The Cavalier in the Yellow Doublet ca-5

by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

  My anxiety began to grow at the hour of the angelus, when don Francisco de Quevedo, looking very somber, came to tell me that my master had still not presented himself to the Count of Guadalmedina, and that the latter was growing impatient. Gripped by dark thoughts, I went outside and sat on the parapet along the east-facing esplanade, known as La Lonja, from where I could see the road from Madrid. I remained there until the sun, veiled at the last moment by ugly gray clouds, finally sank behind the mountains. Then, feeling uneasy, I went in search of don Francisco but failed to find him. I wanted to go into the main courtyard, but the archers on guard barred my way, saying that the king and queen and their guests were attending a musical evening in the little temple. I asked them to tell don Álvaro de la Marca that I wished to speak to him, but the sergeant told me that this was not an opportune moment and that I should wait until the gathering was over or else go and bother someone else. Finally, an acquaintance of don Francisco’s whom I met at the foot of the main staircase told me that don Francisco had gone to dine at the Cañada Real, through the archway opposite the palace, which was where he usually ate. And so I set off again, once more crossing the esplanade and going up the slight hill to the archway, where I turned left and made my way to the inn.

  It was a small, pleasant place, lit by tallow candles set in lanterns. The walls, made of the same granite as the palace, were adorned with hams, sausages, and strings of garlic. There was a large stove tended by the mistress of the house, and the innkeeper himself waited at table. I found don Francisco de Quevedo, María de Castro, and her husband all seated there. The poet shot me a questioning glance, frowned when I shook my head, then invited me to join them.

  “I believe you know my young friend,” he said.

  They did indeed know me, especially La Castro. The lovely actress welcomed me with a smile, and her husband with an ironic and exaggeratedly friendly gesture, for he knew who my master was. They had just finished eating a dish of braised trout, it being Friday, and offered me what was left. My stomach, alas, was too troubled, and I dined instead on a little bread dipped in wine. It was no ordinary wine, either, and that night Rafael de Cózar had clearly drunk his fair share, for he had the red eyes and thick tongue of someone who has paid generous tribute to the jug. The innkeeper brought more wine, this time a sweet Pedro Ximénez. María de Castro—whose outfit, a close-fitting bodice and long riding skirt, was adorned with at least fifty escudos’ worth of Flemish lace at neck, wrist, and hem—was drinking prettily and only a little at a time; don Francisco was drinking equally moderately, while Cózar drank on like a man dying of thirst. Between sips of wine, the three continued discussing things theatrical—what gestures to make at a particular moment, or how to say this or that line—while I awaited the right moment to speak to don Francisco alone. Despite my great unease, I was nonetheless able to admire once more the beauty of the woman for whose sake the captain had set himself against the king’s will. What shook me was the nonchalance with which María de Castro threw back her head to laugh, sipped her wine, played with the round coral earrings that hung from her lovely ears, or looked at her husband, at don Francisco, and at me in the particular way she had of looking at men, making each of us feel that she had singled us out as the only man on earth. I could not help thinking of Angélica de Alquézar, and that made me wonder if La Castro cared a jot about what happened to the captain, or even to the king himself, or if, on the contrary, in the game of chess played by women like her—and perhaps by all women—kings and pawns were all the same: temporary and dispensable. And I found myself toying with the idea that María de Castro, Angélica, and other such women were like soldiers in hostile territory, who saw themselves as foragers prowling a world of men and forced to use their beauty as ammunition and the vices and passions of the enemy as their weapons. It was a war in which only the bravest and cruelest could survive and one in which, almost always, the passage of time would finally vanquish them. Seeing María de Castro in all the perfect beauty of her youth, no one would have thought that, a few years later, for reasons that have no bearing on this story, my master would visit her for the last time in the hostel for sick women opposite Atocha Hospital, and find her aged and disfigured by syphilis, covering her face with her cloak, ashamed to be seen in that state. Or that I, standing unseen by the door, would see Captain Alatriste, when the time came to say good-bye, lean toward her and, despite her resistance, draw aside the cloak and place a final kiss on her withered lips.

  Just then, the innkeeper came over and whispered something to María de Castro. She nodded, stroked her husband’s hand, and stood up with a rustle of skirts.

  “Good night,” she said.

  “Shall I come with you?” asked Cózar distractedly.

  “There’s no need. Some friends are expecting me, the queen’s ladies.”

  She was looking at herself in a small mirror and touching up her rouge. At that hour, I thought, the only ladies who weren’t safe in bed were whores and the queens in a deck of cards. Don Francisco and I exchanged a meaningful glance, which Cózar caught. His face was an impassive mask.

  “I’ll have them bring the coach around for you,” he said to his wife.

  “There’s no need,” she said confidently. “My friends have sent theirs.”

  Her husband nodded indifferently, as if he didn’t care one way or the other. He was bent over his wine and seemed entirely unmoved.

  “May I know where you’ll be?”

  She gave a charming smile and put away the mirror in her little silver mesh bag.

  “Oh, somewhere or other. In La Fresneda, I think. But don’t sit up for me.”

  With another smile and with great aplomb, she said good-bye, arranged her cloak to cover head and shoulders, gathered up her skirt, and departed, gently shaking her head at don Francisco, who had gallantly stood up in order to accompany her to the door. I noticed that her husband did not stir from his seat, but sat with doublet unfastened and mug in hand, staring into his wine with an absorbed expression on his face and a strange grimace of distaste beneath that long mustache of his. If that remarkable woman is leaving alone, I thought, while her drunkard husband stays here with don Pedro Ximénez and with that look on his face, she’s clearly not simply going off to say her prayers before bed. Don Francisco shot me a grave glance, eyebrows raised, which only confirmed me in my view. La Fresneda was a hunting lodge on the royal estate, just over half a league from El Escorial, at the far end of a long avenue of poplars. Neither the queen nor her ladies had ever been known to set foot there.

  “It’s time we all went to bed,” said don Francisco.

  Cózar still did not move, his eyes fixed on his mug of wine. The ironic, scoundrelly smirk had grown more marked.

  “Why the rush?” he murmured.

  He seemed quite different from the man whom I had previously only seen from afar; it was as if the wine were revealing shadowy corners that normally went unperceived in the glare of the stage lights. Then, abruptly raising his glass, he said:

  “Let’s drink to young Philip’s health!”

  I eyed him uneasily. Even famous actors had to watch what they said. In truth he was not the sparkling, witty character we had seen on stage, always with a sharp riposte on his lips and always in a buoyant mood, with that peculiarly mocking air about him, as if he were saying: “I’m enjoying myself, the worms can wait.” Don Francisco again looked at me, then poured himself some more wine and raised it to his lips. I was fidgeting in my seat, shooting him impatient glances. He, however, shrugged his shoulders, as if to say: “There’s not much we can do. Your master holds all the cards, but where is he? As for this other man, sometimes a few glasses of wine reveal things that sobriety keeps at bay.”

  “How does that wonderful sonnet of yours go, Señor de Quevedo?” Cózar had placed one hand on don Francisco’s arm. “Something about a ruddy-faced silversmith pursuing the nymph Diana . . . Do you know the one I mean?”

  Don Francisco observed hi
m intently, as if trying to see what was going on behind the other man’s eyes. The light from the candles was reflected in the lenses of his spectacles.

  “I can’t remember,” he said at last.

  He was anxiously twirling his mustache. I concluded that he had not liked what he saw inside Cózar. Even I sensed in the actor’s tone of voice something I would never have imagined—a vague rancour, contained and dark—entirely opposed to the person Cózar was, or usually seemed to be.

  “You don’t? Well, I do,” Cózar raised a finger. “Wait.”

  And albeit rather hesitantly, he proceeded to recite with actorly skill, for he was a magnificent player possessed of an excellent voice:

  “Grave Jupiter, or so we’re told,

  Once lifted up a maiden’s skirts

  And had her in a shower of gold.”

  One didn’t have to be a literary expert to be able to decipher the symbols, and the poet and I exchanged another uncomfortable look. Cózar, on the other hand, seemed entirely unperturbed. He had once more raised his mug of wine to his lips and appeared to be chuckling to himself.

  “And what about that other poem of yours?” he said, having taken two long gulps of wine. “Don’t you remember that one, either? Of course you do. ‘A cuckold, you are, sir, up to your brows.’ ”

  Don Francisco was shifting uneasily in his seat, looking around like someone seeking an escape route.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Really? Well, you wrote it, and it’s famous. In the gossip-shops they say it may be a reference to me.”

  “Ridiculous. You’ve had too much to drink.”

  “Of course, but I have a superb memory for poetry. Listen:

  “My Queen, what I order is just,

  If not, what’s the point of being king

  If one cannot make a law of lust

  When one’s own lust doth sing.

  “Not for nothing am I Spain’s finest actor. But wait, Señor Poet, for another particularly apt sonnet springs to mind. I refer to the one that begins: ‘The voice of the eye that we call a fart.’ ”

  “That, as far as I know, is anonymous.”

  “Yes, but everyone attributes it to your illustrious pen.”

  Don Francisco was beginning to get really angry now, although he still kept glancing to left and right. The relieved expression on his face was saying, “At least we’re alone and the innkeeper’s nowhere to be seen.” For Cózar, with no prompting, was declaiming:

  “To hell with vaunting, boastful kings

  Who, puffed up by toadying courtiers,

  Think life and death their own playthings.”

  These lines had, in fact, been written by don Francisco, although he swore blind that they hadn’t. Written at a time when the poet was rather less popular at court, manuscript copies were still making the rounds in Spain, and he would have given his right arm to have them withdrawn. On this occasion, they proved to be the final straw. Don Francisco summoned the innkeeper, paid for the meal, and got angrily to his feet, leaving Cózar sitting there. I followed behind.

  “In a couple of days, he’s going to perform before the king,” I said uneasily, once we were out in the hallway. “And in your play, too.”

  Still frowning, don Francisco glanced back.

  “Oh, there’s no need to worry,” he said at last in a wry, mocking tone. “It’s just a temporary lapse. Tomorrow morning, once he’s slept off the wine, everything will be as normal.”

  He threw his short black cape over his shoulders and fastened it.

  “By my life, though,” he added after a moment’s thought, “I never suspected that such a tame beast would have had qualms about his honor.”

  I cast a last astonished glance at the small figure of the actor, whom I, like don Francisco, had always taken to be a jolly man of great good humor and few morals. All of which goes to show—and he was to surprise me still further in the hours that followed—one can never fathom the hearts of men.

  “Have you ever considered that he might love her?” I asked.

  I blushed as soon as these unconsidered words had left my mouth. Don Francisco, who was tucking his sword into his leather belt, paused in what he was doing and regarded me with interest. Then he smiled and slowly finished buckling on his belt and sword, as though my remark had given him food for thought, yet he said nothing. He put on his hat and we walked silently out into the street. Only after we had gone a few steps did I see him nod as if after long reflection.

  “You never can tell, my lad,” he murmured, “you never can tell.”

  It had grown cooler and there were no stars to be seen. As we crossed the esplanade, gusts of wind were whirling up leaves torn from the tops of the trees. When we reached the palace, where we had to give the password because it was after ten o’clock, there was still no news of the captain. According to what don Francisco told me after he had exchanged a few words with the Count of Guadalmedina, the latter wished him in hell. “I hope for Alatriste’s sake,” he had said, “that he doesn’t create problems for me with the count-duke.” As you can imagine, that thought tormented me, and I wanted to stay there at the door, in case my master should arrive. Don Francisco tried to reassure me by giving me various sensible explanations. It was seven long leagues from Madrid to El Escorial. The captain might have been delayed by some minor accident, or perhaps preferred to arrive at night for greater safety. Whatever the case, he knew how to take care of himself. In the end, more resigned than convinced, I agreed that he was right, aware that he was not entirely persuaded by his own eloquence. The truth is that we could do nothing but wait. Don Francisco went about his business, and I again walked over to the great palace gate, where I decided I would remain all night, awaiting news. I was walking between the columns of the courtyard where the kitchens were located when, by a narrow staircase, ill lit and half hidden behind the thick walls, I heard the rustle of silk, and my heart stopped as if I had been shot. Even before I heard her whisper my name, even before I turned toward the shape crouched in the shadows, I knew that it was Angélica de Alquézar, and that she was waiting for me. Thus began the happiest and most terrible night of my life.

  10. THE BAIT AND THE TRAP

  Despite having his hands tied behind him, Diego Alatriste managed, with some difficulty, to raise himself up so that he was sitting with his back against the wall. He could remember falling off his horse and being kicked in the face, and his head hurt so much that, at first, he thought that either the fall or the kick must be the cause of the surrounding darkness. With a shudder, he said to himself: “I must have gone blind.” Then, after turning anxiously this way and that, he saw a line of reddish light under the door and gave a sigh of relief. It was perhaps simply that it was night or that he was being held in a cellar. He moved his numb fingers and had to bite his lip so as not to groan out loud; his veins felt as if they were full of a thousand pricking needles. Later, when the pain had eased slightly, he tried to piece together out of the confusion in his head exactly what had happened. The journey. The staging post. The ambush. He recalled, with bewilderment, the pistol-shot which, instead of killing him, had felled his horse. The man firing had not, he concluded, simply missed or made a mistake. They were clearly men who knew what they were about and were rigorously carrying out orders. So disciplined were they, in fact, that, even though he had shot one of their comrades at point-blank range, they had not given in to the natural desire for revenge. He could understand this because he worked in the same trade. The really weighty questions were these: Who held the purse strings? Who was paying the piper? Who wanted him alive, and why?

  As if in answer to these questions, the door was suddenly flung open and a bright light dazzled his eyes. A black figure stood on the threshold, with a lantern in one hand and a wineskin in the other.

  “Good evening, Captain,” said Gualterio Malatesta.

  It seemed to Alatriste that, lately, he always seemed to be seeing the Italian frame
d in doorways, either entering or leaving. This time, however, he was the one who was tied up like a sausage and Malatesta was seemingly in no hurry at all. He came over to him, crouched down beside him, and took a close look at him.

  “I’m afraid you’re not your usual handsome self,” he commented drily.

  The light hurt Alatriste’s eyes, and when he blinked, he realized that his left eye was so badly swollen he could barely open it. Nevertheless, he could still see his enemy’s pockmarked face and the scar above his right eyelid, a souvenir of their fight on board the Niklaasbergen.

  “I could say the same of you,” he said.

  Malatesta’s mouth twisted into an almost conspirato rial smile.

  “I’m sorry about this,” he said, looking at Alatriste’s bound hands. “Is the rope very tight?”

  “Pretty tight, yes.”

  “I thought so. Your hands are about the size and color of aubergines.”

  He turned toward the door and called out. A man appeared. Alatriste recognized him as the man he had almost bumped into in Galapagar. Malatesta ordered him to slacken the rope binding Alatriste’s hands. While the man was doing this, Malatesta took out his dagger and held it to Alatriste’s throat, just to make sure that the captain didn’t take advantage of the situation. Then the man left, and they were alone again.

  “Are you thirsty?”

  “What do you think?”

  Malatesta sheathed his dagger and held the wineskin to the captain’s lips, letting him drink as much as he wanted. He was observing him intently. By the light of the lantern, Alatriste could, in turn, study the Italian’s hard, dark eyes.