The Cavalier in the Yellow Doublet (34 page)

“Here’s to your exploits today, Alatriste,” he said, smiling. “To the king and to you.”

He drank and then held out his gloved hand to shake my master’s hand, either that or to help him to his feet in the hope that he would join him in the toast. The captain, however, remained sitting where he was, not moving, his own mug in his lap, ignoring the proffered hand. He was watching the rain falling on the corpses that lay in a row in the mud.

“Perhaps . . .” Guadalmedina began, then fell silent, and I saw his smile fade on his lips. He glanced at me, and I looked away. He stood for a while, observing us, then, very slowly, he put his mug down on the ground and walked off.

I still said nothing, but sat next to my master, listening to the sound of the rain on the slate roof.

“Captain,” I said at last.

That was all. I knew it was enough. I felt his rough hand on my shoulder, felt him pat me gently on the back of the neck.

“We’re still alive,” he said at last.

I shivered from the cold, and from my own thoughts. I wasn’t thinking only about what had taken place that morning in the woods.

“What will happen to her now?” I asked quietly.

He didn’t look at me.

“Her?”

“To Angélica.”

He said nothing for a while. He was gazing pensively at the path along which Gualterio Malatesta had been carried off on his way to meet his torturer. Then he shook his head and said:

“One can’t always win.”

There came the sound of voices and martial footsteps, the clatter of weapons. The archers, their cuirasses beaded with rain, were mounting their horses as a coach drawn by four grays approached the door. Guadalmedina reappeared, donning an elegant jeweled hat and accompanied by various gentlemen of the royal household. He shot us a perfunctory look and issued orders. More commands were given, horses neighed, and the archers, looking very gallant on their mounts, formed into disciplined ranks. Then the king came out of the lodge. He had exchanged his huntsman’s outfit for a costume of blue brocade and was wearing boots, hat, and carrying a sword. Everyone removed his hat, apart from Guadalmedina, who, as a grandee of Spain, was entitled to keep his on. The king gazed impassively into the distance, looking as remote and aloof as he had during the skirmish in the forest. Head erect, he walked along the porch toward the carriages, passed us without even a glance, and got into the coach that was waiting by the steps. Guadalmedina was about to step in behind him when the king said something in a low voice. We saw Guadalmedina lean toward the king to hear what he was saying, despite the drenching rain. Then he frowned and nodded.

“Alatriste,” he called.

I turned to the captain, who was staring in some confusion at both Guadalmedina and the king. Finally, he went over to them, leaving the shelter of the porch. The king’s blue eyes fixed on him, as cold and watery as the eyes of a fish.

“Give him back his sword,” ordered Guadalmedina, and a sergeant approached with the captain’s sword and belt. It did not, in fact, belong to the captain but to the first ruffian from whom he had plundered it after cutting his throat. My master, apparently more bewildered than ever, stood there, holding the sword. Then he slowly buckled on the belt. When he looked up again, his aquiline profile and bushy mustache—from which the rain was now dripping—gave him the appearance of a wary falcon.

“Turn your fire on me,” said Philip, as if thinking out loud.

I was confused at first, then I remembered that these had been the captain’s words when Malatesta was aiming his pistol at the king. My master was now looking at the king coolly and inquisitively, as if wondering where this would all end.

“Your hat, Guadalmedina,” said His Catholic Majesty.

There was a long silence. At last, Álvaro de la Marca obeyed and rather grumpily did as he was asked—he was getting thoroughly soaked—and handed the captain that lovely hat adorned with a pheasant’s feather and a band sewn with diamonds.

“Put it on, Captain Alatriste,” ordered the king.

For the first time since I had known my master, I saw him utterly dumbfounded. And he remained so for a moment, fidgeting with the hat, uncertain what to do.

“Put it on,” repeated the king.

The captain nodded, as if he had only then understood. He looked at the king, and at Guadalmedina. Then he thoughtfully studied the hat and put it on very slowly, as if giving everyone time to change their mind.

“You will never be able to speak of this in public,” warned the king.

“No, I imagine not,” replied my master.

For a long moment, that obscure swordsman and the Lord of Two Worlds stood eye to eye, and on the latter’s impassive Hapsburg face there appeared just the flicker of a smile.

“I wish you luck, Captain. And if you’re ever condemned to be hanged or garrotted, appeal to the king. From today on, you have the right to be beheaded like an hidalgo and a gentleman.”

Thus spoke Philip II’s grandson on that rainy morning at La Fresneda. Then he gave an order; Guadalmedina got into the coach, raised the footboard, and closed the door. The coachman cracked the whip and the carriage set off, ploughing through the mud, followed by the archers on horseback and Cózar’s cries of “Long live the king!,” for, drunk again, or perhaps pretending to be, the actor kept roaring: “Long live the Catholic king,” “Long live the House of Hapsburg,” “God bless Spain, guardian of the true faith, Spain, and the whore who bore her.”

I went over to the captain, quite overcome. My master was watching as the royal carriage disappeared. Guadalmedina’s elegant hat was in marked contrast to the rest of him, for, like me, he was cut, bruised, beaten, and mud-splattered. When I reached his side, I saw that he was laughing softly to himself. When he saw me, he turned and winked, taking off the hat to show me.

“With a bit of luck,” I sighed, “we can get something for those diamonds.”

The captain was studying them. Then he shook his head and put the hat on again.

“They’re fake,” he said.

EXTRACTS FROM
POETRY
WRITTEN BY VARIOUS WITS
OF THIS COURT

Published in the XVIIth century with no imprint
and preserved in “The Counts of Guadalmedina”
section in the Archive and Library of
the Duques de Nuevo Extremo (Seville).

BY DON FRANCISCO DE QUEVEDO
TO THE LAWYER SATURNINO APOLO, FRIEND OF BAD POETRY
AND OF OTHER PEOPLE’S PURSES

 

STATEMENT OF APPROVAL

 

I have read the book entitled
The Cavalier in the Yellow Doublet
, the fifth volume of the so-called
Adventures of Captain Alatriste
, for which don Arturo Pérez-Reverte asks to be granted a license to publish. As with the previous volumes, I found in it nothing repugnant to our Holy Faith or to good customs; rather, as child of the wit and qualities of its author, it contains much salutary advice, which, in the guise of an amusing story or fable, embodies all that is most grave and serious in human philosophy. While it does not abound in Christian or pious reflections, I believe that it will prove edifying to the young reader, for the rhetorically minded will find much to admire in the language, the curious will be entertained by the events described, and, by the ideas, the learned will approve of its rigor, the prudent will take due warning from it, and there is much wholesome wisdom to be gleaned from its somewhat harsh examples and teachings. In short, it offers as much profit as delight.

For all these reasons, it is my view that the author should be granted license to publish.

Dated in Madrid, on the tenth day of the month of October, in the year 2003.

 

 

Arturo Pérez-Reverte
lives near Madrid. Originally a war journalist, he now writes fiction full-time. His novels
The Flanders Panel
,
The Club Dumas
,
The Fencing Master
,
The Seville Communion
,
The Nautical Chart
, and
The Queen of the South
have been translated into twenty-nine languages and published in more than fifty countries. In 2003, he was elected to the Spanish Royal Academy. Visit his website at:
www.perez-reverte.com
.