watched for one long hour before deciding to act. He crossed the road and went through the archway into a courtyard that stank of horse manure. There was no one to be seen. A few bedraggled chickens were pecking around beneath the galleries, and as he went up the wooden stairs, which creaked beneath his feet, a fat cat engaged in devouring a dead rat eyed him impassively. The captain unfastened his drenched cloak, which weighed too heavily on him. He also took off his hat, because the brim was so sodden it was obscuring his view. Thirty or so steps took him up to the top floor, and there he paused to think. If his memory served him well, the door was the last one on the right, in the corner of the corridor. He went over and pressed his ear to the door. Not a sound. Only the cooing of the pigeons sheltering in the dripping roof of the gallery. He put his cloak and hat down on the floor and took from his belt the weapon for which, that very afternoon, he had paid Bartolo Cagafuego ten
escudos
: a flintlock pistol, almost new, with a damascus barrel two spans long and the initials of an unknown owner on the butt. He checked that it was still primed despite the damp, then cocked the hammer—
clack
. He held it firmly in his right hand and, with his left, opened the door.

It was the same woman. She was sitting in the light from the window, mending the clothes in the basket on her lap. When she saw the intruder enter, she stood up, threw down her work, and opened her mouth to cry out, and only failed to do so because a slap from Alatriste propelled her backward against the wall. Better to hit her once now, thought the captain, than several times later on, when she’s had time to collect her thoughts. There’s nothing like that initial shock and fear. And so, once he had slapped her, he grabbed her violently by the throat, then, releasing his grip, covered her mouth with his left hand and pressed the pistol to her head.

“Not a word,” he whispered, “or I’ll blow your face off.”

He felt the woman’s damp breath on the palm of his hand, her body trembling against his, and while he held her in his grasp, he looked about him. The room had barely changed: the same miserable bits of furniture, the chipped crockery on the table, the same rough tablecloth. Nevertheless, everything was tidy. There was a copper brazier and a rug on the floor. A bed, separated off from the rest of the room by a curtain, was neatly made and clean, and a cooking pot was boiling in the hearth.

“Where is he?” he asked the woman, slightly easing his grip on her mouth.

Another shot in the dark. She might have nothing to do with the man he was looking for, but it was the only trail he had to follow. As he recalled, and according to his hunter’s instinct, this woman was not an insignificant player in the game. He had only seen her once before, years ago, and only for a matter of moments, but he remembered the expression on her face and her anxiety, her disquiet for the man who, at the time, was defense-less and under threat. Even snakes need company, he thought with a sardonic smile; yes, even snakes have their other half.

She said nothing, simply stared at the pistol out of the corner of her eye, terrified. She was a slender, ordinary-looking young woman, neither pretty nor ugly, but with a good figure; the dark hair caught back at her neck fell in loose locks about her face. She was wearing a skirt made of some cheap fabric and a sleeveless blouse that left her arms bare, her shawl having slipped off in the struggle. She smelled slightly of the food steaming in the pot, and of sweat, too.

“Where is he?” asked the captain again.

She focused her terrified gaze on him again, breathing hard, but still she said nothing. Alatriste could feel her agitated bosom rise and fall beneath his arm. He glanced around for some sign of a male presence: a short black cape hanging from a hook, a man’s shirts in the basket she had dropped, two clean collars, newly starched. Although, of course, it might not be the same man. Life goes on, and women are women; men come and go. These things happen.

“When will he be back?” he asked.

She remained dumb, staring at him with fearful eyes. Now, however, he saw in them a glimmer of comprehension. “Perhaps she recognizes me,” he thought. “At least she’ll realize that I mean her no harm.”

“I’m going to let you go,” he said, sticking the pistol back in his belt and taking out his dagger. “But if you scream or try to run away, I’ll slit your throat like I would a sow’s.”

 

 

 

 

At that hour, the gambling den in the Cava de San Miguel was in full swing. The place was packed with gamblers and cheats, and with hangers-on hoping that the winners might toss them a fraction of their winnings. The atmosphere was, in short, thick with possibilities. Juan Vicuña, the owner, came over to me as soon as I walked through the door.

“Have you seen him?” he asked in a low voice.

“The wound in his leg has healed up. He’s well and sends you greetings.”

The former sergeant of horse, maimed in the dunes at Nieuwpoort, nodded, pleased. His friendship with my master went back a long way. Like other denizens of the Inn of the Turk, he was concerned about Captain Alatriste’s fate.

“And what about Quevedo? Is he talking to people at the palace?”

“He’s doing what he can, but that isn’t very much.”

Vicuña sighed deeply and said nothing more. Like don Francisco de Quevedo, Master Pérez, and Licentiate Calzas, Vicuña believed not a word of what was being said about the captain, but my master didn’t want to go to any of them for help in case he implicated them, too. The crime of lèse-majesté was far too serious to involve one’s friends; it ended on the scaffold.

“Guadalmedina is inside,” he said.

“Alone?”

“No, with the Duke of Cea and a Portuguese gentleman I’ve never seen before.”

I handed him my dagger, as everyone did, and Vicuña gave it to the guard on the door. In that city of proud people who all too easily reached for sword or dagger, it was forbidden to bear arms when entering gambling dens or whorehouses. Despite that precaution, however, it was still not uncommon for cards and dice to end up stained with blood.

“Is he in a good mood?”

“Well, he’s just won a hundred
escudos
, so, yes, but you’d better be quick because they’re talking about going to the Soleras bawdy house, where they’ve arranged a supper and a few girls.”

He squeezed my shoulder affectionately and left me. Vicuña had behaved like a loyal friend by advising me of the count’s presence there that night. After my talk with Captain Alatriste, I had spent a long time pondering a possibly desperate plan—desperate, but one to which I could see no alternative. Then I trudged across the city in the rain, visiting friends and weaving my web as I went. I was now soaked to the skin and exhausted, but I had flushed out my prey in the most propitious of places, something I could never have done at the Guadalmedina residence or in the palace itself. After giving it much thought, I had decided to go through with my plan, even if it cost me my liberty or my life.

I walked across the room, beneath the yellowish light from the tallow lamps hanging from the ceiling. As I said, the atmosphere was as heavily weighted as the dice they used in some of the games. Money, cards, and dice came and went on the half-dozen tables around which sat the players. At one table, cards were being dealt, at another, dice were being rolled, yet another rang with curses—“A pox on’t,” “Damn my luck,” “Od’s my life”; and at every table, sharpers and swindlers, skilled at palming an ace or weighting a die, were trying to fleece their fellow men, either by a slow bloodletting, one
maravedí
at a time, or by a single fulminating blow, of the sort that left the poor dupe plucked and singed, and all his cargo gone.

Álvaro de la Marca was not one to be fleeced. He had a good eye and even better hands, and was himself a master at cozening, beguiling, and duping. If the fancy took him, he could have gulled any gambler worth his salt. I saw him at one of the tables, in good spirits and still winning. He was as elegantly dressed as ever: gray doublet embroidered with silver thread, breeches, and turned-down boots, with a pair of amber-colored gloves folded and tucked in his belt. With him, along with the Portuguese gentleman Vicuña had referred to—and whom I found out later to be the young Marquis of Pontal—was the Duke of Cea, grandson of the Duke of Lerma and brother-in-law of the Admiral of Castile, a young man of the best family who, shortly afterward, won fame as the bravest of soldiers in the wars in Italy and Flanders, before dying with great dignity on the banks of the Rhine. I made my way discreetly through the throng of hangers-on, gawpers, and cheats, and waited until the count looked up from the table, where he had just beaten two other dice players by throwing a double six. When he saw me, he looked half surprised, half annoyed. Frowning, he returned to the game, but I stood my ground, determined not to move until he took proper notice of me. When he glanced at me again, I gestured knowingly to him and moved away a little, hoping that, if he didn’t have the decency to greet me, he might at least feel curious about what I had to tell him. In the end, albeit reluctantly, he gave in. I saw him pick up his winnings from the table, give a tip to a couple of the hangers-on, and put the rest in his purse. Then he came toward me. On the way, he made a sign to one of the serving boys, who hurried over to him with a mug of wine. The rich never lack for minions to fulfill their hedonistic desires.

“Well,” he said coldly, taking a sip of his wine. “What are you doing here?”

We went into the small room that Juan Vicuña had set aside for us. There were no windows, just a table, two chairs, and a burning candle. I closed the door and leaned against it.

“Be brief,” said Guadalmedina.

He was looking at me suspiciously, and the coolness of his manner and his words saddened me greatly. The captain must have offended him greatly, I thought, for him to have forgotten that he saved his life in the Kerkennahs, that we attacked the
Niklaasbergen
out of friendship for him and in the king’s service, and that one night, in Seville, we saw off a patrol of catchpoles together outside a bawdy house. Then, however, I noticed the purplish marks still visible on his face, the awkward way he moved the arm injured in Calle de los Peligros, and realized that we all have our reasons for doing what we do or don’t do. Álvaro de la Marca had more than enough reason to bear my master a grudge.

“There’s something you should know,” I said.

“Something? Too many things, you mean. But time will tell . . .”

Like an evil omen, or a threat, he left those last words floating in the wine that he raised to his lips. He had not sat down, as if to convey that he intended to get the conversation over with as quickly as possible, and he maintained his lofty pose, mug of wine in one hand, the other hand planted nonchalantly on his hip. I looked at his aristocratic face, his wavy hair, curled mustache, and fair beard, at his elegant white hands and at the ring which, alone, was worth the ransom of some poor captive in Algeria. The Spain he inhabited, I concluded, was another world, one endowed with power and money from the cradle onward. For someone in Álvaro de la Marca’s position, there were certain things that could never be contemplated with equanimity. Nevertheless, I had to try. It was my last chance.

“I was there that night, too,” I said.

 

 

 

 

Darkness had descended. Outside, the rain was still falling. Diego Alatriste remained motionless, sitting at the table, observing the woman sitting equally still in the other chair, her hands tied behind her back and a gag in her mouth. He did not like having to do this, but he felt he had his reasons. If the man he was waiting for was who he thought, it would be too dangerous to leave the woman free to move or cry out.

“Is there nothing I can light the candle with?” he asked.

She did not stir. She kept staring at him, her mouth covered by the gag. Alatriste got up and rummaged around in the larder until he found a match and a few wood shavings, which he threw onto the coals in the kitchen, where he had hung his cloak and hat to dry. While he was there, he removed the pot from the fire and found that the contents had boiled half away. With the match, he lit a candle on the table. Then he emptied some of contents of the pot into a bowl; the lamb and chickpea stew had rather too strong a flavor, was overcooked and very hot, but he ate it anyway, along with some bread and a pitcher of water, and wiped the plate clean. Then he glanced at the woman. He had been there for three hours, and in all that time, she had uttered not a single word.