“Captain!” I shouted.
I didn’t want him to run me through in the darkness, before he could recognize me. I saw him stop, sword raised, staring at me, and saw his opponent do the same. I pointed my blade at the latter, who, finding himself attacked from behind, drew aside, evidently confused, but still defending himself as best he could.
“For the love of God, Alatriste,” he said, “what are you doing getting the boy involved in all this?”
I froze when I heard that voice. I lowered my sword, staring at my master’s opponent, whose face I could now see in the moonlight.
“What are you doing here?” the captain asked me.
His voice sounded as sharp and metallic as his sword. I suddenly felt terribly hot, and beneath my doublet my sweat-drenched shirt stuck to my body. The night was spinning around and around inside and outside my head.
“I thought . . .” I stuttered.
“Just what did you think?”
I fell silent, embarrassed and incapable of saying another word. Guadalmedina was watching us in astonishment. He was clasping his sword under his right arm and painfully clutching the upper part of his left arm.
“You’re mad, Alatriste,” he said.
I saw the captain raise the hand holding the dagger, as if asking for time to think. From beneath the broad brim of his hat, his pale, steely eyes drilled into me.
“What are you doing here?” he asked again.
The tone in which he spoke was so murderous, I swear I felt afraid.
“I followed you,” I lied.
I swallowed hard. I imagined Angélica hidden in the arcade, watching me from a distance. Or perhaps she had left already. My pathetic thread of a voice grew stronger.
“I was afraid something bad might happen to you.”
“You’re mad, both of you,” commented Guadalmedina.
Nevertheless, he seemed relieved, as if my presence offered him an unexpected way out of this episode, an honorable solution, whereas before the only one had been for them to cut each other to pieces.
“It would,” he said, “be in everyone’s best interests to be reasonable.”
“And what do you mean by that?” asked the captain.
The count glanced over at the house, which was still silent and in darkness. Then he shrugged.
“Let’s leave things as they are for tonight.”
That “for tonight” spoke volumes. I realized, sadly, that, for Guadalmedina, the house in Calle de los Peligros and the reason for the dispute were of little importance now. He and Diego Alatriste had exchanged sword thrusts, and that brought with it certain obligations. It broke certain rules and implied certain duties. The fight was postponed for the moment, but not forgotten. Despite their long friendship, Álvaro de la Marca was who he was, and his opponent was a mere soldier who possessed only his sword and not even a patch of ground to call his grave. After what had happened, anyone else in the count’s position would have had the captain clapped in irons and thrown in a dungeon, or else consigned to the galleys, if, that is, he managed to resist the impulse to have him murdered. Álvaro de la Marca, however, was made of sterner stuff. Perhaps, like Captain Alatriste, he thought that once words or blades have been unsheathed it was impossible simply to return them to the scabbard. It could all be sorted out later on, calmly and in the appropriate place, where they would have only themselves to consider.
The captain was looking at me, and his eyes still shone in the darkness. Finally, and very slowly, as if mulling something over, he put away both sword and dagger. He exchanged a silent look with Guadalmedina, then placed one hand on my shoulder.
“Don’t do that again,” he said sullenly.
His iron fingers were gripping my shoulder so tightly they hurt. He brought his face close to mine and looked at me hard, his aquiline nose prominent above his mustache. He smelled as he always did, of leather and wine and metal. I tried to free myself, but he did not loosen his grip.
“Don’t ever follow me again,” he said. “Ever.”
And inside, I writhed in shame and remorse.
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 kn
ew well.
“I would like to see the count.”
“Were you asked to come, sir?” asked the porter politely.
The Cavalier in the Yellow Doublet ca-5 Page 10
