The Cavalier in the Yellow Doublet

10. THE BAIT AND THE TRAP

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.

She dragged me back onto the bed, tugging at my hair, keeping the dagger pressed to my throat, forcing me to lie down again, this time on my stomach. Then she sat astride me, half naked as she was, her thighs gripping my waist. She still had a firm hold on my hair. Then she removed the dagger from my throat, and I felt her lips on my still bleeding wound, felt her licking the edges, kissing it just as she had kissed my mouth.

“I’m so glad,” she whispered, “that I haven’t killed you just yet.”

The light was paining Diego Alatriste’s eyes, or, rather, his right eye, because his left was still swollen, and both eyelids felt as heavy as loaded dice. This time, he saw two shadows moving about near the door of his cell. He sat looking at them from his position on the floor, his back against the wall, having failed to free his bound hands, despite almost rubbing the skin raw in his efforts.

“Do you recognize me?” asked a dour voice.

The man was lit now by the lantern. Alatriste recognized him at once, with a shiver of fear and surprise that must, he thought, have been evident on his face. Who could forget that vast tonsure, that gaunt, ascetic face, those fanatical eyes, the stark black-and-white Dominican habit? Fray Emilio Bocanegra, president of the Court of the Inquisition, was the last man he would have expected to meet there.

“Now,” said the captain, “I really am done for.”

Behind the lantern, Gualterio Malatesta gave a harsh, appreciative laugh. The Inquisitor, however, lacked any sense of humor. His piercing, deep-set eyes fixed on the captain.

“I have come to confess you,” he said.

Alatriste shot an astonished look in the direction of Malatesta’s dark silhouette, but this time the Italian neither laughed nor commented. This offer of confession was clearly intended seriously, too seriously.

“You are a mercenary and a murderer,” the Inquisitor went on. “During your unfortunate life, you have broken each and every one of God’s commandments, and now you are about to be called to account.”

The captain finally recovered the use of his tongue, which had stuck to the roof of his mouth when he heard the word “confession.” Surprising even himself, he managed to keep his composure.

“My accounts,” he retorted, “are my own affair.”

Fray Emilio Bocanegra regarded him impassively, as if he had not heard that last remark.

“Divine Providence,” he went on, “is offering you the chance to reconcile yourself with God, to save your soul, even if you must then spend hundreds of years in Purgatory. In a few hours’ time, the holy swords of the archangel and of Joshua will fall and you will have been transformed into an instrument of God. You can decide whether to go to your death with your heart closed to God’s grace or to accept it with goodwill and a clear conscience. Do you understand?”

The captain shrugged. It was one thing for them to kill him and quite another to come bothering his head with such stuff. He could still not fathom what Bocanegra was doing there.

“One thing I do understand is that today is not a Sunday, so please spare me the sermon and tell me what is going on.”

Fray Emilio Bocanegra fell silent for a moment, but his eyes remained fixed on the prisoner. Then he raised one bony, admonitory finger.

“Very shortly, the world will know that a hired killer named Diego Alatriste, acting out of jealousy for some vile imitator of Jezebel, liberated Spain of a king unworthy to wear the crown. A base instrument wielded by God for a just cause.”

The friar’s eyes were flashing now, aflame with divine wrath. And Alatriste’s suspicions were finally confirmed. He, Alatriste, was to be the holy sword of Joshua, or would, at least, pass into the history books as such.

“The ways of the Lord are unknowable,” commented Malatesta, who was standing behind the friar and saw that the captain had finally understood.

He sounded almost encouraging, persuasive, respectful. Too respectful, thought Alatriste, knowing as he did the depths of Malatesta’s cynicism. Malatesta must have been enjoying this absurd little interlude immensely. Grave-faced, the Dominican half turned toward the Italian, and the latter’s derisive comment died on his lips. In the presence of the Inquisitor, even Gualterio Malatesta did not dare overstep.

“Just what I needed,” said the captain with a sigh. “To fall into the hands of a mad friar.”

The slap was as loud as a whiplash and flung his face to one side.

“Hold your tongue, wretch.” The Dominican still held his hand high, threatening to slap him again. “This is your last chance before you face eternal damnation.”

The captain looked again at Fray Emilio Bocanegra. His cheek smarted from the blow, and he was not the kind of man to turn the other cheek. Despair formed a knot in the pit of his stomach. “By Lucifer’s balls,” he said to himself, repressing his anger. Up until that night, no one had ever slapped him in the face—ever. By Christ and the father who engendered him, he would gladly have sold his soul, always assuming he had one, just to have his hands free for a moment to strangle this friar. He glanced over at the black shape that was Malatesta, still concealed behind the lantern. No laughter and no jocular remarks emerged from him now. That slap had not pleased him one iota. Among their kind, killing was one thing—part of the job—but humiliation was another matter entirely.

“Who else is involved in this?” Alatriste asked, pulling himself together. “Besides Luis de Alquézar, of course. One doesn’t just kill a king like that. An heir is needed, and our king has not yet had a son.”

“The natural order will be followed,” the Dominican said coolly.

So that was it, thought Alatriste, biting his lip. The natural order of succession would fall on the Infante don Carlos, the eldest of the king’s two brothers. It was said that he was the least gifted of the family, and that given his weak will and lack of intelligence, he could easily fall under the influence of the right confessor for the purpose. Despite his youthful licentiousness, Philip IV was nevertheless a devout man; however, unlike his father, Philip III, who spent all his life beset by priests, he never gave the clergy a free hand. On the advice of the Count-Duke of Olivares, the Spanish king always maintained a certain distance from Rome, whose pontiffs knew, much to their regret, that the Hapsburg army was the main Catholic bulwark against the Protestant heretics. Like Olivares, the young king showed some sympathy for the Jesuits, but in a land where one hundred thousand priests and friars and monks were ever battling it out amongst themselves for control of men’s souls and of ecclesiastical privileges, it was neither easy nor advisable to come down in favor of any one group. The Jesuits were hated by the Dominicans, who ran the Holy Office of the Inquisition and were the implacable enemies of the Franciscans and Augustinians, yet they all joined forces when it came to eluding royal authority and justice. In that struggle for power, driven by fanaticism, pride, and ambition, it was hardly surprising that the Dominican order, and, of course, the Inquisition, enjoyed an excellent relationship with the Infante don Carlos. And it was no secret that he, in turn, favored them to the extent of having chosen a Dominican as his confessor. If it was red and served in a jug, Alatriste decided, it must be wine. Or blood.

“If the infante involves himself in this,” he said, “he’s an utter rogue.”

Making a gesture as if brushing away a fly, Fray Emilio Bocanegra resorted to professional rhetoric:

“The right hand does not always know what the left hand is doing. What matters is that we serve the Almighty, and that is our sole aim.”

“It will cost you your heads—you, that Italian over there, Alquézar, and the infante himself.”

“Worry about your own head,” remarked Malatesta phlegmatically.

“Rather,” added the Inquisitor, “worry about the health of your soul.” Again his terrible eyes fixed on Alatriste. “Will you make your confession to me?”

The captain leaned back against the wall. It would have to have happened some time, but it was grotesque that it had to be like this. Diego Alatriste, regicide. That isn’t how he wanted to be remembered by the few friends who would be likely to remember him in a tavern or a trench. It would be worse, though, he concluded, to end up ill and dying in a hospital for veterans, or else crippled and begging for alms at the door of a church. At least in his case, Malatesta would act cleanly and quickly. They couldn’t risk him blabbing on the rack.

“I’d rather confess to the devil. I know him better.”

He heard the Italian spluttering in the background in spontaneous laughter, which was interrupted by a fierce look from Fray Emilio Bocanegra. Then the Inquisitor studied Alatriste’s face long and hard, finally shaking his head, as if handing down a sentence against which there could be no appeal. He got to his feet, smoothing his robes.

“So be it. The devil and you, face-to-face.”

He left, followed by Malatesta bearing the lantern. The door closed behind them like a tombstone closing over a tomb.

We rehearse our death in sleep, which serves us as both rest and warning. I was never more aware of the truth of these words than when I emerged, bathed in an unwholesome sweat, from a strange half-sleep, a state of unconsciousness filled with images, like some kind of slow nightmare. I was lying facedown and naked on the bed, and my back hurt me terribly. It was still night. Always assuming, I thought with some alarm, that it was the same night. When I felt for my wound, I found my torso swathed in a bandage. I moved cautiously, making sure that I was alone. The memory of what had happened rose up inside me—beautiful and terrible. Then I remembered Captain Alatriste and wondered what fate he might have met.

This thought decided me. I stumbled to my feet, looking for my clothes, and clenching my teeth so as not to cry out in pain. Each time I bent down in search of some item of clothing, I felt dizzy and feared I might faint again. I was almost fully dressed when I noticed a light underneath the door and the sound of voices. As I moved toward that sound, I accidentally kicked my dagger where it lay on the floor. I froze, but no one came. I carefully slipped the dagger into its sheath, then finished tying the laces on my shoes.

The noise outside stopped, and I heard footsteps moving off. The line of light on the floor trembled and grew brighter. I moved back and hid behind the door as Angélica de Alquézar, holding a lighted candle, came into the room. She was wearing a woolen shawl over her chemise and had her hair caught back. She stood very still, staring at the empty bed, but uttered no exclamation of surprise, not a word. Then she spun around, sensing me behind her. The reddish light of the candle lit up her blue eyes, as intense as two points of frozen steel, almost hypnotic. At the same time, she opened her mouth to say something or to cry out, but I was ready and prepared and could not allow her such a luxury. This was no time for reproaches or conversation. The blow I struck hit her on one side of the face, erasing that hypnotic look and causing her to drop the candle. She stumbled backward. The candle was still rolling about on the floor, not quite extinguished, when I clenched my fist again—I swear to you I felt no remorse—and punched her, this time on the temple, and she fell back unconscious onto the bed. I felt my way toward her—for the candle had burned out now—to make sure she was still breathing. I placed one hand on her lips—after that punch my knuckles hurt me almost as much as the wound in my back—and felt her breath on my fingers. That calmed me a little. Then I got down to practical matters. Postponing until later any consideration of my emotions, I first made my way over to the window and opened it, but it was too big a drop for me to consider jumping. I returned to the door, cautiously pushed it open, and found myself on the landing. I groped my way downstairs to a narrow passageway, lit by an oil lamp hanging from the wall. There was a rug at the far end, a door, and another flight of steps. I tiptoed past the door. I had one foot on the second step when I became aware of people talking. Had I not heard Captain Alatriste’s name, I would have simply continued on down.

Sometimes God, or the devil, guides your feet in the right direction. I turned back and pressed my ear to the door. There were at least two men on the other side, and they were talking about a hunt: deer, rabbits, beaters. I wondered what the captain had to do with all that. Then they said another name: Philip. He’ll be there at such and such a hour, they were saying. In such and such a place. They only mentioned his name, but I had a sudden presentiment that sent a shudder through me. The nearness of Angélica’s room made it easy enough to make the logical connection. I must be standing outside the room of Luis de Alquézar, Angélica’s uncle, the royal secretary. Then a word and another name reached me through the door: “dawn” and “La Fresneda.” My knees almost buckled beneath me, whether this was because I was still weak from my wound or because I was so shaken by the idea that had suddenly installed itself inside my head, I don’t know. The memory of the cavalier in the yellow doublet resurfaced and threaded together all those disparate fragments. María de Castro had gone to spend the night at La Fresneda. The person she had gone to meet was planning to go hunting at dawn, with just two beaters as escort. The Philip they had mentioned was none other than Philip IV. They were talking about the king!

I leaned against the wall, trying to order my thoughts. Then I took a deep breath and gathered all my strength—for I was going to need it, just as long, that is, as the wound in my back didn’t open. My first thought was to go to see don Francisco de Quevedo. So I went down the stairs as quietly as I could. Don Francisco, however, was not in his room. I went in and lit a candle. The table was full of books and papers and the bed undisturbed. Then I remembered the Count of Guadalmedina and walked across the large courtyard to the rooms occupied by members of the royal entourage. As I feared, I was not allowed through. One of the guards, who knew me, said that they wouldn’t wake up His Excellency at that hour for all the wine in Spain. “No matter what,” he added. I did not tell them just how urgent this particular matter was. I knew what catchpoles, soldiers, and guards were like, and knew that telling my story to such lumps of flesh was tantamount to talking to a wall. They were typical big-bellied, mustachioed veterans who simply wanted a quiet life. Getting involved was-n’t part of the job, which was to make sure that no one got past them—and no one did. Talking to them about conspiracies and regicides would be like talking to them about the man in the moon, and I risked, in the process, getting thrown in a dungeon. I asked them if they had paper I could write on and they said no. I went back to don Francisco’s room, where, making use of his pen, inkwell, and sandbox, I composed, as best I could, a note for him and another for Álvaro de la Marca. I sealed both letters with wax, scrawled their respective names on them, left the poet’s note on his bed, and returned to the guards.

“This is for the count as soon as he wakes up. It’s a matter of life and death.”

They seemed unconvinced, but they kept the note. The guard who knew me promised that he would give it to the count’s servants if one of them happened to pass or, at the very latest, when he came off duty. I had to be content with that.

The Cañada Real was my last faint hope. Don Francisco might have gone back for more wine and might still be there, drinking and writing; or, having bent his elbow one too many times, he might have decided to sleep there rather than wend his unsteady way back to the palace. I went over to one of the servants’ doors and walked across the esplanade beneath a black, starless sky that was just beginning to grow light in the east. I was shivering in the cold wind blowing down from the mountains in brief rainy gusts. While this helped to clear my head, it gave me no new ideas. I walked quickly, anxiously. The image of Angélica came into my mind. I sniffed my hands, which still smelled of her. Then I shivered to remember the touch of her delicious skin and cursed my bad luck. The wound to my back hurt more than I can say.

The inn was closed, with only a dim lamp hanging above the lintel. I knocked several times at the door and then stood there, deliberating, uncertain what to do. All paths were blocked to me, and time was passing implacably.

“It’s too late to be drinking,” said a voice nearby, “or too early.”

Startled, I turned round. In my anxiety, I had failed to notice the man sitting on the stone bench beneath the chestnut tree. He had no hat on and was wrapped in his cloak, with his sword and a demijohn of wine beside him. I realized it was Rafael de Cózar.

“I’m looking for Señor de Quevedo.”

He shrugged and looked distractedly about him.

“He left with you. I don’t know where he is.”

His words were somewhat slurred. If he had been drinking all night, I thought, he must be as drunk as a lord.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“Drinking and thinking.”

I went over to him and sat down beside him, pushing his sword out of the way. I must have looked the very picture of despair.

“In this cold?” I said. “It’s hardly the weather for sitting outside.”

“I carry my own heat inside me,” he said and gave a strange laugh. “It’s good, that, isn’t it? Heat inside and horns outside. How does that verse go?”

And, taking two more drafts from the demijohn, he recited mockingly:

“Yes, business is good, no need to skimp,

But tell me, please, where did you learn

To be your mistress’s husband

And your own wife’s pimp?”

I fidgeted uneasily on the bench, and not just because of the cold.

“I think you’ve had too much to drink.”

“And how much is ‘too much’?”

I didn’t know what to say, and so we sat for a while in silence. Cózar’s hair and face were spattered with drops of rain that glittered like frost in the light of the lamp. He was studying me hard.

“You seem to have your own problems,” he said at last.

When I did not reply, he offered me some wine.

“No,” I said glumly, “that isn’t the kind of help I need.”

He nodded gravely, almost philosophically, stroking his long side whiskers. Then he raised the demijohn, and the wine gurgled down his throat.

“Any news of your wife?”

He gave me a vague, sullen, sideways look, the demijohn still held high. Then he put it slowly down on the bench.

“My wife leads her own life,” he said, wiping his mustache with the back of his hand. “And that has its advantages and its disadvantages.”

He opened his mouth and raised one finger, ready to recite something else. But I was in no mood for more poetry.

“They’re going to use her against the king,” I said.

He was staring at me hard, mouth open and finger raised.

“I don’t understand.”

This sounded almost like a plea to be allowed to continue in that state of incomprehension. I, however, had had enough of him and his bottle of wine, of the cold and the pain in my back.

“There’s a plot against the king,” I finally said in exasperation. “That’s why I’m looking for don Francisco.”

He blinked. His eyes were no longer vague, there was a frightened look in them.

“And what has that got to do with María?”

I pulled a scornful face. I couldn’t help it.

“She’s the bait. The trap is set for dawn. The king is going hunting with only two men as escort. Someone wants to kill him.”

There was the sound of broken glass at our feet. The demijohn had just fallen to the ground, shattering inside its wicker covering.

“Od’s blood,” he murmured. “I thought I was the one who was drunk.”

“It’s the truth.”

Cózar was staring thoughtfully at the mess on the ground.

“Even if it is,” he said, “what do I care whether it’s the king or his knave?”

“As I said, they’re trying to implicate your wife—and Captain Alatriste.”

When he heard my master’s name, he gave a quiet, incredulous chuckle. I seized his hand and made him place it on my back.

“Touch it.”

I felt his fingers on the bandage and saw the look on his face change.

“You’re bleeding!”

“Of course I’m bleeding. Less than three hours ago, someone stuck a knife in me.”

He jumped to his feet as if he’d felt a snake brush past him. I stayed where I was, watching him pace up and down, taking short strides.

“Come the Day of Judgment,” he said as if to himself, “all will be revealed.”

Then he stopped. The gusts of rain-filled wind were growing stronger, snatching at his cloak.

“They want to kill young Philip, you say?”

I nodded.

“To kill a king . . .” he went on, getting used to the idea now. “It has its comic side, you know. Yes, it’s like a scene from a comedy.”

“A tragicomedy,” I said.

“That, my boy, depends on your point of view.”

Suddenly my brain woke up.

“Have you still got your carriage?”

He seemed confused. He stood, looking at me, swaying slightly.

“Of course I have,” he said at last. “It’s in the square. The driver’s asleep inside; that’s what I pay him for. Mind you, he’s had his fair share of wine too. I had them take him over a few bottles.”

“Your wife has gone to La Fresneda.”

His confusion changed to distrust.

“So?” he asked warily.

“That’s almost a league away, and I can’t make it on foot. In a carriage, I could be there in an instant.”

“To do what?”

“To save the king’s life and possibly hers as well.”

He started laughing mirthlessly, but stopped almost at once. Then he stood thoughtfully shaking his head. Finally, he wrapped his cloak about him and intoned theatrically:

“In leaving Fate to go its own sweet way,

I’ve been unfortunately fortunate,

For my revenge comes early in the day

Before offense has even had its say.

“My wife can take care of herself,” he said, grave-faced. “You should know that.”

And with the same grave expression, he struck a fencing pose, albeit without his sword, which still lay on the bench beside me. En garde, attack, and parry. “What a strange man this Cózar fellow is,” I thought. Then he suddenly looked at me again and smiled, and neither smile nor look were those of a cuckolded man about whom everyone gossips behind his back. But there was no time to ponder such things.

“Think of the king, then,” I said.

“Young Philip?” He made the gesture of elegantly sheathing his imaginary blade. “By my grandfather’s beard, I wouldn’t mind someone showing him that only in plays do kings have blue blood.”

“He’s the king of Spain, our king.”

The actor seemed unaffected by that “our.” He arranged his cloak about his shoulders, shaking off the drops of rain.

“Look, my boy, I deal with kings every day on stage, be they emperors or the Great Turk or Tamburlaine. Sometimes I even play them myself. On stage, I’ve done the most extraordinary things. Kings, be they alive or dead, don’t impress me very much.”

“But your wife . . .”

“Enough! Forget about my wife.”

He looked again at the broken demijohn and stood for a moment, motionless and frowning. Then he made a tutting noise with his tongue and regarded me with some curiosity.

“Are you going to La Fresneda on your own? And what about the royal guard, and the army, and the galleons from the Indies, and all the other sons of whores?”

“At La Fresneda there must be guards and people from the king’s household. If I get there, I’ll give the alarm.”

“Why go so far? The palace is right here. Why not tell someone there.”

“That’s not so easy. At this hour, no one will listen to me.”

“And what if you’re met with knife-thrusts? The conspirators might be there already.”

This caused me to hesitate. Cózar was pensively scratching his side whiskers.

“I played Beltrán Ramírez in The Weaver of Segovia,” he said suddenly. “I saved the king’s life.

“Follow them and find out who they are,

These men who dare to place a filthy hand

Upon the sovereign’s pure and sacred breast

And to wield that impious, treach’rous, steely wand.”

He again stood looking at me, awaiting my reaction to his artistry. I gave a short nod. It was hardly the moment for applause.

“Is that by Lope?” I asked, just to say something and to humor him.

“No. It’s by the Mexican, Alarcón. It’s a famous play, you know. It was a great success. María played Doña Ana and was applauded to the echo. And I, well, what can I say?”

He fell silent for a moment, thinking about the applause, and about his wife.

“Yes,” he went on, “in the play, the king owed his life to me. Act one, scene one. I fought off two Moors. I’m quite good at that, you know, at least with stage swords, pretend swords. As an actor, you have to know how to do everything, even fencing.”

He shook his head, amused, absorbed in his own thoughts. Then he winked at me.

“It would be amusing, wouldn’t it, if young Philip were to owe his life to Spain’s finest actor, and if María . . .”

He stopped. His gaze grew distant, fixed on scenes only he could see.

“The sovereign’s pure and sacred breast,” he murmured, almost to himself.

He continued shaking his head and muttering words I could not hear now. More lines from a play perhaps. Then his face lit up with a splendid, heroic smile. He gave me a friendly pat on the shoulder.

“After all,” he said, “it’s simply another role to play.”