“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 simi
larly 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:
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