The Cavalier in the Yellow Doublet

5. WINE FROM ESQUIVIAS

I felt even worse the following day as I watched Captain Alatriste where he sat at the door of the Tavern of the Turk. He was perched on a stool beside a table laid with a jug of wine, a plate of sausages, and a book—it was, I seem to remember, The Life of Squire Marcos de Obregón— which he had not opened all morning. He wore his doublet unfastened and his shirt open and was sitting with his back against the wall; his sea-green eyes, paler still in the morning light, were fixed on some indeterminate spot in Calle de Toledo. I was trying to keep my distance, for I still felt bitterly ashamed of having so disloyally lied to him, something that would never have happened had it not been for that woman, or girl, or whatever you wish to call her, who could so addle my brains that I no longer knew what I was doing. With my teacher Pérez—to whom the captain continued to entrust my education—I was, appropriately enough, currently engaged on translating the passage from Homer in which Ulysses is tempted by the Sirens. In short, I spent the morning avoiding my master and running various errands: buying candles, flint, and tinder for Caridad la Lebrijana, some sweet almond oil from Tuerto Fadrique’s pharmacy, and visiting the nearby Jesuit college to take my teacher a basket of clean linen. Now, with nothing to do, I was loitering on the corner of Calle del Arcabuz and Calle de Toledo, watching the passing carriages and the carts carrying merchandise to the Plaza Mayor, the heavy-laden mules and the water-sellers’ donkeys tethered to the railings at windows—both mules and donkeys, of course, depositing their excrement on the roughly paved street that was already running with filthy water from the sewers. I occasionally glanced over at the captain, but found him always in the same pose—motionless and thoughtful. Twice I saw La Lebrijana—bare-armed and in her apron—peer out at him, then go back inside again without saying a word.

As you know, these were not happy times for her. The captain responded to her complaints with only monosyllables or silence, and if the good woman ever raised her voice to him, my master would simply take hat, cloak, and sword and go for a walk. Once, he returned from such a walk to find the trunk containing his few possessions at the foot of the stairs. He stood looking at it for a while, then went upstairs, closed the door behind him, and, after much talk, La Lebrijana finally stopped shouting. Shortly afterward, the captain, in his shirt, appeared on the gallery that gave onto the courtyard and told me to bring the trunk up to him. I did as he asked, and things appeared to return to normal, for from my room that night, I heard La Lebrijana moan like a bitch in heat. After a couple of days, though, her eyes were once again red and tear-filled, and the whole business started again and continued thus until the day I am describing now, the day after my master’s fight with Álvaro de la Marca in Calle de los Peligros. The captain and I both suspected that a storm was brewing, but neither of us could have imagined how seriously things were about to go wrong. Compared with what awaited us, the captain’s rows with La Lebrijana were like one of those frothy interludes penned by Quiñones de Benavente.

A burly, broad-shouldered shadow in hat and cape loomed over the table just as Captain Alatriste was reaching for the jug of wine.

“Good morning, Diego.”

As usual, and despite the early hour, Martín Saldaña, lieutenant of constables, was armed with sword and dagger. Both his profession and his own nature had taught him not to trust even the shadow he himself had just cast over the table of his old comrade from Flanders, and so he had about him, as well as sword, dagger, and poniard, a couple of Milan pistols, too. This panoply of arms was completed by a thick buffcoat and the staff of office he wore stuck in his belt.

“Can we talk?”

Alatriste looked first at him, then at his own belt, which was lying on the ground, by the wall, wrapped around his sword and dagger.

“In your role as lieutenant of constables or as a friend?” he asked coolly.

“Christ’s blood, Diego, be serious, man!”

The captain regarded his friend’s bearded face, and the scars, which all had the same origin as his own. The beard, he remembered vividly, half concealed the mark left by a blow delivered twenty years before, during an attack on the city walls of Ostend. The scar on Saldaña’s cheek and the one on Alatriste’s forehead, above his left eyebrow, dated from that same day.

“All right,” he said, “we can talk.”

They walked up toward Plaza Mayor, under the arcade that occupies the latter part of Calle de Toledo. They were as silent as if they had both been hauled up before a notary, with Saldaña putting off saying what he had to say and Alatriste in no hurry to find out. The captain had fastened his doublet and put on his hat with its faded red feather; he wore the lower half of his cloak caught up and draped over his arm, and on his left side, his sword clanked against his dagger.

“It’s a delicate matter,” said Saldaña at last.

“I imagined it was from the look on your face.”

They eyed each other intently for a moment, then continued on past some gypsy women who were dancing in the shade of the arcade. The Plaza Mayor—with its tall houses, lozenge-shaped roof tiles, and the gilded ironwork on the Casa de la Panadería glittering in the sunlight—was packed with whores and errand boys and ordinary passersby, who strolled amongst carts and crates of fruit and vegetables, past bread stalls with nets placed over the loaves to protect them from thieves, past barrels of wine—“No water added—guaranteed,” cried the vendors. Shop-keepers stood at the doors of the shops and in front of the stalls that filled the areas under the arches. Rotten vegetables were piled up on the ground along with horse droppings, and the buzzing of swarms of flies mingled with the cries of those selling their various wares: “Eggs and milk—fresh today!” “Juicy cantaloupe melons!” “Asparagus—soft as butter!” “Buy some tender green beans and get a bunch of parsley free!” They headed over to the right-hand side of the square, avoiding the sellers of hemp and esparto, whose stalls filled the square as far as Calle Imperial.

“I don’t honestly know where to start, Diego.”

“Just get straight to the point.”

Saldaña, as slow as ever, took off his hat and ran one hand over his bald pate.

“I’ve been told to give you a warning.”

“Who by?”

“It doesn’t matter who. What matters is that it comes from high enough up for you to pay due attention. If you don’t, you could lose life or liberty.”

“You’re scaring me.”

“This is no joke, damn it. I’m serious.”

“And where do you fit in?”

Saldaña put his hat back on, waved distractedly to some catchpoles chatting by the Portal de la Carne, and again shrugged.

“Look, Diego. Possibly, despite yourself, you have friends without whom you should by rights be lying in an alleyway with your throat slit, or in prison somewhere with your legs in irons. The matter was discussed in some detail very early this morning, until someone recalled a service you had rendered in Cádiz or somewhere. I’ve no idea what it was, nor do I care, but I swear that if that someone hadn’t spoken up in your favor, I wouldn’t be here on my own, but accompanied by a lot of other men armed to the teeth. Do you follow?”

“I follow.”

“Are you going to see that woman again?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, please, for the love of all that’s holy, don’t be so stupid.”

They walked a little way in silence. Finally, outside Gaspar Sánchez’s cake shop, next to the arch, Saldaña stopped and took a sealed letter from his purse.

“Enough talking. Let this letter speak for itself.”

Alatriste took the note and studied it, turning it around in his fingers. There was nothing written on the outside, not a name or a word. He broke the seal, unfolded the piece of paper, and, when he recognized the handwriting, looked mockingly at his old friend.

“Since when have you acted as go-between, Martín?”

Saldaña frowned, stung.

“Christ’s blood,” he said. “Just shut up and read it, will you?”

And this is what Alatriste read:

I would be very grateful if, from now on, you refrained from visiting me. Respectfully, M. de C.

“I imagine,” commented Saldaña, “that this will come as no surprise to you after what happened last night.”

Alatriste thoughtfully folded up the note.

“And what do you know about last night?”

“Enough. I know, for example, that you were caught trespassing on the royal domain, and that you crossed swords with a friend.”

“News travels faster than the post, I see.”

“In certain circles, yes.”

A mendicant friar from San Blas, with his bell and his little collecting box, came over to them and offered them the image of the saint to kiss. “Praised be the purity of Our Lady the Virgin Mary,” he said meekly, shaking the box, then gave Saldaña such a fierce look that Saldaña thought better of it and walked on. Alatriste was thinking.

“I suppose this letter resolves everything,” he concluded.

Saldaña was picking his teeth with a fingernail. He seemed relieved.

“I certainly hope so. If not, you’re a dead man.”

“In order for me to be a dead man, they’ll have to kill me first.”

“Just remember Villamediana. Not four paces from here they ripped his guts out. And he wasn’t the only one, either.”

Having said that, he stood vacantly watching some ladies who, escorted by duennas and maids carrying baskets, were eating sweet conserves, seated at the barrels of wine that served as tables outside the cake shop.

“So what it comes down to,” he said suddenly, “is that you’re just another sad soldier.”

Alatriste laughed mirthlessly.

“As you once were,” he retorted.

Saldaña gave a deep sigh and turned to the captain.

“You said it—as I once was. I was lucky. Besides, I don’t ride other men’s mares.”

He looked away, embarrassed. Rather the opposite was true of him. Rumor had it that he had gained his staff of office thanks to certain friendships cultivated by his wife. And he had, it seemed, killed at least one man for making jokes on the subject.

“Give me the letter.”

Alatriste, who was about to put it away, appeared surprised.

“It’s mine.”

“Not anymore. ‘Let him read it, then take it straight back’—those were my orders. It was just so that you could see it with your own eyes—her hand and her signature.”

“And what are you going to do with it?”

“Burn it—now.”

He took it from the captain, who put up no resistance. Then, looking around, he decided to take advantage of the oil lamp positioned below the pious image a herbalist had placed outside his door, alongside a stuffed bat and a lizard. He held the paper to the flame.

“She knows what’s for the best, and so does her husband,” he said, returning to the captain’s side holding the now burning letter between his fingers. “I expect someone dictated it to them.”

They watched the flames consume the letter, then Saldaña dropped it and stamped on the ashes.

“The king’s a young man,” he said, as if this justified many things. Alatriste stared at him hard.

“And he is the king,” he added in a neutral voice.

Saldaña was frowning now, one hand resting on the butt of one of his pistols. With the other hand, he was scratching his grizzled beard.

“Do you know something, Diego? Sometimes, like you, I really miss the mud and shit of Flanders.”

Guadalmedina Palace stood on the corner of Calle del Barquillo and Calle de Alcalá, next to the Monastery of San Hermenegildo. The large door stood open, and so Diego Alatriste walked through into the ample hallway, where a liveried porter came to meet him. He was an old servant whom the captain knew well.

“I would like to see the count.”

“Were you asked to come, sir?” asked the porter politely.

“No.”

“I will see if His Excellency can receive you.”

The porter withdrew, and the captain paced up and down before the wrought-iron gate that gave onto the immaculate garden with its lush fruit trees and ornamental shrubs, its stone cupids and classical statuary standing amongst the ivy and the clumps of flowers. He used the time to tidy himself up, straighten his collar, and fasten his doublet. He did not know what Álvaro de la Marca’s reaction would be when they met face-to-face, although he assumed the count would be expecting the words of apology he had already prepared. The captain—as the count knew very well—was not a man to retract words or swords, and both had been bandied about the night before. However, he himself, when he analyzed his conduct, was not sure that he had acted fairly toward the count, who was, after all, fulfilling his duties with the same thoroughness he had applied to his own duties on the battlefield. “The king is the king,” he reminded himself, “although there are kings and kings.” And each man decides out of conscience or self-interest how he will serve his king. Guadalmedina received his pay in the form of royal favors, whereas Diego Alatriste y Tenorio—albeit little, late, and badly—had earned his in the army, as a soldier of that same king, and of his father and grandfather. Besides, Guadalmedina, despite his elevated social position, his noble blood, his courtly manners, and the complicated circumstances in which they found themselves, was a wise and loyal man. They had occasionally taken up arms together against a common enemy, but the captain had also saved the count’s life in the Kerkennah Islands, and subsequently turned to him for help when there was that problem with the two Englishmen. During the incident involving the Inquisition, the count’s goodwill had again been proven, not to mention the matter of the Cádiz gold and the warnings given to don Francisco de Quevedo about María de Castro once she had piqued the royal fancy. Such things forged strong bonds—or so at least he hoped as he waited by the gate that led into the garden—bonds that might salvage the affection they both felt for each other. Then again, it might be that Álvaro de la Marca’s pride would not allow for any reconciliation at all: the nobility does not care to be ill-treated, and that wound to the count’s arm did not help matters. Alatriste was prepared to place himself entirely at the count’s disposition, even if this involved letting him stick a few inches of steel through him at a time and place of his choosing.

“His Excellency does not wish to receive you, sir.”

Diego Alatriste, who had been waiting, one hand on the hilt of his sword, was left dumbstruck by these words. The porter began ushering him out.

“Are you sure?”

The porter nodded scornfully, all trace of his earlier politeness gone.

“He recommends that you leave while you can.”

The captain was not a man to be easily shaken, but he could not help the wave of heat that rose to his face at finding himself so rudely treated. He shot another look at the porter, sensing that the latter was secretly enjoying his discomfiture. Then he took a deep breath and, repressing an urge to beat the man roundly with the flat of his sword, pulled his hat firmly down on his head, turned, and walked out into the street.

He walked blindly up Calle de Alcalá, barely noticing where he was going, as if there were a red veil before his eyes. He was cursing and blaspheming under his breath. Several times, as he strode along, he collided with other passersby; however, when they protested—one man even made as if to take out his sword—these protests vanished as soon as they saw his face. In this manner, he crossed Puerta del Sol and got as far as Calle Carretas. He stopped outside the Tavern of the Rock where he read these words chalked on the door: Wine from Esquivias.

That same night, he killed a man. He chose him at random and in silence from among the other customers crowding the bar—all as drunk as he was. In the end, he slammed down a few coins on the wine-stained table and staggered out, followed by the stranger, a braggart who, along with two other men, was clearly determined to pick a fight, and all because Alatriste kept staring at him. The braggart—Alatriste never got his name—already had his sword unsheathed and was declaring loudly and coarsely to anyone who would listen that he wouldn’t be stared at like that by any bastard, be he from Spain or from the Indies. Once outside, keeping close to the wall, Alatriste walked as far as Calle de los Majadericos, and there, under cover of darkness and safe from prying eyes, he waited until the footsteps following him grew nearer. Then he took out his sword, confronted the man, and ran him through there and then, making no pretense at observing fencing etiquette. The man dropped to the ground, with a wound to the heart, before he could utter a word, while his companions ran for their lives, crying: “Murder! Murder!” Standing next to his victim’s corpse and leaning against the wall for support, his sword still in his hand, Alatriste vomited up all the wine he had drunk that night. Then he wiped the blade of his sword with the dead man’s cloak, wrapped himself in his own, and made his way to Calle de Toledo, taking shelter in the shadows.

Three days later, don Francisco de Quevedo and I were crossing the Segovia bridge to go to the Casa de Campo, where Their Majesties were staying and taking advantage of the good weather; the king devoted himself to hunting and the queen to walking, reading, and music. We rode over the bridge in a carriage drawn by two mules and, leaving behind us the Ermita del Ángel and the beginning of the Camino de San Isidro, we proceeded along the right bank to the gardens that surrounded His Catholic Majesty’s country retreat. To one side of us grew tall pine woods, and on the other, across the Manzanares, lay Madrid in all its splendor: with its innumerable church and convent towers, its city walls built on the foundations of the former Arab fortifications, and high up, large and imposing, the Alcázar Real, with its Golden Tower like the prow of a galleon looking out over the slender Manzanares River, whose shores were dotted with the white clothes hung out to dry on the bushes by the washerwomen. It was, in short, a splendid scene, and in response to my admiring remarks, don Francisco smiled kindly and said:

“Oh, yes, it’s the center of the world all right—for the moment.”

I did not then understand the clear-sighted caution that lay behind this comment. As a young man, I was so dazzled by everything around me that I was incapable of imagining an end to the magnificence of the court, to our ownership of the globe, to the empire which—if one included the rich Portuguese inheritance that we shared at the time—comprised not only the Indies in the West, Brazil, Flanders, Italy, but also our possessions in Africa, the Philippines, and other enclaves in the remote Indies of the East. I could not conceive that one day this would all collapse when the men of iron were succeeded by men of clay incapable of sustaining such a vast enterprise with only their ambition, talent, and swords. For although Spain—forged out of glory and cruelty, out of light and dark—was already beginning to decline, the Spanish empire of my youth was still a mighty thing. It was a world that would never be repeated and that could be summed up, if such a thing is possible, in these old lines by Lorencio de Zamora:

I sing of battles and of conquests,

Barbarous deeds, great enterprises,

Sad events and grim disasters,

Hatred, laughter, atrocities.

So there we were that morning, don Francisco de Quevedo and I, outside the walls of what was then the capital of the world, stepping from a carriage into the gardens of the Casa de Campo, before the noble building with its Italianate porticos and loggias watched over by the imposing equestrian statue of the late Philip III, the father of our current king. And it was there—behind that statue, in the pleasant grove of poplars, willows, and other shrubs of Flemish origin that had been planted round the lovely three-tiered fountain—that our queen received don Francisco as she sat beneath a damask awning, surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting and her personal servants, including the jester Gastoncillo. She greeted the poet with a show of royal affection and invited him to say the angelus with her, for it was midday and the bells were tolling throughout Madrid. I doffed my hat and watched from a distance. Then the queen ordered don Francisco to sit by her side, and they talked for some time about the progress of his play, The Sword and the Dagger, from which he read the final lines, lines he claimed to have dashed off the previous night, although I knew that he had, in fact, drafted and redrafted them several times. The one thing that bothered her, she said, only half joking, was that the play was to be performed in El Escorial, for the somber, austere character of that vast royal edifice was repugnant to her cheerful French temperament. This is why, wherever possible, she avoided visiting the palace built by the grandfather of her august husband. It was one of the paradoxes of fate that eighteen years after the events I am describing, the poor lady—much to her chagrin, I imagine—ended up occupying a niche in the crypt there.

Angélica de Alquézar was not, as far as I could see, among the maids of honor accompanying the queen, and so while Quevedo, overflowing with wit and compliments, was delighting the ladies with his humor, I went for a stroll about the garden, admiring the uniforms of the Burgundy guards who were on duty that day. Feeling as pleased as a king with his revenues, I got as far as the balustrade that looked out over the vineyards and the old Guadarrama road, and from there I enjoyed a view of the orchards and market gardens of Buitrera and Florida, which were extraordinarily green in that season of the year. The air was soft, and from the woods behind the little palace came the distant sound of dogs barking and shots being fired, proof that our monarch, with his proverbial marksmanship—described ad nauseam by all the court poets, including Lope and Quevedo—was slaughtering as many rabbit, partridge, quail, and pheasant as his beaters could provide him with. If, during his long life, the king had shot heretics, Turks, and Frenchmen, rather than those small innocent creatures, Spain would have been a very different place.

“Well, well, well. Here’s the man who abandoned a lady in the middle of the night to go off with his friends.”

I turned around, thoughts and breath stopped. Angélica de Alquézar was by my side. Needless to say, she was looking very beautiful. The light of the Madrid sky lent an added brilliance to her eyes, which were now fixed ironically on me, eyes that were both lovely and deadly.

“I would never have expected such behavior from a gentleman.”

Her hair was arranged in ringlets, and she was wearing a red silk taffeta basquine and a short bodice with a pretty little collar on which glittered a gold chain and an emerald-studded cross. A touch of rouge, after the fashion of the court, gave a faint blush to the perfect paleness of her face. She seemed older, I thought, more womanly.

“I’m sorry I abandoned you the other night,” I said, “but I couldn’t . . .”

She interrupted me impatiently, as if the matter were no longer important. She was gazing around her. Then she shot me a sideways glance and asked:

“Did it end well?”

Her tone was frivolous, as if she really didn’t care either way.

“More or less.”

I heard a trill of laughter from the ladies sitting around the queen and don Francisco, doubtless amused by some new witticism of his.

“This Captain Batiste, or Triste, or whatever his name is, doesn’t have much to recommend him, does he? He’s always getting you into trouble.”

I drew myself up, greatly offended that Angélica de Alquézar, of all people, should say such a thing.

“He’s my friend.”

She laughed softly, her hands resting on the balustrade. She smelled sweet, of roses and honey. It was a delicious smell, but I preferred the way she had smelled on the night when we kissed. My skin prickled to remember it. Fresh bread.

“You abandoned me in the middle of the street,” she said again.

“I did. How can I make it up to you?”

“By accompanying me again whenever I need you to.”

“At night?”

“Yes.”

“And with you dressed as a man?”

She stared at me as if I were an idiot.

“You can hardly expect me to go out dressed like this.”

“In answer to your question,” I said, “no, never again.”

“How very discourteous. Remember: you are in my debt.”

She was studying me again with the fixity of a dagger pointing at someone’s entrails. I should say that I, too, was very smartly turned out that day: all in black, my hair freshly washed, and a dagger tucked in my belt, at the back. Perhaps that gave me the necessary aplomb to hold her gaze.

“I’m not that much in your debt.”

“You’re a lout,” she said angrily, like a little girl who has failed to get her own way. “You obviously prefer the company of that Captain Sotatriste of yours.”

“As I said, he’s my friend.”

She pulled a scornful face.

“Of course. I know the refrain: Flanders and all that, swords, cursing, taverns, and whores. The gross behavior one expects of men.”

This sounded like a criticism, and yet I thought I heard a discordant note, as if, in some way, she regretted not being involved in that world herself.

“Anyway,” she added, “allow me to say that with friends like him, you don’t need enemies.”

“And which are you?”

She pursed her lips as if she really were considering her answer. Then, head on one side, not taking her eyes off me for a moment, she said:

“I’ve already told you that I love you.”

I trembled when she said this, and she noticed. She was smiling, as Lucifer might have smiled as he fell from heaven.

“That should be enough,” she added, “if you’re not a rogue, a fool, or a braggart.”

“I don’t know what I am, but I know that you’re more than enough to get me burned at the stake or garrotted.”

She laughed again, her hands folded almost modestly over the ample skirt and the mother-of-pearl fan that hung from her waist. I regarded the neat outline of her mouth. To hell with everything, I thought. Fresh bread, roses, and honey—and bare skin underneath. Had I not been where I was, I would have hurled myself upon those lips.

“You surely don’t think,” she said, “that you can have me for free.”

Before matters became dangerously complicated, there was time for an agreeable interlude, one that would have played well on the stage. The plot was hatched during a meal at El León, offered by Captain Alonso de Contreras, who was his usual talkative, congenial, and slightly boastful self. He presided over the occasion, leaning back against a barrel of wine on which we had deposited our capes, hats, and swords. The other guests were don Francisco de Quevedo, Lopito de Vega, my master, and myself, and we were all happily dispatching some good garlic soup and a thick beef and bacon stew. Our host Contreras was celebrating having finally been paid a sum of money that had, he claimed, been owed to him since the battle of Roncesvalles. We ended up discussing Moscatel’s steadfast opposition to Lopito and Laura’s love, a situation only made worse by the butcher’s discovery that Lopito and Diego Alatriste were now friends. The young man told us forlornly that he could only see his lady in secret—when she went out with her duenna to make some purchase, or else at mass in the church of Our Lady of the Miracles, where he, kneeling on his cloak, would observe her from afar. Sometimes, he even managed to approach and exchange a few tender words while he held, cupped in his hand—O supreme happiness—the holy water with which she made the sign of the cross. Given that Moscatel was determined to marry his niece to that vile pettifogger Saturnino Apolo, the poor girl had only two options: marriage to him or the nunnery, and so Lopito had about as much chance of marrying her as he would of finding a bride in the seraglio in Constantinople. Twenty men on horseback wouldn’t change her uncle’s mind. Besides, these were turbulent times, and what with the to-ings and fro-ings of both Turks and heretics, Lopito could, at any moment, be called on to resume his duties to the king, and that would mean losing Laura forever. This, as he admitted to us, had often led him to curse the similarly tangled situations described in his own father’s plays, because they were of no help whatsoever in resolving his problems.

This remark gave Captain Contreras a bold idea.

“It’s perfectly simple,” he said, crossing his legs. “Kidnap her and marry her—in good soldierly fashion.”

“That wouldn’t be easy,” replied Lopito glumly. “Moscatel is still paying several ruffians to guard the house.”

“How many?”

“The last time I tried to see her, there were four.”

“Good swordsmen?”

“On that occasion, I didn’t stay long enough to find out.”

Contreras smugly twirled his mustache and looked around, letting his eyes linger in particular on Captain Alatriste and don Francisco.

“The greater the number of Moors to fight, the greater the glory, don’t you agree, Señor de Quevedo?”

Don Francisco adjusted his spectacles and frowned, for it ill became a court favorite to get involved in a scandal involving kidnappings and sword fights. However, the presence of Alonso de Contreras, Diego Alatriste, and Lope’s son made it very hard for him to refuse.

“I’m afraid,” he said in resigned tones, “there’s nothing for it but to fight.”

“It might provide you with matter for a sonnet,” remarked Contreras, already imagining himself the hero of another poem.

“Or, indeed, a reason to spend a further period in exile.”

As for Captain Alatriste, who was leaning on the table before his mug of wine, the look he exchanged with his old comrade Contreras was an eloquent one. For men like them, such adventures were merely part of the job.

“And what about the boy?” asked Contreras, meaning me.

I felt almost offended. I considered myself a young man of considerable experience and so I smoothed my nonex istent mustache, as I had seen my master do, and said:

“The ‘boy’ will fight too.”

The way in which I said this brought me an approving smile from the miles gloriosus—the boastful soldier Contreras—and a glance from Diego Alatriste.

“When my father finds out,” moaned Lopito, “he’ll kill me.”

Captain Contreras roared with laughter.

“Your illustrious father knows a thing or two about kidnappings and elopements. The Phoenix was always a great one for the ladies!”

There followed an embarrassed silence, and we all stuck nose and mustache in our respective mugs of wine. Even Contreras did so, suddenly remembering that Lopito himself was the illegitimate child born of just such an affair, even though, as I mentioned before, Lope had subsequently acknowledged him. The young man, however, did not appear offended. He knew his father’s reputation better than anyone. After a few sips of wine and a diplomatic clearing of the throat, Contreras took up the thread again:

“There’s nothing like a fait accompli; besides, that’s what we military men are like, isn’t it? Direct, bold, proud, straight to the point. I remember once, in Cyprus it was . . .”

And he immediately launched into another story. When he had done, he took a long draft of wine, sighed nostal gically, and looked at Lopito.

“So, young man, are you truly willing to join yourself in holy matrimony to that woman, until death do you part, et cetera?”

Lopito held his gaze unblinking.

“As long as God is God, and beyond death itself.”

“No one’s asking that much of you. If you stick with her until death, you’ll be doing more than your duty already. Do we gentlemen here have your word as a gentleman?”

“On my life, you do.”

“Then there’s nothing more to be said.” Contreras gave the table a satisfied thump. “Can anyone resolve matters on the ecclesiastical side?”

“My Aunt Antonia is abbess of the Convento de las Jerónimas,” Lopito said. “She’ll gladly take us in. And Father Francisco, her chaplain, is also Laura’s confessor and knows Señor Moscatel well.”

“Will he agree to help if he’s needed?

“Oh, yes.”

“And what about the young lady? Will your Laura be prepared to be put to the test like this?”

Lopito said quite simply that she would, and there was no further discussion of the matter. Everyone agreed to take part, we all drank to a happy conclusion, and don Francisco de Quevedo, as was his wont, contributed a few appropriate lines of verse, not his this time, but Lope’s:

“Once she’s in love, the most cowardly woman

(More so if she’s a maid)

Will gladly tread her family’s honor

Mud-deep where she is laid.”

Everyone drank to this as well, and eight or ten toasts later, using the table as a map and the mugs of wine as the main protagonists, Captain Contreras—his speech now slightly uncertain, but his resolution firm—invited us to pull up our chairs so that he could lay out his plan to us. His assault tactics, as he termed them, were as detailed as if we were preparing to send a hundred lancers into Oran rather than plotting a small-scale attack on a private house in Calle de la Madera.

A house with two doors is always difficult to guard, and don Gonzalo Moscatel’s house had two doors. A couple of nights later, we, the conspirators, our faces muffled by our cloaks, were standing in the shadows of a nearby arcade opposite the main door. Captain Contreras, don Francisco de Quevedo, Diego Alatriste, and I stood watching the musicians who, by the light of the lantern one of them had brought with him, were taking up their positions before the barred window of the house in question, on the corner of Calle de la Madera and Calle de la Luna. The plan was a bold and simple one: a serenade at one door, attracting protests and alarm, followed by a skirmish with swords, while escape was made via the other door. Military planning aside, due attention had also been paid to preserving the lady’s honor. Since Laura Moscatel was free neither to choose whom she would marry nor to leave her house, the only way of bending the will of her stubborn uncle was a kidnapping followed immediately by a wedding to make amends. The abbess aunt and the chaplain-cum-family-friend—the latter’s pastoral scruples having been soothed by a purseful of doubloons—had both been forewarned by Lopito and were, at that moment, waiting in the Convento de las Jerónimas, where the bride would be taken as soon as she was freed, so that everything could be seen to be proper and aboveboard.

“An excellent adventure, praise God,” muttered a gleeful Captain Contreras.

He was doubtless recalling his youth, when such adventures were more common. He was leaning against the wall, his face concealed by hat and cloak, between Diego Alatriste and don Francisco de Quevedo, who were equally well disguised, so that only the glint of their eyes could be seen. I was watching the street. In order to reassure don Francisco somewhat and to preserve appearances, our arrival on the scene had been made to look like mere coincidence, as if we were a group of men who just happened to be passing. Even the poor musicians, hired by Lopito de Vega, had no idea what was about to occur. They only knew that they had been paid to serenade a certain lady—a widow, they had been told—at eleven o’clock at night, outside her window. There were three musicians, the youngest of whom was fifty if he was a day. They were standing ready with guitar, lute, and tambourine, the latter played by the singer, who launched without further ado into the famous song:

“I worshipped you in Italy,

In Flanders died of love,

I come to Spain still passionate,

My madrileña dove . . .”

Not the most original of sentiments, it has to be said, but this was, nevertheless, a very popular ditty at the time. The singer got no further than these lines, however, for no sooner had he concluded that first verse than lights were lit inside the house, and don Gonzalo Moscatel could be heard swearing by all that’s holy. Then the front door was flung open and there he stood, sword in hand, wildly threatening the musicians and their progenitors and declaring that he would skewer them like capons. This, he roared, was no time to be disturbing honest households. He was accompanied—they were presumably spending the evening together—by the lawyer Saturnino Apolo, who was armed with a short sword and was carrying the lid of an earthenware jar as buckler. At this point, four nasty-looking individuals came bursting out of the coach house and immediately fell upon the musicians. The latter, who had done nothing wrong, found themselves being roundly punched and beaten with the flat of their assailants’ swords.

“Right,” said Captain Contreras, almost licking his lips with delight, “to business.”

And we all emerged at once from the arcade, just as if we had turned the corner and happened on the scene by chance. Don Francisco de Quevedo, meanwhile, was murmuring philosophically to himself from beneath his cloak:

“Don’t make your life so miserable,

Don’t fret, stop taking pains,

For nothing’s more impossible

Than to keep a woman in chains.”

The musicians were now huddled against the wall, poor things, surrounded by the swords of the hired ruffians and with their instruments shattered. Gonzalo Moscatel had picked up their lantern from the ground and was holding it high, still with his sword in his right hand. He was furiously bawling questions at them: Who had sent them to disturb him at such an hour? How? Where? When? At this point, as we passed by, hats down over our eyes, our cloaks up to our noses, Captain Contreras said out loud something along the lines of: “A pox on these wretches troubling our streets, a pox on them and the devil who lights their way,” and he said this loudly enough for everyone to hear. Moscatel happened to be the person lighting the way of his four hired bully-boys—in the dim lantern glow we could see their sinister mugs, the lawyer Apolo’s porcine features, and the terrified expressions on the musicians’ faces—and he clearly felt that with the backing of his armed retinue, he could afford to strut and crow. He therefore addressed Captain Contreras in surly fashion—he had no idea who we were, of course—and told him to go to hell and not to stop en route. If we didn’t, he declared, by Saint Peter and by all the saints in the calendar, he would cut off our ears there and then. As you can imagine, these words suited our designs perfectly. Contreras laughed in Moscatel’s face and said with great aplomb that he had no idea what was going on there nor what the quarrel was about, but if it was a matter of cutting off anyone’s ears, really cutting off their ears, the fool who had just said that and the whore who bore him were very welcome to try. He laughed again and was still laughing, still without uncovering his face, as he took out his sword. Captain Alatriste, sword unsheathed, was already lunging at the nearest ruffian. Seemingly almost in the same movement, he slashed at Moscatel’s arm, causing him to drop the lantern and start back as if he had been stung by a scorpion. The light went out as it hit the ground, leaving us all in darkness. The terrified shadows of the three musicians scampered away like hares, and we fell with glee upon the remaining men—and it was like the Fall of Troy all over again.

Great God, but I enjoyed myself. The idea was that while doing our utmost not to kill anyone—we didn’t, after all, want to cast a pall on the marriage—amidst the general confusion and with the help of the duenna, whose palm had been greased with doubloons drawn from the same purse that had bribed the chaplain, we would allow time for Lopito de Vega to escape with Laura Moscatel by the back door and carry her off to the Convento de las Jerónimas in the carriage he had hired for the purpose. While all this was going on at the back door, blows were raining down in the pitch dark at the front door. Moscatel and his men fought like Turks, while Saturnino Apolo, from behind his shield, urged them on from a safe distance. Men as skilled as Alatriste, Quevedo, and Contreras had only to parry and thrust, which they did with a will, and I did not acquit myself badly either. I could hear the heavy breathing of the ruffian I took on above the clang of steel. This was no time for fancy flourishes because we were all fighting together and at close quarters, and so I resorted to a trick Captain Alatriste had taught me on board the Jesús Nazareno on the voyage home from Flanders. I made an upward thrust, drew back as if to cover my side, but instead spun round and, swift as a hawk, dealt my opponent a low slashing blow, which, given the sound it made and the position of my blade, must have sliced through the tendons at the back of his knee. My adversary fled, hopping and blaspheming against every saint in heaven, while I, feeling excited and very pleased with myself, looked around to see how I could best assist my comrades. The four of us had started to advance boldly on the six of them, muttering “Yepes, Yepes”—like the wine—which was the password we had decided upon so that we could recognize each other if we had to fight in the dark. Things were already tipping in our favor, however, because the lawyer Apolo had taken to his heels after taking a jab to the buttocks, and don Francisco de Quevedo—who made sure to keep his face covered by his cloak so that he would not be recognized—was repelling the particular ruffian it had fallen to him to fight.

“Yepes,” he said to me, as if he had done quite enough for one night.

For his part, Alonso de Contreras was still fighting—his man was putting up rather more resistance than his fellows—and they were still furiously battling it out, the other man retreating down the street, but not as yet running away. The fourth man was a motionless shape on the ground: he came off worst, for the thrust the captain had dealt him in the initial chaos was to prove deadly; as we learned afterward, three days later he was given the last rites and on the eighth day died. Having seen off one ruffian and wounded Moscatel in the arm, my master, making sure to keep his hat pulled well down and his face covered so that he would remain unrecognized by Moscatel, was now harrying the butcher with his sword, while that fool, who had long since ceased his strutting, was stumbling backward in search of the door to his house—something my master was doing his best to prevent—and calling for help to defend himself against these murderers. Moscatel finally fell to the ground, where Captain Alatriste spent some time kicking him in the ribs, until Contreras returned, having finally chased off his opponent.

“Yepes,” he said, when, at the sound of his footsteps, my master spun round, sword in hand.

Gonzalo Moscatel lay on the ground moaning, and his neighbors, woken by the clamor, were beginning to appear at their windows. At the far end of the street a light glimmered, and someone yelled something about calling out the constables.

“Can we please leave now?” grumbled don Francisco de Quevedo from behind his cloak.

The suggestion seemed a reasonable one, and so we made our exit as if we were carrying in our pocket the king’s patent. An ebullient Alonso de Contreras affectionately patted my cheek and called me “son,” and Captain Alatriste, after giving Moscatel one last kick in the ribs, followed after, sheathing his sword. Three or four streets farther on, when we made a halt in Calle de Tudescos to celebrate, Contreras was still laughing.

“Od’s my life,” he declared. “I haven’t enjoyed myself so much since the sack of Negroponte, when I had some Englishmen hanged.”

Lopito de Vega and Laura Moscatel were married four weeks later in the church of the Jerónimas, in the absence of her uncle, who was going about Madrid with fourteen stitches in his face and his arm in a sling, blaming both injuries on a certain “Yepes.” Lopito’s father was not present either. The marriage was a very discreet affair, with Captain Contreras, Quevedo, my master, and I as witnesses. The young couple moved into a modest rented house in Plaza de Antón Martín, where they intended to await Lopito’s promotion to ensign. As far as I know, they lived there happily for three months. Then, due to some infection of the air or a corruption of the water caused by the terrible heat ravaging Madrid that year, Laura Moscatel died of a malign fever, after being bled and purged by incompetent doctors; and her young widower, his heart broken, returned to Italy. And so ended the strange adventure of Calle de Madera, and I, too, learned something from that whole sad affair: Time carries everything away, and eternal happiness exists only in the imaginations of poets and on the stage.