The Cavalier in the Yellow Doublet (28 page)

These lines had, in fact, been written by don Francisco, although he swore blind that they hadn’t. Written at a time when the poet was rather less popular at court, manuscript copies were still making the rounds in Spain, and he would have given his right arm to have them withdrawn. On this occasion, they proved to be the final straw. Don Francisco summoned the innkeeper, paid for the meal, and got angrily to his feet, leaving Cózar sitting there. I followed behind.

“In a couple of days, he’s going to perform before the king,” I said uneasily, once we were out in the hallway. “And in
your
play, too.”

Still frowning, don Francisco glanced back.

“Oh, there’s no need to worry,” he said at last in a wry, mocking tone. “It’s just a temporary lapse. Tomorrow morning, once he’s slept off the wine, everything will be as normal.”

He threw his short black cape over his shoulders and fastened it.

“By my life, though,” he added after a moment’s thought, “I never suspected that such a tame beast would have had qualms about his honor.”

I cast a last astonished glance at the small figure of the actor, whom I, like don Francisco, had always taken to be a jolly man of great good humor and few morals. All of which goes to show—and he was to surprise me still further in the hours that followed—one can never fathom the hearts of men.

“Have you ever considered that he might love her?” I asked.

I blushed as soon as these unconsidered words had left my mouth. Don Francisco, who was tucking his sword into his leather belt, paused in what he was doing and regarded me with interest. Then he smiled and slowly finished buckling on his belt and sword, as though my remark had given him food for thought, yet he said nothing. He put on his hat and we walked silently out into the street. Only after we had gone a few steps did I see him nod as if after long reflection.

“You never can tell, my lad,” he murmured, “you never can tell.”

 

 

 

 

It had grown cooler and there were no stars to be seen. As we crossed the esplanade, gusts of wind were whirling up leaves torn from the tops of the trees. When we reached the palace, where we had to give the password because it was after ten o’clock, there was still no news of the captain. According to what don Francisco told me after he had exchanged a few words with the Count of Guadalmedina, the latter wished him in hell. “I hope for Alatriste’s sake,” he had said, “that he doesn’t create problems for me with the count-duke.” As you can imagine, that thought tormented me, and I wanted to stay there at the door, in case my master should arrive. Don Francisco tried to reassure me by giving me various sensible explanations. It was seven long leagues from Madrid to El Escorial. The captain might have been delayed by some minor accident, or perhaps preferred to arrive at night for greater safety. Whatever the case, he knew how to take care of himself. In the end, more resigned than convinced, I agreed that he was right, aware that he was not entirely persuaded by his own eloquence. The truth is that we could do nothing but wait. Don Francisco went about his business, and I again walked over to the great palace gate, where I decided I would remain all night, awaiting news. I was walking between the columns of the courtyard where the kitchens were located when, by a narrow staircase, ill lit and half hidden behind the thick walls, I heard the rustle of silk, and my heart stopped as if I had been shot. Even before I heard her whisper my name, even before I turned toward the shape crouched in the shadows, I knew that it was Angélica de Alquézar, and that she was waiting for me. Thus began the happiest and most terrible night of my life.

Despite having his hands tied behind him, Diego Alatriste managed, with some difficulty, to raise himself up so that he was sitting with his back against the wall. He could remember falling off his horse and being kicked in the face, and his head hurt so much that, at first, he thought that either the fall or the kick must be the cause of the surrounding darkness. With a shudder, he said to himself: “I must have gone blind.” Then, after turning anxiously this way and that, he saw a line of reddish light under the door and gave a sigh of relief. It was perhaps simply that it was night or that he was being held in a cellar. He moved his numb fingers and had to bite his lip so as not to groan out loud; his veins felt as if they were full of a thousand pricking needles. Later, when the pain had eased slightly, he tried to piece together out of the confusion in his head exactly what had happened. The journey. The staging post. The ambush. He recalled, with bewilderment, the pistol-shot which, instead of killing him, had felled his horse. The man firing had not, he concluded, simply missed or made a mistake. They were clearly men who knew what they were about and were rigorously carrying out orders. So disciplined were they, in fact, that, even though he had shot one of their comrades at point-blank range, they had not given in to the natural desire for revenge. He could understand this because he worked in the same trade. The really weighty questions were these: Who held the purse strings? Who was paying the piper? Who wanted him alive, and why?

As if in answer to these questions, the door was suddenly flung open and a bright light dazzled his eyes. A black figure stood on the threshold, with a lantern in one hand and a wineskin in the other.

“Good evening, Captain,” said Gualterio Malatesta.

It seemed to Alatriste that, lately, he always seemed to be seeing the Italian framed in doorways, either entering or leaving. This time, however, he was the one who was tied up like a sausage and Malatesta was seemingly in no hurry at all. He came over to him, crouched down beside him, and took a close look at him.

“I’m afraid you’re not your usual handsome self,” he commented drily.

The light hurt Alatriste’s eyes, and when he blinked, he realized that his left eye was so badly swollen he could barely open it. Nevertheless, he could still see his enemy’s pockmarked face and the scar above his right eyelid, a souvenir of their fight on board the
Niklaasbergen
.

“I could say the same of you,” he said.

Malatesta’s mouth twisted into an almost conspirato rial smile.

“I’m sorry about this,” he said, looking at Alatriste’s bound hands. “Is the rope very tight?”

“Pretty tight, yes.”

“I thought so. Your hands are about the size and color of aubergines.”

He turned toward the door and called out. A man appeared. Alatriste recognized him as the man he had almost bumped into in Galapagar. Malatesta ordered him to slacken the rope binding Alatriste’s hands. While the man was doing this, Malatesta took out his dagger and held it to Alatriste’s throat, just to make sure that the captain didn’t take advantage of the situation. Then the man left, and they were alone again.

“Are you thirsty?”

“What do you think?”

Malatesta sheathed his dagger and held the wineskin to the captain’s lips, letting him drink as much as he wanted. He was observing him intently. By the light of the lantern, Alatriste could, in turn, study the Italian’s hard, dark eyes.

“Now, tell me what this is all about,” he said.

Malatesta’s smile broadened. It was, thought the captain, a smile that seemed to counsel Christian resignation, which, given the circumstances, was hardly encouraging. Malatesta thoughtfully probed one ear with his finger, as if carefully considering which word or words to use.

“Basically, you’re done for,” he said at last.

“And are you the one who’s going to kill me?”

Malatesta shrugged, as if to say: “What does it matter who kills you?”

“Yes, I suppose I will be,” he said.

“On whose behalf?”

Malatesta slowly shook his head, still not taking his eyes off the captain, but did not reply. Then he got to his feet and picked up the lantern.

“You have some old enemies,” he said, going over to the door.

“Aside from you, you mean?”

The Italian gave a harsh laugh.

“I’m not your enemy, Captain Alatriste, I’m your adversary. Do you not know the difference? An adversary respects you even if he stabs you in the back. Enemies are something else entirely. An enemy loathes you, even though he may praise and embrace you.”

“Cut the philosophy, please. You’re going to slit my throat and leave me to die like a dog.”

Malatesta, who was about to close the door, stopped for a moment, his head slightly bowed. He seemed to be hesitating over whether to add anything further or not.

“Well, ‘dog’ is perhaps a trifle strong,” he said at last, “but it will do.”

“Bastard.”

“Don’t be too upset about it. Remember the other day . . . in my house. And, by way of consolation, I will just say that you’ll be in illustrious company.”

“What do you mean, ‘illustrious’?”

“Guess.”

Alatriste put two and two together. The Italian was waiting at the door, circumspect and patient.

“You can’t be serious,” blurted out the captain.

“In the words of my compatriot Dante,” replied Malatesta,
‘Poca favilla gran fiamma seconda.’
From a little spark may burst a mighty flame.”

“The king again?”

This time Malatesta did not reply. He merely smiled more broadly at Alatriste’s look of stupefaction.

“Well, that doesn’t console me in the least,” replied Alatriste, once he had recovered his composure.

“It could be worse. For you, I mean. You’re about to make history.”

Alatriste ignored the comment. He was still considering the really important question.

“According to you, then, someone still has one too many kings in the pack, and I’ve been chosen as the one to discard that king.”

As Malatesta was closing the door, Alatriste heard him laugh again.

“I said no such thing, Captain. But at least I’ll know that when I do kill you, no one will be able to say that I’m dispatching an innocent or an imbecile.”

 

 

 

 

“I love you,” Angélica said again.

I couldn’t see her face in the darkness. I was gradually coming to, waking from a delicious dream during which I had not, for one moment, lost consciousness. She still had her arms about me, and I could feel my heart beating against her satiny, half-naked flesh. I opened my mouth to utter those identical words, but all that emerged was a startled, exhausted, happy moan. After this, I thought confusedly, no one will ever be able to part us.

“My boy,” she said.

I buried my face in her disheveled hair, and then, after running my fingers over the soft curve of her hips, kissed the hollow above her shoulder blade, where the ribbons of her half-open chemise hung loose. The night wind was whistling in the roofs and chimneys of the palace. The room and the rumpled bed were a haven of calm. Everything else was excluded, suspended, apart from our two young bodies embracing in the darkness and the now slowing beat of my heart. And I suddenly realized, as if it were a revelation, that I had made that whole long journey—my childhood in Oñate, the time I had spent in Madrid, in the dungeons of the Inquisition, and in Flanders, Seville, and Sanlúcar—that I had survived all those hazards and dangers in order to become a man and to be there that night, in the arms of Angélica de Alquézar, that girl who, although only about the same age as me, was calling me “her boy,” and whose warm, mysterious flesh seemed to hold the key to my destiny.

“Now you’ll have to marry me,” she murmured, “one day . . .”

She said this in a tone that was both serious and ironic, in a voice that trembled strangely in a way that reminded me of the leaves on a tree. I nodded sleepily, and she kissed my lips. This kept at bay a thought that was trying to make its way through my consciousness, like a distant noise, rather like the wind blowing in the night. I tried to focus on that noise, but Angélica’s mouth and her embrace were stopping me. I stirred uneasily. There was something wrong. A memory of foraging in enemy territory near Breda surfaced in my mind. I recalled how that apparently tranquil green landscape of windmills, canals, woods, and undulating fields could unexpectedly unleash on you a detachment of Dutch cavalry. The thought returned, more intense this time. An echo, an image. Suddenly the wind howled more loudly outside the shutter, and I remembered. The captain’s face. A lightning flash, an explosion of panic. The captain’s face. Of course. Christ’s blood!

I sat up, detaching myself from Angélica’s arms. The captain had not kept his appointment, and there I was in bed, indifferent to his fate, plunged in the most absolute of oblivions.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

I did not reply. I placed my feet on the cold floor and began groping in the darkness for my clothes. I was completely naked.

“Where are you going?”

I found my shirt and picked up my breeches and my doublet. Angélica had left the bed too, but was no longer asking questions. She tried to grab me from behind, but I pushed her roughly away. We struggled in the dark. Eventually I heard her fall back on the bed with a moan of pain or perhaps anger. I didn’t care. At that moment, all I cared about was the anger I felt against myself, the anguish of my desertion.

“You wretch,” she said.

I crouched down again, feeling about on the floor. My shoes must be there somewhere. I found my leather belt and was going to put it on when I noticed that it was not as heavy as it should be. The sheath for my dagger was empty. “Where the hell is it?” I thought. I was about to ask that question out loud, a question that already sounded foolish before it had even reached my lips, when I felt a sharp, very cold pain in my back, and the surrounding blackness filled up with luminous dots, like tiny stars. I uttered one loud, brief scream. Then I tried to turn and strike my attacker, but my strength failed me and I dropped to my knees. Angélica was holding on to my hair, forcing my head back. I was aware of blood running down the back of my thighs and then felt the blade of the dagger at my throat. With a strange lucidity I thought: “She’s going to slit my throat as if I were a calf or a pig.” I had read once about a witch, a woman who, in antiquity, used to change men into pigs.