The Cavalier in the Yellow Doublet

8. OF MURDERERS AND BOOKS

“She has nothing to do with any of this,” said Malatesta.

He put his sword and dagger down on the floor, kicking them away from him as Alatriste ordered. He was looking at the woman who was still sitting, bound and gagged, on the chair.

“It doesn’t matter,” said the captain, keeping the pistol pressed to Malatesta’s head. “She’s my trump card.”

“Well played, I must say. Do you kill women, too?”

“If necessary. As do you, I imagine.”

Malatesta nodded thoughtfully. His pockmarked face remained impassive, although the scar above his right eye gave him a slight squint. Finally, he turned to look at the captain. In the dim light from the candle, Alatriste could see his black clothes, sinister air, and cruel, dark eyes. A smile appeared beneath Malatesta’s mustache.

“This is your second visit here.”

“And it will be my last.”

Malatesta paused before replying:

“You had a pistol in your hand on that occasion, too.”

Alatriste remembered it well: the same bed, the same miserable room, the wounded man’s eyes like those of a dangerous snake. The Italian had commented then: “With luck I’ll arrive in hell in time for supper.”

“I’ve often regretted not using it,” retorted Alatriste.

The cruel smile grew wider. “We’re in agreement there,” the smile seemed to say, “pistol-shots are full stops and doubts are dangerous ellipses.” He noticed and recognized the two pistols the captain had found in the chest and which he was now wearing in his belt.

“You shouldn’t go wandering about on your own in Madrid, you know,” he remarked with grim solicitude. “They say your skin isn’t worth a Ceuta penny.”

“Who says?”

“I don’t know. It’s just a rumor.”

“Worry about your own skin.”

Malatesta gave that same pensive nod, as if he appreciated the advice. Then he looked at the woman, whose terrified eyes kept shifting from him to Alatriste.

“There’s just one thing in all this that I find rather insulting, Captain. The fact that you didn’t simply shoot me as soon as I came through the door means that you think I’m going to blab.”

Alatriste did not reply. Some things one took for granted.

“I can understand you feeling curious, though,” added the Italian after a moment. “But perhaps I can tell you something without detriment to myself.”

“Why me?” Alatriste asked.

Malatesta made a gesture with his hands as if to say “Why not?” and then indicated the pitcher of water on the table and asked for a little to slake his parched throat. The captain shook his head.

“For various reasons,” Malatesta went on, resigned to going thirsty. “You have unfinished business with a number of people, not just me. Besides, your affair with the Castro woman was like a gift from the gods.” His malicious smile grew wider. “How could we miss the opportunity of putting it all down to jealousy, especially with a man like you involved, always so ready to reach for his sword? It’s just a shame they played that trick on us, replacing the king with an actor.”

“Did you know who the man was?”

Malatesta tutted glumly, like a professional disgusted at his own ineptitude.

“I thought I did,” he said, “although, afterward, it turned out that I didn’t.”

“You certainly had your sights set very high.”

Malatesta regarded Alatriste almost with surprise, almost ironically.

“High or low, crown or bishop, it’s all the same to me,” he said. “The only king I value is the one in a pack of cards, and the only God I know is the one I use to blaspheme with. It’s a great relief when life and the passing years strip away certain things. Everything is so much simpler, so much more practical. Don’t you feel that? Ah, no, of course, I am forgetting. You’re a soldier. Or, rather, you pay lip service to such things; because people like you need words like “king,” “true religion,” “my country,” and all that, just to get by and to feel you’re doing the decent thing. I find it hard to believe, really, in a man of your experience, and given the times we’re living through.”

Having said this, he stopped and looked at the captain, as if expecting him to reply.

“Then again,” he added, “your exemplary loyalty as a subject didn’t prevent you from getting into a squabble with His Catholic Majesty over a woman. But then a hair from a quim has done in far more men than the noose ever has. Puttana Eva!”

He sneered mockingly and fell silent, before whistling his usual little tune through his teeth. Ignoring the pistol pointing at him, he gazed distractedly about the room. He was, of course, only pretending to be distracted. Alatriste knew that the Italian’s wary eyes would miss nothing. “If I drop my guard for a moment,” he thought, “the bastard will be on me.”

“Who’s paying you?”

Malatesta’s hoarse, discordant laugh filled the room.

“Fie on you, Captain. Such a question is hardly appropriate between men like us.”

“Is Luis de Alquézar involved?”

Malatesta remained silent, his face expressionless. He was looking at the books Alatriste had been leafing through.

“I see you’ve taken an interest in my reading matter,” he said at last.

“Yes, I was surprised,” agreed the captain. “I didn’t know you were such an educated son of a whore.”

“I see no contradiction.”

Malatesta glanced at the woman who was still sitting motionless in the chair. Then he touched the scar over his right eye.

“Books help you to understand life, don’t you think? You can even find in them a justification for lying and betraying . . . for killing.”

He had placed one hand on the table as he spoke. Alatriste drew back prudently, and with a movement of the pistol indicated that the Italian do the same.

“You talk too much, but not about what interests me.”

“What do you expect? We men from Palermo have our rules.”

He had obediently moved a few inches away from the table and was studying the barrel of the pistol gleaming in the candlelight.

“How’s the boy?”

“Fine. At least he’s alive and well.”

Malatesta’s smile broadened into a knowing grimace.

“Yes, I see you managed to leave him out of it. I congratulate you. He’s a plucky lad, and good with a sword, too. However, I fear you may be leading him astray. He’ll end up like you and me. And speaking of endings, I suppose my life is about to end here and now.”

This was neither a lament nor a protest, merely a logical conclusion. Malatesta again looked at the woman, for longer this time, before turning back to Alatriste.

“A shame,” he said serenely. “I would have preferred to have this conversation elsewhere, sword in hand, with time to spare. But I don’t somehow think you’re going to give me that chance.” He held Alatriste’s gaze, the expression on his face half inquisitive, half sarcastic. “Because you’re not, are you?”

He was still calmly smiling, his eyes fixed on the captain’s.

“Have you ever thought,” he said suddenly, “how very alike we are, you and I?”

A likeness, thought Alatriste, that would last for only a few seconds more, and with that, he steadied his hand, and prepared to squeeze the trigger. Malatesta had read this sentence as clearly as if it had been written on a poster and placed before his eyes.. His face tensed and his smile froze on his lips.

“I’ll see you in hell,” he said.

At that moment, the woman—hands tied behind her, eyes wild, the gag muffling a cry of fierce desperation—stood up and hurled herself headfirst at Alatriste. He stepped lightly aside to avoid her and, just for an instant, lowered the pistol. For Gualterio Malatesta, however, that instant meant the slender difference between life and death. The woman fell at Alatriste’s feet, and in the precious moment Alatriste spent avoiding her and trying to readjust his aim, Malatesta knocked the candle off the table with one swipe of his hand—thus plunging the room into darkness—and immediately crouched down to pick up his discarded weapons. The pistol shot broke the windowpanes above his head, and the flash lit up the gleaming steel blade already in his hand. “Christ’s blood,” thought Alatriste, “he’s going to escape. Either that or kill me.”

The woman lay groaning on the floor, thrashing about like a wild thing. Alatriste leapt over her, threw down the discharged pistol, and unsheathed his sword. He would just have time to stab Malatesta before he got to his feet—if, that is, he could find him in the darkness. He lunged several times, but met only thin air. As he wheeled around, a blow came from behind, hard and fast, piercing his jerkin and only failing to pierce his flesh because it caught him sideways. The sound of a chair scraping the floor helped him to orient himself better, and he headed in that direction, blade foremost, and this time his sword found the enemy. “So there you are,” he thought, reaching with his left hand for one of the pistols. Malatesta, however, had noticed the pistols already and was in no mood to let him fire. He hurled himself violently upon the captain, lashing out and striking him with the guard of his sword. No words were spoken, no insults or threats exchanged. The two men were saving their breath for the struggle, and all that could be heard were grunts and panting. “If he’s had time to pick up his dagger,” thought the captain suddenly, “I’m done for.” He forgot about his pistol and felt for his own knife. Malatesta guessed what he was up to and reached out to try and stop him; they rolled across the floor with a great clatter of furniture and broken crockery. At such close quarters, there was no room for swords. Finally, Alatriste managed to free his left hand and take out his own dagger. He drew back and stabbed wildly twice. The first stab slashed his opponent’s clothes, the second struck nothing at all, and there was no time for a third blow. There came the sound of the door being wrenched violently open and, for a moment, he saw the fleeing figure of the Italian framed in a rectangle of light.

I was feeling very happy. It had stopped raining; over the city’s rooftops, the day was dawning, bright and sunny, with a clear blue sky; and I was going in through the palace door, at the side of don Francisco de Quevedo. We had walked across the square, pushing our way through the idlers who had been assembling there since before daybreak and were being kept in check by the uniformed lancers standing guard. The curious, talkative people of Madrid were ingenuously loyal to their monarchs, always ready to forget their own miseries and take inexplicable delight in applauding the luxury in which those who governed them lived. On that particular morning, they were happily waiting to see the king and queen, whose carriages stood outside the Alcázar. Any royal journey always brought out the crowds and, inevitably, involved legions of courtiers, gentlemen of the household, handmaids, servants, and carriages. Rafael de Cózar and his theater company, including María de Castro, would also be setting off for El Escorial, if, indeed, they had not done so already, for The Sword and the Dagger was to be performed in the gardens of that palace-cum-monastery at the beginning of the following week. As for the members of the royal entourage, they were—despite the strict sumptuary laws in force—all competing with one another in ostentation and lavishness of dress. Assembled outside the palace was a colorful collection of coaches emblazoned with coats of arms; there were good mules and even better horses, liveried footmen, silks, brocades, and other adornments, for both those with the means and those without would gladly spend their last maravedí on cutting a fine figure at court. In that world of pretense and appearances, nobles and plebeians would have pawned their own coffin to prove that they were of pure blood and better than their neighbor. As Lope said:

Tie me up and burn me

If I couldn’t make a million

Out of taxing every would-be don

Just one maravedí.

“It still amazes me,” said don Francisco, “that you managed to convince Guadalmedina.”

“I didn’t convince him of anything,” I said. “He convinced himself. I merely told him what had happened, and he believed me.”

“Perhaps he wanted to believe you. He knows Alatriste and knows precisely what he would and wouldn’t do. The idea of a conspiracy makes much more sense. It’s one thing to dig your heels in about a woman, but quite another to kill a king.”

We were walking past the granite pillars to the main staircase. The queen’s courtyard, where a large number of courtiers were waiting for the king and queen to come down, was filled by the golden light of the rising sun that glinted on the capitals and on the two-headed eagles above the arches. Don Francisco politely doffed his hat to a few court acquaintances. He was dressed, as usual, entirely in black grosgrain, with a ribbon as hatband, a red cross on his breast, and a gold-hilted court sword at his waist. I was no less elegant in my light woolen costume and my cap, my dagger stuck crosswise in my belt at the back. A manservant had placed my traveling case, containing my day-to-day clothes and a pair of clean undergarments neatly folded by La Lebrijana, in the carriage occupied by the Marquis of Liche’s servants, with whom don Francisco had arranged transport for me. He had a seat in the marquis’s carriage, a privilege which, as usual, he justified in his own way:

I’ll not bend the knee to a noble house,

For as the ancient saying goes:

If the king’s of pure blood, then so’s his louse.

“The count knows that the captain is innocent,” I said once we were alone again.

“Of course,” replied the poet, “but the captain’s insolence and that cut to the arm are hard to forgive, even more so with the king involved. Now, though, the count has an opportunity to resolve the matter honorably.”

“He hasn’t gone that far,” I objected. “He’s merely promised to arrange for the captain to meet the count-duke.”

Don Francisco looked around him and lowered his voice.

“That’s no small thing,” he said. “Although it’s only natural, of course, that, as a courtier, he’ll try to turn things to his advantage. The affair has gone beyond a simple spat over a woman, so he’s quite right to place it all in the count-duke’s hands. Alatriste is an invaluable witness if the conspiracy is to be uncovered. They know he’ll never talk under torture, or can be reasonably sure that he won’t. To do so voluntarily would be a different matter.”

I felt a pang of remorse. I had not told Guadalmedina or don Francisco about Angélica de Alquézar, only the captain. Whether my master chose to give her away or not was a matter for him, but I would not be the one to tell others the name of the young woman with whom, despite everything, and to the damnation of my soul, I was still deeply in love.

“The problem,” the poet continued, “is that, after all the commotion created by his escape, Alatriste can’t just wander about as if nothing were amiss, at least not until he’s spoken to Olivares and Guadalmedina at El Escorial. But that’s seven leagues away.”

I nodded anxiously. I myself, with don Francisco’s help, had hired a good horse so that the captain could set off the following morning for El Escorial, where he was due to present himself that night. The horse, which I had left in Bartolo Cagafuego’s care, would be waiting, saddled and ready, next to the Ermita del Ángel on the other side of the Segovia bridge.

“Perhaps you should speak to the count, just in case anything unexpected should happen.”

Don Francisco placed one hand on the cross of Santiago he bore on his chest.

“Me? Absolutely not. I have so far managed to keep out of the affair without betraying my friendship with the captain. Why spoil things at the last moment? You’re doing a fine job.”

He gave another nod of greeting to passing acquaintances, then smoothed his mustache and rested the palm of his left hand on the hilt of his sword.

“You have, I must say, behaved like a proper man,” he concluded fondly. “Approaching Guadalmedina really was tantamount to stepping into the lion’s den. You showed real courage.”

I did not respond. I was looking around me, for I had made a rendezvous of my own before traveling to El Escorial. We were near the broad staircase that stood between the respective courtyards of the queen and the king, beneath the large allegorical tapestry that presided over the main landing where four German guards, armed with halberds, stood motionless. The most noble members of the court, with the count-duke and his wife at their head, were waiting for the king and queen to descend in order to greet them. They provided a spectacular display of fine fabrics and jewels, of perfumed ladies and gentlemen with waxed mustaches and curled hair. I heard don Francisco murmur:

“See them all decked out in purple,

Hands beringed with glittering gems?

Inside, they’re naught but putrefaction,

Made of mud and earth and worms.”

I turned to him. I knew something of the world and of the court. I remembered what he had said about the king and the louse, too.

“And yet you, Señor Poet,” I said smiling, “will be traveling in the Marquis of Liche’s carriage.”

Don Francisco imperturbably returned my gaze, looked to left and right, then gave me a discreet nudge.

“Hush, you insolent boy. To everything its season. I had hoped you might give the lie to that magnificent line—penned by myself—which says: “Young ears are no fit recipient for the truth.” And in the same quiet voice, he continued:

“Evil and evil doers? Leave them well alone.

Let us live as witnesses not accomplices,

So the Old World to the New makes moan.”

However, the New World, namely me, had ceased listening to the Old World. The jester Gastoncillo had just appeared amongst the throng and was gesturing toward the servants’ stairs behind me. When I looked up, I caught a glimpse, above the carved granite balustrade, of Angélica de Alquézar’s fair ringlets. A letter I had written the previous afternoon had clearly reached the person to whom it was addressed.

“I believe you have some explaining to do,” I said.

“Not at all. And I have very little time. The queen is about to go down to the courtyard.”

She was resting her hands on the balustrade, watching the comings and goings below. That morning, her eyes were as cold as her words. She was no longer the affectionate young woman, dressed as a man, whom I had held in my arms.

“This time you’ve gone too far,” I said. “You, your uncle, and whoever else is mixed up in all this.”

She was playing distractedly with the ribbons adorning the bodice of her silk-embroidered dress.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir. Nor what my uncle has to do with your ravings.”

“I’m talking about the ambush in Camino de las Minillas,” I replied angrily. “About the man in the yellow doublet. About the attempt to kill the—”

She placed a hand on my lips, just as she had placed a kiss on them a few nights before. I shivered, and again she noticed. She smiled.

“Don’t talk nonsense.”

“If all is revealed,” I said, “you’ll be in great danger.”

She regarded me with interest, almost as if she found my disquiet intriguing.

“I can’t imagine you ever taking a lady’s name in vain.”

I felt as if she had guessed what I was thinking. I drew myself up, embarrassed.

“No, I might not, but there are other people involved.”

She looked at me as if she could not believe the implication behind my words.

“Have you told your friend Batatriste?”

I said nothing and averted my gaze. She read my reply on my face.

“I thought you were a gentleman,” she said disdainfully.

“I am,” I protested.

“I also thought that you loved me.”

“I do love you.”

She bit her lower lip as she pondered my words. Her eyes were like very hard blue polished stone. Finally, she asked bitterly:

“Have you betrayed me to anyone else?”

There was such scorn in that word “betrayed” that I could not speak for shame. Eventually, I composed myself and opened my mouth to utter a new protest. “You surely don’t think I could keep all this secret from the captain,” I began to say, but the sound of trumpets echoing through the courtyard drowned out my words. Their Majesties had appeared on the other side of the balustrade, at the top of the main staircase. Angélica glanced around, catching up her skirt.

“I have to go.” She seemed to be thinking as fast as she could. “I will see you again perhaps.”

“Where?”

She hesitated, then gave me a strange look, so penetrating that I felt quite naked before it.

“Are you going to El Escorial with don Francisco de Quevedo?”

“I am.”

“I’ll see you there.”

“How will I find you?”

“Don’t be silly. I’ll find you.”

This sounded more threat than promise, or both things at once. I watched as she walked away and as she turned once to smile at me. I thought again, “By God, she’s beautiful. And frightening, too.” Then she disappeared behind the columns and went down to join the king and queen, who were already at the foot of the stairs, where they were greeted by the Count-Duke of Olivares and the other courtiers. Then they all went out into the street. I followed behind, plunged in dark thoughts. I recalled with some unease the lines of poetry that Master Pérez had once made me copy out:

Averting one’s gaze from evident deceit,

When poison foul gives off a honey’d smell

And pain is loved and pleasures all retreat,

Then, one believes that heaven’s found in hell

And body and soul are at illusion’s behest,

Such is love—as he who tastes it can attest.

Outside, the sun was shining, and the scene it lit up was splendid indeed. The king was bowing to the queen and offering her his arm, and both were wearing sumptuous traveling clothes. The king had on a riding outfit sewn with silver thread, a crimson silk taffeta sash, as well as sword and spurs, a sign that, being the bold, young rider he was, he would make part of the journey on horseback, escort ing the queen’s carriage, which was drawn by six magnificent white horses and followed by another four coaches carrying the queen’s twenty-four handmaids and maids of honor. In the square, among the courtiers and other people crowding the area, the monarchs were greeted by Cardinal Barberini, the papal legate, who would be traveling in the company of the Dukes of Sessa and Maqueda, and so the greetings and salutations continued. With the royal party was the Infanta María Eugenia—only a few months old and in the arms of her nurse—the king’s brothers, the Infante Don Carlos, and the Prince of Wales’s impossible love, the Infanta Doña María, as well as the Cardinal-Infante Don Fernando, who had been Archbishop of Toledo since he was a boy and would eventually become general and governor of Flanders. Under his command, a few years later, Captain Alatriste and I would find ourselves battling hordes of Swedes and Protestants at Nördlingen. Amongst the courtiers closest to the king, I spotted the Count of Guadalmedina, wearing an elegant cape and French boots and breeches. Farther off, don Francisco de Quevedo was standing next to the count-duke’s son-in-law, the Marquis of Liche, reputed to be the ugliest man in Spain and married to one of the most beautiful women at court. And as the king and queen, the cardinal, and the nobles took their seats in their respective carriages, and the drivers cracked their whips and the cortège set off toward Santa María la Mayor and Puerta de la Vega, the people, delighted with the spectacle, applauded constantly. They even cheered the carriage in which I was sitting with the Marquis of Liche’s servants, but then, in this unhappy land of ours, we Spaniards have always been prepared to cheer almost anything.

The bell of the Hospital de los Aragoneses was ringing for matins. Diego Alatriste, who was awake and lying in his bed at the Fencer’s Arms, got up, lit a candle, and started pulling on his boots. He had more than enough time to get to the Ermita del Ángel before daybreak, but crossing Madrid and the Manzanares River in the current circumstances was a very complicated enterprise indeed. Better to be there an hour before than a minute late, he thought. And so, once he had pulled on his boots, he poured some water into a bowl, washed his face, ate a morsel of bread to settle his stomach, and finished dressing, donning his buffcoat, buckling on dagger and sword, and wrapping the dagger in a piece of cloth so that it would not bang against his sword guard; and for that same reason, he put his metal spurs in his purse. Stuck in his belt behind and concealed by his cloak, he had the booty from his eventful visit to Calle de la Primavera—Gualterio Malatesta’s two pistols, which he had loaded and primed the previous evening. Then he put on his hat, glanced around in case he had forgotten anything, doused the light, and made his way out into the street.

He drew his cloak about him against the cold. Then, orienting himself in the dark, he left behind him Calle de la Comadre and reached the corner of Calle del Mesón de Paredes and the Cabrestreros fountain. He stood there for a moment, motionless, thinking that he could hear something moving in the shadows, then he continued on, taking a shortcut along Embajadores to San Pedro. Finally, once past the tanneries, which were, of course, closed at that hour, he emerged onto the little hill of the Rastro, where, beyond the cross and the fountain, rose the somber bulk of the new abattoir, which stood out clearly in the light of a lantern in Plaza de la Cebada. The stench of rotten meat made it easy to recognize even in the dark. He was about to walk on when—and he had no doubts this time—he heard footsteps behind him. This could either be someone who simply happened to be there at the same time or someone who was following him. In case the latter proved to be the case, he sought refuge by the wall, folded back his cloak, shifted one of his pistols around to the front of his belt, and got out his sword. He stood for a while, utterly still, holding his breath to listen, until he could be sure that the footsteps were coming in his direction. Taking off his hat so as to be less noticeable, he leaned cautiously out and saw a shape approaching slowly. It could still be mere coincidence, he thought, but this was not the moment to leave anything to chance. He put on his hat again, and when the figure drew alongside him, stepped out, sword foremost.

“Damn your eyes, Diego!”

The last person Alatriste was expecting to see in that place and at that hour was Martín Saldaña. The lieutenant of constables—or rather the sturdy shadow to whom the voice belonged—had started back in fright, swiftly unsheathing his sword; there was a metallic whisper and a faint glint of steel as he moved the blade from side to side, covering his guard like a veteran. Alatriste checked that the ground beneath his feet was smooth and unimpeded by loose stones, then he leaned his left shoulder against the wall to protect that side of his body. His right hand, however, remained free to wield his sword, thus complicating matters for Saldaña, who, if he attacked, would find his right hand blocked by the wall.

“What the hell are you doing here?” asked Alatriste.

Saldaña did not respond at once. He was still standing alert and ready. He was doubtless aware that his former comrade might try a trick they had both often used before—attacking an opponent while he was speaking. Talking was a distraction, and between men like them, an instant was all it took to find yourself with a foot of steel through your chest.

“You wouldn’t want me to let you slip the net that easily, would you?” said Saldaña at last.

“Have you been watching me for long?”

“Since yesterday.”

Alatriste thought for a moment. If this were true, Saldaña would have had ample time to surround the inn and have a dozen or so catchpoles on hand to arrest him.

“Why are you alone?”

Saldaña paused a long time before answering. He was a man of few words and appeared to be searching hard for them now. Finally, he said:

“This isn’t official business. It’s private—between you and me.”

The captain carefully studied the solid shadow before him.

“Are you carrying pistols?”

“It’s all the same whether I or, indeed, you are. This is a matter for swords.”

His voice sounded oddly nasal. He must still be suffering from that headbutt the captain had dealt him. It was only logical, thought Alatriste, that Saldaña should take his escape and the deaths of those catchpoles as a personal affront, and it was only fitting that his comrade from Flanders should want to resolve it man to man.

“This isn’t the moment,” he said.

Saldaña replied in a slow, calm, reproachful voice:

“You seem to be forgetting who you’re talking to, Diego.”

The steel blade still glinted before him. The captain raised his sword a little, hesitated, then lowered it again.

“I don’t want to fight you. Your constable’s staff of office isn’t worth it.”

“I’m not carrying it with me tonight.”

Alatriste bit his lip, his fears confirmed. Saldaña was clearly not prepared to let him leave without a fight.

“Listen,” he said, making one last effort. “I’m very close to sorting everything out. There’s someone I have to meet . . .”

“I don’t care a fig who you have to meet. You and I never finished our last meeting.”

“Just forget about it for this one night. I promise I’ll come back and explain.”

“Who’s asking you to explain?”

Alatriste sighed and ran two fingers over his mustache. They knew each other too well. There was nothing to be done. He adopted the en garde position, and Saldaña took a step back, readying himself. There was very little light, but enough for them to be able to see the blades of their swords. It was, thought the captain sadly, almost as dark as it had been on that morning when Martín Saldaña, Sebastián Co-pons, Lope Balboa, himself, and another five hundred Spanish soldiers cried out “Forward, Spain!,” made the sign of the cross, and then swarmed out of the trenches to climb the embankment in their assault on the del Caballo redoubt, in Ostend, an assault from which only half returned.

“Come on,” he said.

There was an initial clash of steel, and Saldaña immediately made a circling movement with his sword and stepped away from the wall so as to have more freedom of movement. Alatriste knew who he was dealing with; they had been comrades-in-arms and had often practiced fencing together using buttoned fleurets. His opponent was a cool and skillful swordsman. The captain lunged forward, hoping to wound quickly and unceremoniously. Saldaña, however, drawing back to gain space, parried the thrust, then sprang forward. Alatriste had to move away from the wall—which had gone from being refuge to obstacle—and as he did so, momentarily lost sight of his opponent’s sword. He whirled around, lashing out violently, searching for the other blade in the darkness. Suddenly he saw it coming straight at him. He parried with a back-edged cut and retreated, cursing to himself. Although the darkness made them equal, leaving a great deal to luck, he was nevertheless the better swordsman, and it should simply be a matter of wearing Saldaña out. The only problem with that strategy was that there was no knowing how long it would be before, despite Saldaña’s intention to act alone, a patrol of catchpoles heard the sound of fighting and rushed to the aid of their leader.

“I wonder who your widow will hand the constable’s staff of office to next?”

He asked this as he was taking two steps back to recover his advantage and his breath. He knew that Saldaña was as placid as an ox in all matters but those concerning his wife. Then passion blinded him. Any jokes about how she had got him the post in exchange for favors granted to third parties—as malicious tongues would have it—quickened his pulse and clouded his reason. “With any luck,” thought Alatriste, “this will help me resolve the matter quickly.” He adjusted his grip, parried a thrust, withdrew a little to draw his opponent in, and, when their blades clashed again, he noticed that Saldaña already seemed less confident. He decided to return to the attack.

“I imagine she’ll be inconsolable,” he said, striking again, every sense alert. “She’ll doubtless wear deepest mourning.”

Saldaña did not reply, but he was breathing hard and muttered a curse when the furious barrage he had just unleashed slashed only thin air, sliding off the captain’s blade.

“Cuckold,” said Alatriste calmly, then waited.

Now he had him. He sensed him coming toward him in the dark, or rather he knew it from the gleam of steel from his sword, the sound of frantic footsteps, and the rancorous roar Saldaña let out as he attacked blindly. Alatriste parried the blow, allowed Saldaña to attempt a furious reverse cut, then, halfway through that maneuver—when he judged that the constable would still have his weight on the wrong foot—turned his wrist, and with a forward thrust, cleanly skewered his opponent’s chest.

He withdrew the blade and, while he was cleaning it on his cloak, stood looking down at Saldaña’s body—a vague shape on the ground. Then he sheathed his sword and knelt beside the man who had been his friend. For some strange reason, he felt neither remorse nor sorrow, only a profound weariness and a desire to blaspheme loudly. He moved closer, listening. He could hear the other man’s weak, irregular breathing, as well as another far more worrying sound: a bubbling of blood and the whistle of air entering and leaving the wounded man’s lung. He was in a bad way, that foolish, stubborn man.

“Damn you,” Alatriste said and, tearing a clean piece of cloth from the sleeve of his doublet, he felt for the wound in Saldaña’s chest. It was about two fingers wide. He stuffed as much as he could of the handkerchief into the wound to staunch the bleeding. Then he rolled Saldaña onto his side and, ignoring his groans, felt his back; he found no exit wound, however, nor any blood other than that flowing from his chest.

“Can you hear me, Martín?”

Martín replied in a feeble voice that he could.

“Try not to cough or to move.”

He lifted Saldaña’s head and placed beneath it the wounded man’s own cloak, folded up by way of a pillow, to prevent the blood rising up from his lungs to his throat and choking him. “How am I?” he heard Martín say. The last word was drowned in a thick, liquid cough.

“Not too good. If you cough, you’ll bleed to death.”

Saldaña nodded weakly and lay still, his face in shadow, his pierced lung making an ominous noise each time he breathed. He nodded again a moment later, when Alatriste glanced impatiently from side to side and announced that he had to go.

“I’ll see if I can find someone to help you,” he said. “Do you want a priest as well?”

“Don’t talk such . . . nonsense.”

Alatriste stood up.

“You might pull through.”

“I might.”

The captain moved off, but heard the wounded man calling him. He went back and knelt down again.

“What is it, Martín?”

“You didn’t mean . . . what you said . . . did you?”

Alatriste found it hard to open his mouth to speak. His lips felt dry, as if stuck together, and when he spoke, his lips hurt him, as if the skin on them were tearing.

“No, of course I didn’t.”

“Bastard.”

“You know me. I took the easy path.”

Saldaña was gripping his arm now, as if all the strength of his battered body were concentrated in his fingers.

“You just wanted to make me angry, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“It was just . . . just a trick.”

“Of course. A trick.”

“Swear that it was.”

“I swear.”

Saldaña’s wounded chest was racked by a painful cough, or perhaps laughter.

“I knew it . . . you bastard . . . I knew it.”

Alatriste stood up and wrapped his own cloak around him. Now that his blood had cooled and after the physical exertion of the fight, he was conscious of the chill night air, or perhaps it wasn’t just the night air.

“Good luck, Martín.”

“The same to you. . . Captain . . . Alatriste.”

Dogs were barking in the distance, along the San Isidro road. The rest of the nighttime landscape lay in silence, and not even a breath of wind stirred the leaves on the trees. Diego Alatriste crossed the last stretch of the Segovia bridge and stopped for a moment by the washerwomen’s sheds. The waters of the Manzanares, swollen by the recent rains, lapped against the shore. Madrid was just a dark shape behind him. On the heights above the river, the dark outline of its belfries and the tower of the Alcázar Real stood silhouetted between sky and earth, and everywhere else was utter blackness apart from a few stars above and a few faint lights below, behind the city walls.

Having checked that all was well, he set off toward the Ermita del Ángel just as the damp was starting to penetrate his cloak. He encountered no further problems, although, making sure to keep his face covered, he did first call at a house near the Rastro, hold out four doubloons, and ask them to find a surgeon to tend to a man lying wounded near the abattoir. He was very close to the hermitage now and determined to take no more risks. He therefore took out one of his pistols, cocked it, and pointed it at the shadow of the man waiting there. The horse neighed anxiously at the noise, and Bartolo Cagafuego’s voice asked: “Is that you, Captain?”

“It is,” he said.

With a sigh of relief, Cagafuego sheathed his sword. He was glad, he said, that everything had gone well, and that the captain had arrived safe and sound. He handed him the reins of the horse: it was a bay, he added, good-tempered and soft-mouthed, albeit with a slight tendency to pull to the right. Otherwise, he was fit for a marquis or a Chinese emperor or any other lofty personage.

“He can keep going for miles, this one. He’s got no scabs on his flanks and no spur marks, either. I’ve checked his shoes, and there’s not a nail missing. I had a look at the saddle, and the girth, too . . . I think you’ll find him very much to your likin’, sir.”

Alatriste was patting the horse’s neck: warm, firm, and strong. He felt the horse toss its head contentedly at the touch of his hand. The warm breath of the horse’s nostrils dampened his palm.

“He can travel eight or even ten leagues, no problem, as long as you don’t push him too hard. I spent some time with the gypsies in Andalusia, so I knows a bit about horses and the like. Men can sometimes spring nasty surprises on you, but not these poor beasts. If you’re in a hurry, though, you can always change horses at the relay in Galapagar and get yourself a fresh mount to climb the hill.”

“Any food?”

“I took that liberty, yes, sir. One saddlebag containing bread, cheese, and cured meat and a skin containing a liter or so of red wine to wash it down with.”

“It’s good wine, I hope,” joked Alatriste.

“I bought it in Lepre’s tavern. Need I say more? Suleiman himself couldn’t ask for better.”

Alatriste checked headstall, bridle, saddle, girth, and stirrups. The saddlebag with the food and wine in it was hooked over the saddle-tree. He put his hand in his purse and handed Cagafuego two gold coins.

“You’ve behaved as the man you are, my friend: the cream of the ruffian classes.”

Cagafuego’s harsh laugh rang out in the darkness.

“On my grandfather’s soul, Captain, I didn’t do nothing, it wasn’t no bother at all. I didn’t even have to use my sword to kill anyone, like I did in Sanlúcar. And I’m sorry for it, too. A tiger of a man like me doesn’t want his sword to go rusty. Life can’t just be about pocketing the money your whore brings in for you.”

“Give her my best regards. And I hope she doesn’t catch the French disease like poor Blasa Pizorra, may she rest in peace.”

Alatriste saw Cagafuego silently cross himself.

“God forbid, sir.”

“And as for that brave blade of yours,” added Alatriste, “I’m sure you’ll have some occasion to use it. Life is short and art is long.”

“I don’t know much about art, Captain, but life, now, that’s a different matter. Anyway, what’s family for if not for times like these, eh? I’ll always be there when you need me: as dutiful as a pure-blood Spaniard and more reliable than quartan fever. And I can’t say fairer than that.”

Alatriste had knelt down to put on his spurs.

“Needless to say, we’ve never seen each other and we don’t know each other,” he said, buckling on his spurs. “And whatever happens to me, you need have no worries on that score.”

Cagafuego gave another laugh.

“That’s part of the job. Everyone knows that, however hard-pressed, you wouldn’t spill the beans, not even if they stretched you on the rack like Córdoban leather.”

“Who knows?”

“Don’t be so modest, Captain. I wish I could trust my doxy as I trust your tongue. All of Madrid knows you to be the kind of gentleman as would go to the gallows rather than say a word.”

“You’ll at least allow me the odd yelp, won’t you?”

“Well, seeing as it’s you, sir, yes, but nothing more, mind.”

They shook hands and said good-bye. Then Alatriste drew on his gloves, mounted, and rode the horse upriver—along the path that ran alongside the wall of the Casa de Campo—leaving the reins loose, so that the horse could find its own way in the dark. Once they had crossed the little bridge over the Meaque stream, where his horse’s hooves made rather too much noise for his liking, he plunged into the trees growing along the banks to avoid the guards at Puerta Real; and after a while spent slouching down in the saddle with one hand on his hat while he ducked the lower branches, he emerged, at last, at the foot of Aravaca hill, beneath the stars, leaving the murmur of the river behind him, amongst the shadowy woods that grew so thickly on its shore. The pale earth made it easier to make out the road, and so he put one of the pistols he was carrying at his waist in the holster on the front of the saddle-tree, wrapped his cloak more tightly about him, dug in his spurs, and set the horse going at a fast trot, so as to get away from there as quickly as possible.

Bartolo Cagafuego was right: the bay did pull a little more to the right than to the left, which meant that he had to rein him in a little, but he was a good mount and fairly soft-mouthed. This was fortunate, because Alatriste was not a particularly good horseman; that is, he knew as much about horses as most people, sat well in the saddle, and was comfortable at a gallop; he was equally at home on a horse or a mule, and even knew certain maneuvers proper to combat and war. However, there is a vast difference between that and being a skilled equestrian. He had spent his whole life trudging Europe with the Spanish infantry or sailing the Mediterranean in the king’s galleys, and was more accustomed to seeing horses charging toward him over Flemish plains or Barbary beaches, accompanied by enemy bugles, beating drums, and bloodied pikes. The truth is, he knew more about disemboweling horses than he did about riding them.

Once past the old Cerero inn, which was closed and in darkness, he trotted up the Aravaca hill and then slowed down, allowing the horse to proceed at a walking pace along the flat, almost treeless track that ran between the dark stains formed by the fields of wheat and barley, like large expanses of water. As was to be expected, the cold intensified just before the sky began to lighten, and the captain was glad he was wearing his buffcoat beneath his cloak. When horse and rider passed by Las Rozas, the first light was beginning to appear along the horizon, turning the shadows gray. Alatriste had decided not to take the broader, busier carriage road to Ávila, and so when he reached the crossroads, he turned right, onto the bridle path. From that point on, there were some gentle ups and downs, and the fields gave way to pine woods and scrub. He dismounted and stopped for a while to devour some of the food with which Cagafuego had filled the saddlebag. The dawn found him lost in thought, sitting on his cloak, eating a little cheese and drinking a little wine while his horse rested. Then he remounted, settled back in the saddle, and found himself pursuing the long shadow of horse and rider cast in the first reddish rays of sunlight on the path ahead. Farther on, about three leagues from Madrid and with the sun now warming the captain’s back, the path grew steeper and more rugged, and the pine forest became a leafy oak wood amongst which he occasionally caught sight of rabbits scampering away and startled deer. These woods were uninhabited, uncultivated places, the king’s hunting preserve. Anyone caught poaching was flogged and sent to the galleys.

Farther on, he began to encounter other travelers—a few muleteers on their way to Madrid—and near the Guadarrama River he overtook another mule-train transporting wineskins. At midday he crossed the Retamar bridge, where the bored guard simply pocketed the toll money without asking any questions or even demanding to see his face. From then on, the going was rougher and crag gier, with the path snaking through clumps of white broom, past ravines and rocks on which his horse’s hooves rang out as the path twisted and turned through a landscape which, thought Alatriste, studying it with a professional eye, would have been perfect for those gentlemen of the road, the highwaymen. However, one paid with one’s life for any crimes committed on the king’s lands, and such thieves preferred to carry out their trade a few leagues from there, robbing unwary travelers on the king’s highway that passed through Torre Lodones and past the Guadarrama River and into Old Castile. Reminding himself that highwaymen were not exactly his main concern, he checked that the primer was still dry in the pistol he had hung on the saddle-tree, within easy reach.