The Cavalier in the Yellow Doublet

11. THE HUNTING PARTY

When the rain-soaked blindfold was finally removed, Alatriste found the dawn shrouded in a grim, gray light and low dark clouds. He raised his hands—which were bound in front now—to rub his eyes; his left eye still bothered him, but he found at least that he had no problem now in opening it. He looked about him. They had brought him there mounted on a mule at first—and he had been aware of the sound of horses’ hooves beside him—then on foot across some rough ground. That short walk had warmed him up a little, although with no cloak or hat on he still had to clench his teeth to keep them from chattering. He was in a wood of oaks and elms. The shadows of night still clung to the horizon in the west, which he could just glimpse through the trees; and the drizzle drenching him and the other men—a fine rain of the kind that lingers—only accentuated the melancholy of the landscape.

Ti-ri-tu ta-ta. The sound of that whistle made him turn his head. Gualterio Malatesta, swathed in his black cape and with his hat down over his eyes, stopped whistling and made a face that could as easily have been a sneer as a greeting.

“Are you cold, Captain?”

“A little.”

“And hungry?”

“More hungry than cold.”

“Well, console yourself with the thought that your life ends here. We, on the other hand, have to go back.”

He made a gesture indicating the men around him, the same men—less the one who had been killed—who had ambushed the captain at the stream. They were still dressed as beaters, and, even more alarming than their rough-and-ready appearance and their bristling mustaches and beards was the array of weapons they had about their persons: hunting knives, daggers, swords, pistols.

“Only the very best,” said the Italian, sensing what Alatriste must be thinking.

A hunting horn sounded in the distance, and Malatesta and the three hired killers looked up and exchanged meaningful glances.

“You’re going to stay here for a while,” said Malatesta, turning to the prisoner.

One of the other men was heading off into the bushes where the sound of the horn had come from. The other two stood at either side of Alatriste, forcing him to sit on the damp ground, and one of them started tying a piece of rope around his ankles.

“An elementary precaution,” explained the Italian. “A compliment to your courage.”

The eye with the scar above it seemed to water a little whenever it fixed on anything for any length of time, as it was at that moment.

“I always thought our final meeting would be face-to-face,” said the captain, “and alone.”

“When we met in my house, you didn’t seem prepared to show me such mercy.”

“At least I left your hands free.”

“That’s true, but I can’t, I’m afraid, do the same for you today. There’s too much at stake.”

Alatriste nodded, indicating that he understood. The man tying his ankles made a couple of very tight knots.

“Do these animals know what they’re involved in?”

The dull-witted animals did not even blink. The one tying the knots was standing up and brushing the mud from his breeches. The other was making sure the rain did not soak the gunpowder in the pistol he was carrying at his waist.

“Of course they do. They’re old acquaintances of yours. They were with me in Camino de las Minillas.”

“I assume they’ve been well paid.”

“What do you think?”

Alatriste tried to move, but to no avail. His hands and feet were bound fast, although at least now his hands were tied in front of him, a precaution his captors had taken before setting out, so that he could hold himself upright on the mule.

“How do you intend carrying out your orders?”

Malatesta had taken from his leather belt a pair of black gloves, which he was now carefully drawing on. Alatriste noticed that, as well as sword, dagger, and pistol, he also had a knife in the leg of his boot.

“As I’m sure you know, the man in question has a taste for going out hunting early with just two beaters as escort. There are plenty of deer and rabbit here, and he’s an experienced, intrepid hunter, a great marksman. All of Spain knows his liking for plunging into the undergrowth alone when he’s hot on the trail of something. It’s odd, isn’t it, that someone so self-possessed, a man who never even blinks in public or looks at anyone directly, should be so utterly transformed when in pursuit of his prey.”

He flexed his fingers to make sure his gloves fitted properly, then unsheathed his sword a few inches and put it back again.

“Hunting and women,” he added with a sigh.

He remained like this for a moment, apparently absorbed in thought. Finally, he beckoned to the two ruffians, who hoisted the captain—one holding him by the legs and the other under the armpits—and carried him over to an oak tree, where they leaned him against the trunk. He was hidden there by the bushes.

“It wasn’t easy, but we managed,” the Italian went on. “We were told that he would be here tonight, taking his ease with . . . well, you know with who. Certain people arranged for him to be accompanied this morning by two trusted beaters. Trusted by us, that is. They have just informed us, by sounding the hunting horn, that everything is going to plan and that the prey is near at hand.”

“A difficult task very delicately handled,” remarked the captain.

Malatesta thanked him for the compliment by touching the dripping brim of his hat.

“I hope that after such a wanton night, the illustrious personage made his confession before setting out,” said Malatesta, and his pockmarked face again twisted into a grimace. “Not that I care, but they do say he is a pious man. I doubt very much he would want to die in mortal sin.”

He seemed to find this thought vastly amusing. He gazed off into the distance, as if trying to spot his prey amongst the trees, then burst out laughing, his hand still resting on the hilt of his sword. In a tone that was at once jocular and sinister, he said:

“I like the idea that today we’ll be providing two new recruits for hell.”

He continued to smile, savoring the thought. Then he again looked at the captain.

“By the way,” he added courteously, “I think you were quite right last night to refuse the sacrament of penitence. If either you or I ever recounted our lives to a priest, he’d immediately hang up his habit, write a highly unexem plary novel, and make more money than Lope does each time he puts on a new play.”

Despite the situation, Alatriste could not help but agree.

“Fray Emilio Bocanegra,” he said, “isn’t much of an incentive to unburden one’s conscience.”

The Italian gave another brief laugh.

“Oh, I’m with you there. If I had to choose between two devils, I’d prefer the one with the tail and the horns to the one with the tonsure and the crucifix.”

“You haven’t yet told me what my part is in all this?”

“Your part?” Malatesta looked at him for a moment, uncertain how to reply, then he understood. “Oh, of course. The hunter and the prey. I thought you would have guessed what would happen next: a rabbit, say, or a deer rushes into the woods with the royal personage after him. The beaters hang back, and the spurned lover, namely you, appears out of nowhere and promptly runs him through. A simple case of jealousy avenged.”

“Will you run him through yourself?”

“Of course. Both him and you. A double pleasure. Then we’ll untie you, leaving your sword, dagger, and everything else nearby. Those faithful beaters, arriving at the tragic scene too late, will at least have the official honor of avenging the king.”

“I see.” Alatriste was studying his own bound hands and feet. “A shut mouth catches no flies.”

“You have a reputation, Captain, as a brave man. No one would be surprised to learn that you fought like a tiger to the death, and many would be disappointed if they thought you had surrendered your life without a struggle.”

“And what about you?”

“Oh, I know that isn’t how it was. You can depart this life with an easy mind. After all, you killed one of my men yesterday and another in Camino de las Minillas.”

“No, I meant what will you do afterward?”

Malatesta smugly stroked his mustache.

“Ah, that’s the best part. I will disappear for a while. I’d like to go back to Italy with some ballast in my purse. I left there with far too little.”

“It’s a shame they don’t ballast your balls with an ounce of lead.”

“Patience, Captain,” said the Italian, smiling encour agingly. “All in good time.”

Alatriste leaned his head against the tree trunk. The rain was running down his back, soaking the shirt underneath his buffcoat. His breeches were already sodden with mud.

“I’d like to ask you a favor,” he said.

“Ye gods,” said Malatesta, eyeing him with genuine surprise. “You asking a favor, Captain? I hope the prospect of meeting the Grim Reaper isn’t turning you soft. I would prefer to remember you as you were.”

“Is there some way in which Íñigo could be left out of this?”

Malatesta continued to study him impassively. Then a flicker of understanding seemed to cross his face.

“As far as I know, he’s not involved,” he said. “But that doesn’t depend on me, so I can’t promise you anything.”

The man who had made off into the bushes returned and gestured to Malatesta, pointing in a particular direction. Malatesta gave the two men some orders in a low voice. One stationed himself next to the captain, his sword and pistol at his belt, and one hand resting on the hilt of his knife. The other went over to join the third man, who was waiting farther off.

“He’s a very brave lad, Captain. You should be proud of him, and I can assure you that I, too, hope he gets out of this all right.”

“So do I. Then, one day, he can kill you.”

Malatesta was about to go over and join his men, leaving one to guard Alatriste.

“Yes, perhaps,” he said. Then he turned around and once more fixed Alatriste with his dark eyes. “As with you, someone will have to kill me sometime.”

It was drizzling harder now, drenching our faces. With the two mules almost at a gallop, the carriage was clattering along toward La Fresneda beneath the gray sky and past the dark poplars flanking the road. We had found the driver lying on one of the seats inside the carriage, sleeping off the effects of the wine he had drunk, which was why Rafael de Cózar, his sword tucked in his belt, was the one now holding the reins and urging on the mules. Cózar was not entirely sober himself, but the activity, the cooling rain, and a kind of obscure determination that seemed lately to have taken hold of him, were all helping to dissipate the vinous vapors. He was racing along in the carriage, urging the mules on with shouts and lashes of the whip, and I could not help but ask myself uneasily if this speed was a tribute to his skill as a driver or merely the irresponsible behavior of a drunkard. Whatever the truth of the matter, the carriage seemed positively to fly. I was sitting beside Cózar, wrapped in the coachman’s cloak, hanging on as best I could, ready to throw myself off if we overturned. I closed my eyes each time the actor took a bend in the road, or when the mules or the lurchings of the carriage spattered us with mud.

I was just pondering what I was going to say or do in La Fresneda, when we left behind us the lead-gray smudge of the lake—glimpsed through the branches of the trees—and I saw, still far off, the stepped Flemish roof of the royal hunting lodge. At that point, the road forked, and the left fork led into the leafy wood; when I looked down that path, I saw a mule and four horses half hidden round a bend. I pointed this out to Cózar, who pulled so violently on the reins that one of the mules almost bolted and the carriage nearly overturned. I jumped down from the seat, cautiously looking all around. The dawn was far advanced now, although, beneath the rain-laden sky, the countryside still looked dark. Perhaps, I thought fearfully, there was nothing to be done and going to the hunting lodge itself would be a waste of time. I was still hesitating when Cózar took the decision for us both: he, too, jumped from the driver’s seat, but fell face first into an enormous puddle, got up, shook himself, then, tripping over his own sword, fell in again. He got to his feet, cursing angrily. His face was covered in mud, filthy water was dripping from his side whiskers and mustache, and yet his eyes were shining. For some strange reason, for all his cursing, he seemed to be enjoying himself hugely.

“Have at ’em,” he said, “whoever they are.”

I took my borrowed cloak and picked up the coachman’s sword, for the coachman had, during that rackety journey, slid to the floor of the carriage and lay there, snoring like a baby. The sword was of very poor quality, but that and my dagger were better than nothing, and there was no time to lose. Utter confidence, Captain Bragado used to say in Flanders, was dangerous when discussing any preliminary plan of attack, but vital at the moment of execution. And that moment had arrived. I indicated the horses tethered to the trees.

“I’m going to take a look. You go to the lodge and ask for help.”

“Certainly not, my boy. I wouldn’t miss this for anything in the world. We’re in it together.”

Cózar seemed a different man, and he probably was. Even his tone of voice was not the same. I wondered what role he was playing. He suddenly went over to the coachman, who was still asleep in the carriage, and started slapping him so hard that the noise startled the mules.

“Wake up, you fool!” he demanded with all the authority of a duke. “Spain needs you.”

A moment later, the coachman—still dazed and, I imagine, suspecting that his master was not quite right in the head—was cracking the whip and driving on to La Fresneda to give the alarm. He seemed a rather dim-witted fellow, and so Cózar, in order not to complicate matters further, had given him some very elementary instructions: “Go to the hunting lodge, kick up a fuss, and bring as many people back here with you as you can. Explanations will follow.

“If, of course, we live to provide them,” he added dramatically, for my benefit.

Then he solemnly folded back his cloak, adjusted his sword, and set off into the woods, a small, determined figure. A few paces later, he tripped over his sword again and fell face forward into the mud.

“God save me,” he said from where he lay on the ground, “I’ll pickle the next man who pushes me.”

I helped him up, and he once again brushed down his clothes. “I just hope the coachman can convince the people at La Fresneda,” I thought despairingly. “Or that the captain, wherever he is, can sort things out alone. Because if everything depends on Cózar and me, Spain will be left without a king just as sure as I was left without a father.”

The hunting horn sounded again. Still sitting with his back to the tree trunk, Diego Alatriste noticed the man guarding him turn in the direction from which the sound had come. He was the same short, bearded, broad-shouldered fellow he had seen at the staging post at Galapagar before the ambush. He was also, it seemed, a man of few words and had not moved since Malatesta left, standing motionless beneath the increasingly heavy rain, with only a short waxed cape as protection. As Alatriste could appreciate better than anyone, the fellow was clearly accustomed to this life, the kind of man to whom you say: stay there, kill, die, and who will carry out those orders without a murmur; the kind of man who could be a hero when it came to attacking a Flemish bastion or a Turkish galley, or a murderer when it came to private matters. There was no easy way of drawing a line between the two. It all depended on how the dice fell—the dice of life—or on whether you were dealt the seven of clubs or the whore of hearts.

When the sound of the horn had died away, the ruffian rubbed the back of his neck and glanced at his prisoner. Then he came over to him and looked at him dully for a moment before unsheathing his knife. With his bound hands in his lap, Alatriste rested his head back against the trunk of the tree, keeping his eyes fixed on the blade. He felt an unpleasant tingling in his groin. Perhaps, he thought, Malatesta had changed his mind and was delegating the task to his subordinate. What a grubby way to die, sitting in the mud, tied hand and foot, his throat slit like a pig’s, and with a long future ahead of him in the history books as an exemplary regicide. Shit.

“If you try to escape,” warned the man dispassionately, “I’ll pin you to that tree.”

Alatriste blinked away the rain running down his face. Apparently the fellow had other plans. Instead of slitting his throat, the man was cutting the ropes binding his ankles.

“Get up,” the man said, giving him a shove.

The captain got to his feet, the other man never once taking his eyes off him and keeping the blade only an inch from his throat. He gave the captain another shove.

“Come on.”

Alatriste finally understood. They were not going to kill him now only to have to drag his corpse over to the king’s body, leaving tracks in the mud and the scrub. He would simply have to walk to the site of that double execution, measuring out, step by step, what was left of his time and his life. It occurred to him, on the other hand, that this was also an opportunity, his very last. After all, as things stood, he might as well consider himself dead and buried, so anything else was a bonus.

“Mercy!” he cried, sinking down with one knee on the ground, the other slightly flexed.

The ruffian, who was following behind, was taken by surprise.

“Mercy!” the captain cried again.

Turning around, he just had time to catch the look of scorn in the other man’s eyes. “I thought you had more balls,” that look was saying.

“You mis—” he began.

Even as he was saying this, the man realized he had been tricked; but, momentarily distracted, he was no longer pointing his knife directly at his prisoner, and Alatriste, springing up from his half-kneeling position, was already hurling himself, shoulder first, at the man’s belly. The blow almost dislocated the captain’s shoulder, but he managed to knock the man off his feet. The unfinished word became a roar, and there was a great splashing of mud as the captain, making one fist of his two bound hands, gathered all his strength together to deliver one devastating blow to the man’s face, while the man, in turn, was trying to knife him. Luckily for Alatriste, the knife was quite long; had it been shorter, the man could have knifed him in the ribs there and then. At such close quarters, however, the knife-thrust wasn’t forceful enough to penetrate the captain’s rain-sodden buffcoat and merely slithered off. With one knee the captain pinioned the arm carrying the knife. Despite being bound, he had enough freedom of movement in his hands to grab the man’s jaw and press a thumb into each eye. This was no time for fancy footwork or flourishes or fencing protocol, and so he pressed as hard as he could, mentally counting five, ten, fifteen, until he got to eighteen, and the man let out a yell and stopped struggling. The rain diluted the blood pouring down the face of the fallen man and over the captain’s hands, and the captain, unopposed now, grabbed the knife, placed it point down on the man’s throat and drove it in hard through his neck and into the mud. He held it there, bearing down with the whole weight of his body, trying to restrain the man’s flailing legs, until the man, with a weary sigh that emerged not from his mouth but from the blade stuck in his throat, ceased all movement. Alatriste rolled off and lay on his back in the mud to recover his breath. Then, wrenching the knife from the dead man’s throat, he wedged the handle of the knife between knee and tree trunk and managed to cut the rope binding his hands without severing a vein. While he was doing this, he watched as one of the dead man’s feet began to tremble. “How odd,” he thought, even though he had seen the phenomenon before. Even when a man was dead, it was as if something inside him refused to die.

He pillaged the corpse for anything useful. Sword, knife, pistol. The sword was a good one, from Sahagún, although somewhat shorter than what he was used to. He hurriedly strapped on the leather belt. The hunting knife had a horn handle and was two spans in length; he would have preferred a dagger, but it would do. The pistol probably wouldn’t be much use after the struggle in the mud, but he stuck it in his belt anyway, his hands trembling as the cold took hold of him after all that activity. He gave one last glance at the body: the foot had stopped moving now, and beneath the drumming rain, the blood, like watered-down wine, was spreading all around. The dead man’s clothes were soaked and dirty; they would afford the captain little protection from the cold and so he took only the waxed cape and put it on.

He heard a noise to one side, among the bushes, and unsheathed his sword. The weight of it in his hand was soothing and familiar. “You won’t find it so easy to kill me now,” he said to himself.

I froze. Captain Alatriste was standing before me, with sword in hand, a corpse at his feet, and mud caking his face like a mask. He looked as if he had just emerged from a Flemish marsh, or like a ghost returned from the beyond. He cut short my exclamations of delight and stared at Rafael de Cózar, who had just appeared behind me, splashing through puddles and stepping on branches that snapped as loudly as pistol-shots.

“Good God,” he said, sheathing his sword. “What’s he doing here?”

I explained as briefly as I could, but before I had even finished, the captain had turned and set off, as if he had suddenly lost all interest in my answer.

“Have you given the alarm?” he asked.

“I think so,” I replied, remembering uneasily the coachman’s drunken, bloated face.

“You think so?”

He was striding away into the bushes, and I was following. Behind me I could hear Cózar muttering unintelligibly; sometimes he seemed to be reciting poetry and at others mumbling curses. “Have at ’em,” he would say now and then. “Snip ’em off like a bunch of grapes. Have at ’em! Give them no quarter! Forward for Santiago and Spain!” When we occasionally stopped for the captain to get his bearings, my master would look around, shooting the actor an ill-humored glance before continuing on his way.

From somewhere nearby came the sound of a hunting horn—I thought I had heard it in the distance before we found the captain—and we stood quite still in the rain. The captain raised one finger to his lips, looking first at Cózar and then at me. Then he held out one hand to me, palm down—the silent gesture we used in Flanders to indicate that we should wait while someone else went forward as a scout—and he moved cautiously off into the bushes. I positioned myself very close to the trunk of a tree and made Cózar join me; we stayed there, waiting. Clearly surprised by all these gestures and by the almost military understanding that existed between my master and myself, the actor was about to say something, but I covered his mouth. He nodded sagely, regarding me with a new respect, and I was sure that he would never call me “boy” again. I smiled at him, and he returned my smile. His eyes were bright with excitement. I studied this small, grubby man, dripping water, with his extravagant mustache and his hand ready on his sword. He looked alarmingly fierce, like one of those short, apparently peace-loving men who might suddenly jump up and bite your ear off. Maybe it was just the wine, but Cózar seemed to feel no fear at all. This, I realized, was his finest role. The adventure of a lifetime.

At last the captain returned, as silently as he had left. He looked at me and raised his hand, this time with the palm turned toward me and with his five fingers extended. Five men, I translated mentally. He turned his thumb down: enemies. He then made another gesture, moving his hand from his shoulder to his opposite hip, as if describing a sash, and immediately raised his forefinger. An official, I translated. One. Thumb turned up. A friend. Then I understood who he meant. The red sash was a sign of rank in the army. In that wood, there could be only one high-ranking official.

From the safety of a tree trunk, Diego Alatriste again peered out into the clearing. Twenty paces away, at the foot of a huge oak, was a rock surrounded by a thicket of broom, and next to it stood a young man carrying a gun. He was tall and fair and was wearing a tabard, green breeches, and a peaked hat. His high gaiters were spattered with mud, and he wore no sword at his belt, only a folded pair of gloves and a hunting knife. He was standing very erect and still, with his back to the rock, his head high and one foot slightly in front of the other, as if hoping that such a pose would keep at bay the five men forming a tight semicircle around him.

Alatriste could not hear what the men were saying, only the occasional isolated word, their voices drowned out by the sound of the rain. The man dressed as a huntsman said nothing, and it was Gualterio Malatesta, his black cloak and hat wet and shiny, who did most of the talking. He was the only one who had not yet unsheathed his sword; the others, two of whom were dressed as royal beaters, were standing, swords in hand, on either side of him.

Alatriste removed his cape. Then, ignoring the pistol he had at his waist because he could not be sure that it would fire in all that rain, he rested one hand on his sword and the other on his knife, while he studied the terrain with an expert eye, calculating the distance and how long it would take to cross it. The fair-haired man, he thought grimly, did not look as if he would be much help. He stood there, motionless and aloof, his gun in his hand, regarding the murderers surrounding him as indifferently as if the whole affair had nothing whatever to do with him. Alatriste noticed that, like any wise hunter, the young man kept one tail of his tabard over the hammer of his gun to protect it from the rain. Were it not for the rain, the mud, and the five threatening men, he might have been posing for a court portrait by Diego Velázquez. A smile appeared on the captain’s face, half admiring, half scornful. Was it courage, he wondered, or was it, above all, stupidity and an absurd example of the Burgundian sangfroid that Charles V had introduced into the Hapsburg court a century before? At least he had one bitter consolation: the king for whom he was risking his life would not lose his composure even when under threat of death. And that was good. Although perhaps that palace peacock simply could not comprehend what was happening, or was about to happen.

More to the point, thought Alatriste, what was he doing involved in all this? Why was he risking his life for a man who could not even be bothered to lift a finger in his own defense, as if he were expecting the angels to descend from the heavens, or for his own archers to emerge from the undergrowth, invoking God and Spain? A palace upbringing created bad habits. Absurdly, the only “palace guards” here were himself, Íñigo, and Cózar—with the shade of María de Castro hanging in the rain. There was always some idiot willing to get himself killed. The memory of what had happened in Camino de las Minillas made him tremble with rage. By Christ and his father, it would serve that fair-haired fool right—accustomed as he was to risk-free adventures with the wives of other men—if just this once he saw the boar’s tusks close-up. There was no Guadalmedina to get him out of trouble. Damn it, let him pay the price that all men pay sooner or later; and with Gualterio Malatesta on hand, he would have to pay it in cash.

“Hand over the gun, Your Majesty.”

Alatriste heard the Italian’s words quite clearly from his position behind the tree, where he was watching the scene with a kind of morbid curiosity. The king had little opportunity to defend himself: the hunting knife did not count, and he had no sword; at best, he might manage one shot with his gun, assuming it was loaded and the powder dry.

“Hand it over,” said one of the ruffians impatiently, walking up to the king, sword at the ready.

Philip IV did something very strange then. His face remained utterly impassive, but he inclined his head a little to look at his gun, as if, up until then, he had quite forgotten about it. He did this with the indifference of a man observing an object of no importance to him. After that brief moment of immobility, he cocked the hammer and raised the gun to eye level. Then, coolly taking aim at the ruffian, he felled him with a shot to the head.

That explosion was like a signal. I was with Cózar on the opposite side of the clearing, in accordance with the captain’s latest instructions to position ourselves so that we could attack Malatesta and his men from there. When I saw my master leave his hiding place and run toward them, sword in one hand and knife in the other, I immediately unsheathed my sword and went ahead too, not bothering to see whether Cózar would follow me.

“God save the king!” I heard Cózar bawl out behind me. “Stop at once, I order you.”

Holy Mother of God, I thought, that’s all we need. When the Italian and the ruffians heard these shouts and the sound of our footsteps splashing through the mud and puddles, they spun round, surprised. That is my last clear memory: Malatesta wheeling about to face us, then furiously barking out orders, meanwhile whipping out his sword with lightning speed, while, in the pouring rain, his men stood, with raised swords, ready to fight us. And, behind them, motionless, his gun still smoking, stood the king, watching us.

“God save the king!” Cózar kept shouting, fierce as a tiger now.

There were two of us against four, for I assumed the actor would be of little, or negligible, help. We had to be quick and careful. As soon as I found myself face-to-face with one of the beaters, I delivered such a hard thrust that I made him drop his sword. Then, slipping past, nimble as a squirrel, I confronted the man behind him. He attacked, blade foremost. I steadied myself as best I could and took my dagger in my left hand, praying to God that I did not slip in the mud. I parried well with my dagger, changed position, and then, crouching down, drove my sword upward, sticking at least three spans of steel into the soft part of his belly. When I drew back my elbow to remove the blade, he fell forward, a look of astonishment on his face, as if to say, “How could such a thing happen to this mother’s son?” However, I was no longer concerned with him, but with the first man, who now had no sword, only a dagger. I whirled around, expecting to find him already on top of me, but then I saw that he was embroiled with Cózar, defending himself as best he could, with one arm injured and his dagger in his left hand, from the fearsome, double-handed blows the actor was dealing out.

Things were not turning out so badly after all. As for me, the wound Angélica had inflicted on me hurt abominably, and I just prayed that with all this activity it did not open up again, leaving me to bleed to death like a stuck pig. I turned to help the captain, and at that instant, as my master was withdrawing his sword from the entrails of a ruffian—who was bent double, blood gushing from his mouth like a bull in a bullring—I noticed that Gualterio Malatesta, a large black figure in the rain, had shifted his sword to his left hand, taken his pistol from his belt, and, after looking first at my master and then at the king, was now pointing it at the latter from a distance of only a few paces. I was too far away to do anything and had to watch, helpless, as the captain, having recovered his sword, rushed to interpose himself between the bullet and its target. Malatesta straightened his arm and took careful aim. I saw how the king, looking his killer in the face, threw down his own gun, stood very erect, and folded his arms, determined that the pistol shot would find him suitably composed.

“Turn your fire on me!” cried the captain.

The Italian took no notice. He held his aim on the king. He squeezed the trigger and flint struck steel.

Nothing happened.

The powder was wet.

Sword in hand, Diego Alatriste placed himself between Malatesta and the king. I had never seen such an expression on Malatesta’s face. He was almost beside himself. He kept shaking his head incredulously and staring at the pistol that lay useless in his hand.

“So close,” he said.

Then he seemed to recover himself. He looked at the captain as if seeing him for the first time, or as if he had forgotten he was there, and then, from beneath the dripping brim of his hat, he gave a faint, sinister smile.

“I was so close,” he repeated bitterly.

Then he shrugged and threw down the weapon, taking his sword in his right hand.

“You’ve ruined everything.”

He took off his cloak, which was hampering his movements. He indicated the king with a lift of his chin, but continued staring at Alatriste.

“Do you really think such a master is worth it?”

“Come on,” said the captain coldly, meaning, “We have business of our own to settle.” He used his sword to point to the one Malatesta was holding. The Italian looked first at the two blades and then at the king, wondering if there was some way he might still finish the job. Then he shrugged again while carefully folding up his rain-sodden cloak as if to wrap it around his left arm.

From Rafael de Cózar, still embattled with his opponent, there came repeated cries of: “God save the king!”

Malatesta glanced over at him with a look that was part amused and part resigned. Then came that smile. The captain noticed the dangerous white slit in that pockmarked face, the cruel glint in those dark eyes. And he said to himself: “The snake isn’t beaten yet.” This certainty came to him suddenly, forcing him to react and put himself on guard just moments before the Italian threw his cloak over the captain’s sword, rendering it useless. Alatriste lost valuable seconds disentangling his blade from the wet cloth, and while he was doing so, Malatesta’s blade glittered before him as if seeking somewhere to bury itself, then shifted from him to the king.

This time, the Monarch of Two Worlds stepped back. Alatriste caught the startled look in his blue eyes, and this time, the august, prominent Hapsburg lower lip quivered in expectation of what would follow. That deadly thrust came far too close for him to remain entirely unmoved, thought the captain, given that he was obliged to gaze into Malatesta’s dark eyes, which was like gazing into the eyes of Death itself. However, the brief moment gained in divining his enemy’s intention proved long enough for the captain to act. His sword clashed with Malatesta’s, averting what, it had seemed, would be an inevitable blow. Malatesta’s blade slid along his, missing the royal throat by inches.

“Porca miseria!” cursed the Italian.

And that was that. He turned tail and ran like a deer into the woods.

I had watched the scene from a distance, unable to help in any way, for it all happened in less time than it would take to say “Ave Maria.” When I saw Malatesta fleeing, and while the captain was making sure that the king had not been wounded, I, without thinking, raced after Malatesta, through the puddles, sword in hand. I ran with my arm held high to protect me from the branches showering me with raindrops. Malatesta had little advantage over me; I was young and had strong legs, and so I soon caught up with him. He suddenly turned, saw that I was alone, and stopped to recover his breath. It was raining so hard now that the mud beneath my feet seemed to be seething.

“Stay where you are,” he said, pointing his sword at me.

I stopped where I was, uncertain what to do. The captain was perhaps not far behind, but for the moment Malatesta and I were alone.

“That’s enough for today,” he added.

He started walking again, backward this time, without taking his eyes off me. Then I noticed that he was limping. Each time he put his weight on his right foot, he grimaced with pain. He had probably been wounded in the skirmish or hurt himself running. In the rain, drenched and dirty, he looked very tired. His hat had fallen off as he ran, and his long, wet hair clung to his face. Injury and fatigue, I thought, might make us more equal and give me a chance.

“It’s not worth it,” he said, guessing what was in my mind.

I kept walking. The wound in my back was intensely painful, but I was still full of energy. I advanced farther. Malatesta shook his head as if in disbelief at my folly. Then he gave a faint smile, retreated another step, repressing a grimace of pain, and readied himself. Very cautiously I tested him out, the ends of our blades touching, while I sought some way of getting under his guard. He, the more experienced, merely waited. He may have been injured, but, as we both knew, he was by far the more skillful swordsman. I, however, felt almost intoxicated, enclosed in a kind of gray bubble that fogged my judgment. Here he was, and I had my sword in my hand.

He dropped his guard for a moment, as if carelessly, but I could see it was a trick, and so remained where I was, not attacking, elbow bent and the hilt of my sword on a level with my eyes, watching for a genuine opening. The rain continued to fall, and I was taking care not to slip in the mud, for I would not survive long if I did.

“You’ve grown prudent, boy.”

He was smiling, and I knew his intent was to draw me in. I resisted. Now and then, I wiped the rain from my eyes with the back of my knife hand, but always kept my eyes trained on him.

Behind me, amongst the trees and the scrub, I could hear someone calling my name. The captain was looking for us. I called out to him so that he could find us. Meanwhile, from beneath the hair clinging to his face in the rain, the Italian’s eyes darted to and fro, looking for some way out. In a flash, I lunged forward.

The whoreson was good, though, very good, and very skilled. He effortlessly parried a thrust that would have run a lesser man through, and when he counterattacked, he dealt me a back-edged cut so close to my eyes that had his injured leg not held him back, I would have taken a five-inch wound to my face. He managed to disarm me, however, sending my sword flying several feet. I didn’t even think to cover myself with my dagger, but stood there frozen like a startled hare, waiting for the coup de grâce. Then I saw Malatesta’s face contract in pain; he suppressed a howl of rage, involuntarily retreated two steps, only to have his bad leg fail him again.

He fell backward and sat down in the mud, his sword in his hand and a curse on his lips. For a moment, we looked at each other, me stunned and him shaken. It was an absurd situation. Finally, I managed to get a grip on myself and ran over to fetch my sword, which lay at the foot of a tree. When I stood up, Malatesta, still sitting on the ground, made a rapid movement; something whisked past me like a metallic flash of lightning, and a dagger fixed itself, quivering, in the trunk, only a few inches from my face.

“Something to remember me by, boy.”

I went over to him, determined now to run him through, and he saw this in my eyes. Then he threw his sword into the bushes and leaned back a little, resting on his elbows.

“I’m having a very bad day today,” he said.

I approached cautiously, and with the point of my sword checked his clothes, looking for concealed weapons. Then I placed the point on his chest, just above his heart. His wet hair, the rain dripping down his face, and the dark rings under his eyes made him look suddenly very weary and much older.

“Don’t do it,” he murmured softly. “Best leave it to him.”

He was looking at the bushes behind me. I heard footsteps splashing through the mud, and Captain Alatriste appeared at my side, breathing hard. Fast as a bullet and without a word, he hurled himself on the Italian. He grabbed him by the hair, set aside his sword, took out his huge hunting knife, and held it to Malatesta’s throat.

A rapid thought went through my mind—or, rather, I saw the captain and me in the woods, and remembered the count-duke’s stern countenance, the Count of Guadalmedina’s hostility toward us, and the august personage we had left behind us with only Rafael de Cózar as escort. Without Malatesta as witness, there would be a lot of explaining to do, and we might not have answers to all the questions. This realization filled me with sudden panic. I grabbed my master’s arm.

“He’s my prisoner, Captain.”

He appeared not to hear me. His stubborn face was hard, resolute, deadly. His eyes, which appeared gray in the rain, seemed to be made of the same steel as the knife he was holding. I saw the muscles, veins, and tendons in his hand tense, ready to plunge the knife in.

“Captain!”

I almost flung myself on top of Malatesta. My master pushed me roughly away, his free hand raised to strike me. His eyes pierced me as if I were the one he was about to stab. Again I cried out:

“He surrendered to me! He’s my prisoner!”

It was like a nightmare: the wet and the dirt, the soaking rain, the mud, the struggle, the captain’s agitated breathing, Malatesta’s breath only inches from my face. The captain again made as if to lunge forward, and only by dint of brute strength did I stop the knife following its inevitable path.

“Someone,” I said, “will have to explain to the powers that be exactly what happened.”

My master still did not take his eyes off Malatesta, who had his head thrown right back as he awaited the final blow, teeth gritted.

“I don’t want you and me to be tortured like pigs,” I said.

This was true. The mere idea terrified me. Finally, I felt the captain untense, although his hand still gripped the knife. It was as if the meaning of my words were gradually seeping into him. Malatesta had already understood. “Damn it, boy,” he exclaimed. “Let him kill me!”