The Cavalier in the Yellow Doublet ca-5

by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

  Don Francisco imperturbably returned my gaze, looked to left and right, then gave me a discreet nudge.

  “Hush, you insolent boy. To everything its season. I had hoped you might give the lie to that magnificent line—penned by myself—which says: “Young ears are no fit recipient for the truth.” And in the same quiet voice, he continued:

  “Evil and evil doers? Leave them well alone.

  Let us live as witnesses not accomplices,

  So the Old World to the New makes moan.”

  However, the New World, namely me, had ceased listening to the Old World. The jester Gastoncillo had just appeared amongst the throng and was gesturing toward the servants’ stairs behind me. When I looked up, I caught a glimpse, above the carved granite balustrade, of Angélica de Alquézar’s fair ringlets. A letter I had written the previous afternoon had clearly reached the person to whom it was addressed.

  “I believe you have some explaining to do,” I said.

  “Not at all. And I have very little time. The queen is about to go down to the courtyard.”

  She was resting her hands on the balustrade, watching the comings and goings below. That morning, her eyes were as cold as her words. She was no longer the affectionate young woman, dressed as a man, whom I had held in my arms.

  “This time you’ve gone too far,” I said. “You, your uncle, and whoever else is mixed up in all this.”

  She was playing distractedly with the ribbons adorning the bodice of her silk-embroidered dress.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir. Nor what my uncle has to do with your ravings.”

  “I’m talking about the ambush in Camino de las Minillas,” I replied angrily. “About the man in the yellow doublet. About the attempt to kill the—”

  She placed a hand on my lips, just as she had placed a kiss on them a few nights before. I shivered, and again she noticed. She smiled.

  “Don’t talk nonsense.”

  “If all is revealed,” I said, “you’ll be in great danger.”

  She regarded me with interest, almost as if she found my disquiet intriguing.

  “I can’t imagine you ever taking a lady’s name in vain.”

  I felt as if she had guessed what I was thinking. I drew myself up, embarrassed.

  “No, I might not, but there are other people involved.”

  She looked at me as if she could not believe the implication behind my words.

  “Have you told your friend Batatriste?”

  I said nothing and averted my gaze. She read my reply on my face.

  “I thought you were a gentleman,” she said disdainfully.

  “I am,” I protested.

  “I also thought that you loved me.”

  “I do love you.”

  She bit her lower lip as she pondered my words. Her eyes were like very hard blue polished stone. Finally, she asked bitterly:

  “Have you betrayed me to anyone else?”

  There was such scorn in that word “betrayed” that I could not speak for shame. Eventually, I composed myself and opened my mouth to utter a new protest. “You surely don’t think I could keep all this secret from the captain,” I began to say, but the sound of trumpets echoing through the courtyard drowned out my words. Their Majesties had appeared on the other side of the balustrade, at the top of the main staircase. Angélica glanced around, catching up her skirt.

  “I have to go.” She seemed to be thinking as fast as she could. “I will see you again perhaps.”

  “Where?”

  She hesitated, then gave me a strange look, so penetrating that I felt quite naked before it.

  “Are you going to El Escorial with don Francisco de Quevedo?”

  “I am.”

  “I’ll see you there.”

  “How will I find you?”

  “Don’t be silly. I’ll find you.”

  This sounded more threat than promise, or both things at once. I watched as she walked away and as she turned once to smile at me. I thought again, “By God, she’s beautiful. And frightening, too.” Then she disappeared behind the columns and went down to join the king and queen, who were already at the foot of the stairs, where they were greeted by the Count-Duke of Olivares and the other courtiers. Then they all went out into the street. I followed behind, plunged in dark thoughts. I recalled with some unease the lines of poetry that Master Pérez had once made me copy out:

  Averting one’s gaze from evident deceit,

  When poison foul gives off a honey’d smell

  And pain is loved and pleasures all retreat,

  Then, one believes that heaven’s found in hell

  And body and soul are at illusion’s behest,

  Such is love—as he who tastes it can attest.

  Outside, the sun was shining, and the scene it lit up was splendid indeed. The king was bowing to the queen and offering her his arm, and both were wearing sumptuous traveling clothes. The king had on a riding outfit sewn with silver thread, a crimson silk taffeta sash, as well as sword and spurs, a sign that, being the bold, young rider he was, he would make part of the journey on horseback, escort ing the queen’s carriage, which was drawn by six magnificent white horses and followed by another four coaches carrying the queen’s twenty-four handmaids and maids of honor. In the square, among the courtiers and other people crowding the area, the monarchs were greeted by Cardinal Barberini, the papal legate, who would be traveling in the company of the Dukes of Sessa and Maqueda, and so the greetings and salutations continued. With the royal party was the Infanta María Eugenia—only a few months old and in the arms of her nurse—the king’s brothers, the Infante Don Carlos, and the Prince of Wales’s impossible love, the Infanta Doña María, as well as the Cardinal-Infante Don Fernando, who had been Archbishop of Toledo since he was a boy and would eventually become general and governor of Flanders. Under his command, a few years later, Captain Alatriste and I would find ourselves battling hordes of Swedes and Protestants at Nördlingen. Amongst the courtiers closest to the king, I spotted the Count of Guadalmedina, wearing an elegant cape and French boots and breeches. Farther off, don Francisco de Quevedo was standing next to the count-duke’s son-in-law, the Marquis of Liche, reputed to be the ugliest man in Spain and married to one of the most beautiful women at court. And as the king and queen, the cardinal, and the nobles took their seats in their respective carriages, and the drivers cracked their whips and the cortège set off toward Santa María la Mayor and Puerta de la Vega, the people, delighted with the spectacle, applauded constantly. They even cheered the carriage in which I was sitting with the Marquis of Liche’s servants, but then, in this unhappy land of ours, we Spaniards have always been prepared to cheer almost anything.

  The bell of the Hospital de los Aragoneses was ringing for matins. Diego Alatriste, who was awake and lying in his bed at the Fencer’s Arms, got up, lit a candle, and started pulling on his boots. He had more than enough time to get to the Ermita del Ángel before daybreak, but crossing Madrid and the Manzanares River in the current circumstances was a very complicated enterprise indeed. Better to be there an hour before than a minute late, he thought. And so, once he had pulled on his boots, he poured some water into a bowl, washed his face, ate a morsel of bread to settle his stomach, and finished dressing, donning his buffcoat, buckling on dagger and sword, and wrapping the dagger in a piece of cloth so that it would not bang against his sword guard; and for that same reason, he put his metal spurs in his purse. Stuck in his belt behind and concealed by his cloak, he had the booty from his eventful visit to Calle de la Primavera—Gualterio Malatesta’s two pistols, which he had loaded and primed the previous evening. Then he put on his hat, glanced around in case he had forgotten anything, doused the light, and made his way out into the street.

  He drew his cloak about him against the cold. Then, orienting himself in the dark, he left behind him Calle de la Comadre and reached the corner of Calle del Mesón de Paredes and the Cabrestreros fountain. He stood there for a moment, m
otionless, thinking that he could hear something moving in the shadows, then he continued on, taking a shortcut along Embajadores to San Pedro. Finally, once past the tanneries, which were, of course, closed at that hour, he emerged onto the little hill of the Rastro, where, beyond the cross and the fountain, rose the somber bulk of the new abattoir, which stood out clearly in the light of a lantern in Plaza de la Cebada. The stench of rotten meat made it easy to recognize even in the dark. He was about to walk on when—and he had no doubts this time—he heard footsteps behind him. This could either be someone who simply happened to be there at the same time or someone who was following him. In case the latter proved to be the case, he sought refuge by the wall, folded back his cloak, shifted one of his pistols around to the front of his belt, and got out his sword. He stood for a while, utterly still, holding his breath to listen, until he could be sure that the footsteps were coming in his direction. Taking off his hat so as to be less noticeable, he leaned cautiously out and saw a shape approaching slowly. It could still be mere coincidence, he thought, but this was not the moment to leave anything to chance. He put on his hat again, and when the figure drew alongside him, stepped out, sword foremost.

  “Damn your eyes, Diego!”

  The last person Alatriste was expecting to see in that place and at that hour was Martín Saldaña. The lieutenant of constables—or rather the sturdy shadow to whom the voice belonged—had started back in fright, swiftly unsheathing his sword; there was a metallic whisper and a faint glint of steel as he moved the blade from side to side, covering his guard like a veteran. Alatriste checked that the ground beneath his feet was smooth and unimpeded by loose stones, then he leaned his left shoulder against the wall to protect that side of his body. His right hand, however, remained free to wield his sword, thus complicating matters for Saldaña, who, if he attacked, would find his right hand blocked by the wall.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” asked Alatriste.

  Saldaña did not respond at once. He was still standing alert and ready. He was doubtless aware that his former comrade might try a trick they had both often used before—attacking an opponent while he was speaking. Talking was a distraction, and between men like them, an instant was all it took to find yourself with a foot of steel through your chest.

  “You wouldn’t want me to let you slip the net that easily, would you?” said Saldaña at last.

  “Have you been watching me for long?”

  “Since yesterday.”

  Alatriste thought for a moment. If this were true, Saldaña would have had ample time to surround the inn and have a dozen or so catchpoles on hand to arrest him.

  “Why are you alone?”

  Saldaña paused a long time before answering. He was a man of few words and appeared to be searching hard for them now. Finally, he said:

  “This isn’t official business. It’s private—between you and me.”

  The captain carefully studied the solid shadow before him.

  “Are you carrying pistols?”

  “It’s all the same whether I or, indeed, you are. This is a matter for swords.”

  His voice sounded oddly nasal. He must still be suffering from that headbutt the captain had dealt him. It was only logical, thought Alatriste, that Saldaña should take his escape and the deaths of those catchpoles as a personal affront, and it was only fitting that his comrade from Flanders should want to resolve it man to man.

  “This isn’t the moment,” he said.

  Saldaña replied in a slow, calm, reproachful voice:

  “You seem to be forgetting who you’re talking to, Diego.”

  The steel blade still glinted before him. The captain raised his sword a little, hesitated, then lowered it again.

  “I don’t want to fight you. Your constable’s staff of office isn’t worth it.”

  “I’m not carrying it with me tonight.”

  Alatriste bit his lip, his fears confirmed. Saldaña was clearly not prepared to let him leave without a fight.

  “Listen,” he said, making one last effort. “I’m very close to sorting everything out. There’s someone I have to meet . . .”

  “I don’t care a fig who you have to meet. You and I never finished our last meeting.”

  “Just forget about it for this one night. I promise I’ll come back and explain.”

  “Who’s asking you to explain?”

  Alatriste sighed and ran two fingers over his mustache. They knew each other too well. There was nothing to be done. He adopted the en garde position, and Saldaña took a step back, readying himself. There was very little light, but enough for them to be able to see the blades of their swords. It was, thought the captain sadly, almost as dark as it had been on that morning when Martín Saldaña, Sebastián Co-pons, Lope Balboa, himself, and another five hundred Spanish soldiers cried out “Forward, Spain!,” made the sign of the cross, and then swarmed out of the trenches to climb the embankment in their assault on the del Caballo redoubt, in Ostend, an assault from which only half returned.

  “Come on,” he said.

  There was an initial clash of steel, and Saldaña immediately made a circling movement with his sword and stepped away from the wall so as to have more freedom of movement. Alatriste knew who he was dealing with; they had been comrades-in-arms and had often practiced fencing together using buttoned fleurets. His opponent was a cool and skillful swordsman. The captain lunged forward, hoping to wound quickly and unceremoniously. Saldaña, however, drawing back to gain space, parried the thrust, then sprang forward. Alatriste had to move away from the wall—which had gone from being refuge to obstacle—and as he did so, momentarily lost sight of his opponent’s sword. He whirled around, lashing out violently, searching for the other blade in the darkness. Suddenly he saw it coming straight at him. He parried with a back-edged cut and retreated, cursing to himself. Although the darkness made them equal, leaving a great deal to luck, he was nevertheless the better swordsman, and it should simply be a matter of wearing Saldaña out. The only problem with that strategy was that there was no knowing how long it would be before, despite Saldaña’s intention to act alone, a patrol of catchpoles heard the sound of fighting and rushed to the aid of their leader.

  “I wonder who your widow will hand the constable’s staff of office to next?”

  He asked this as he was taking two steps back to recover his advantage and his breath. He knew that Saldaña was as placid as an ox in all matters but those concerning his wife. Then passion blinded him. Any jokes about how she had got him the post in exchange for favors granted to third parties—as malicious tongues would have it—quickened his pulse and clouded his reason. “With any luck,” thought Alatriste, “this will help me resolve the matter quickly.” He adjusted his grip, parried a thrust, withdrew a little to draw his opponent in, and, when their blades clashed again, he noticed that Saldaña already seemed less confident. He decided to return to the attack.

  “I imagine she’ll be inconsolable,” he said, striking again, every sense alert. “She’ll doubtless wear deepest mourning.”

  Saldaña did not reply, but he was breathing hard and muttered a curse when the furious barrage he had just unleashed slashed only thin air, sliding off the captain’s blade.

  “Cuckold,” said Alatriste calmly, then waited.

  Now he had him. He sensed him coming toward him in the dark, or rather he knew it from the gleam of steel from his sword, the sound of frantic footsteps, and the rancorous roar Saldaña let out as he attacked blindly. Alatriste parried the blow, allowed Saldaña to attempt a furious reverse cut, then, halfway through that maneuver—when he judged that the constable would still have his weight on the wrong foot—turned his wrist, and with a forward thrust, cleanly skewered his opponent’s chest.

  He withdrew the blade and, while he was cleaning it on his cloak, stood looking down at Saldaña’s body—a vague shape on the ground. Then he sheathed his sword and knelt beside the man who had been his friend. For some strange reason, he fe
lt neither remorse nor sorrow, only a profound weariness and a desire to blaspheme loudly. He moved closer, listening. He could hear the other man’s weak, irregular breathing, as well as another far more worrying sound: a bubbling of blood and the whistle of air entering and leaving the wounded man’s lung. He was in a bad way, that foolish, stubborn man.

  “Damn you,” Alatriste said and, tearing a clean piece of cloth from the sleeve of his doublet, he felt for the wound in Saldaña’s chest. It was about two fingers wide. He stuffed as much as he could of the handkerchief into the wound to staunch the bleeding. Then he rolled Saldaña onto his side and, ignoring his groans, felt his back; he found no exit wound, however, nor any blood other than that flowing from his chest.

  “Can you hear me, Martín?”

  Martín replied in a feeble voice that he could.

  “Try not to cough or to move.”

  He lifted Saldaña’s head and placed beneath it the wounded man’s own cloak, folded up by way of a pillow, to prevent the blood rising up from his lungs to his throat and choking him. “How am I?” he heard Martín say. The last word was drowned in a thick, liquid cough.

  “Not too good. If you cough, you’ll bleed to death.”

  Saldaña nodded weakly and lay still, his face in shadow, his pierced lung making an ominous noise each time he breathed. He nodded again a moment later, when Alatriste glanced impatiently from side to side and announced that he had to go.

  “I’ll see if I can find someone to help you,” he said. “Do you want a priest as well?”

  “Don’t talk such . . . nonsense.”

  Alatriste stood up.

  “You might pull through.”

  “I might.”

  The captain moved off, but heard the wounded man calling him. He went back and knelt down again.

  “What is it, Martín?”

  “You didn’t mean . . . what you said . . . did you?”

  Alatriste found it hard to open his mouth to speak. His lips felt dry, as if stuck together, and when he spoke, his lips hurt him, as if the skin on them were tearing.