“Returning to our Íñigo,” Guadalmedina continued, “if he does not testify against you, Alatriste, the matter stops there. But he is in custody, and seemingly they expect him to incriminate you. Which makes him a prize prisoner of the Inquisition.”
“What can they do to him?”
“They can do anything. They are going to burn the girl at the stake, as sure as Christ is God. As for him, it depends. He could be freed after a few years in prison, after two hundred lashes, or after being made to wear the cone hat of infidels…or who knows what? But the risk of the stake is real.”
“And what about Olivares?” don Francisco put in.
Guadalmedina made a vague gesture. He had recovered his pipe and was puffing on it, eyes half closed against the smoke.
“He has received the message and will consider the matter, although we must not expect too much from him. If he has something to say, he will let us know.”
“Pardiez! This is not a minor matter,” don Francisco grumbled.
Guadalmedina turned to the poet with a faint frown. “His Majesty’s favorite has other matters to attend to.”
He said it rather tartly. Álvaro de la Marca admired the poet’s talent, and respected him as the captain’s friend. They also had friends in common—both had been in Naples with the Duque de Osuna. But the aristocrat was a poet himself in moments of leisure, and it smarted when he thought that this Señor de la Torre de Juan Abad did not appreciate his verses. And still more that Quevedo had been unimpressed when in hopes of winning his approval, Guadalmedina had dedicated a poem to him that was one of the best to come from his quill, the well-known lines that begin,
Behind good Roch, lame supplicant…
The captain was paying no attention to them, intent on unwrapping the packet the aristocrat had brought. Álvaro de la Marca, puffing his pipe, watched closely.
“Use them with caution, Alatriste,” he said finally.
The captain did not reply. He was examining the objects Guadalmedina had brought. On the wrinkled blanket lay a map and two keys.
The cauldron of the Prado gardens was boiling. It was the evening rúa, the time of the stylized social parade. Carriages driving from the Guadalajara gate and the Calle Mayor tarried between the fountains and beneath the poplar groves as the setting sun painted the roof tiles of Madrid. The area from the corner of Calle Alcalá to San Jerónimo road was a mass of covered and open coaches, cavaliers who had checked their horses to chat with the ladies, duennas in their nunlike white headgear, aproned servant girls, pages, hawkers selling Caño Dorado water and mead, and women peddling fruit, small pots of custard, jars of conserves, and sweets.
As a grandee of Spain with the right to wear his hat in the presence of our lord and king, the Conde de Guadalmedina was also entitled to drive a coach with four mules; the team of six was reserved for His Majesty. However, on this occasion, which required discretion, he had chosen from his coach house a modest carriage without visible insignia, drawn by two modest gray mules and driven by a servant without livery. It was large enough, however, that the count, don Francisco de Quevedo, and Captain Alatriste could fit comfortably as they drove up and down the Prado, awaiting the arranged meeting. They passed unnoticed among the dozens of coaches moving slowly at that twilight hour when all Madrid paraded in the proximity of the convent of the Hieronymites: grave canons taking their constitutionals to whet an appetite for dinner; students as rich in wit as poor in maravedís; merchants and artisans with swords at their belts, proclaiming themselves to be grand hidalgos; and especially, swarms of young swains strumming guitars as if caressing feminine curves; pale hands fastening and unfastening carriage curtains; and many a lady, veiled or not, revealing outside the footboard of her coach, as if accidentally, a froth of seductive petticoat.
As the day languished, the Prado filled with shadows; and as reputable people left, they were replaced by hussies, caballeros in search of adventure, and rogues in general, the park becoming a stage for quarrels, amorous rendezvous, and furtive consultations beneath the trees. This scene was permeated with stealth and good manners: notes exchanged from coach to coach, accompanied by torrid glances, fluttering fans, insinuations, and promises. Some of the more respectable caballeros and damas who met there with the pretense of not knowing one another were plotting an assignation as soon as the sun set, using the intimacy of a coach, or the shelter of one of the stone fountains that adorned the walk, to claim a prize. And there were the usual altercations, stabbings involving jealous lovers or husbands who had found new spices in the pot. It was upon the latter theme that the deceased Conde de Villamediana—dead, it was said, because his tongue was too loose, his innards strung across the Calle Mayor right in the middle of the rúa—had written these celebrated verses:
In Madrid I do not go to the Prado,
for as much as it is praised
I know that its welcoming meadows
are already overgrazed.
Álvaro de la Marca, a wealthy bachelor and habitué of the Prado and Calle Mayor, and therefore one of those who in Madrid produced cuckolds in riatas of a dozen, was singing in a different register that evening. Dressed in a discreet woolen as gray as his coach and mules, he was trying not to attract attention. As he peered through the coach’s drawn curtains, he would quickly draw back at the glimpse of an open coach bearing ladies copiously adorned with silver passementerie, silk, and ruffles from Naples, women he did not wish to greet and to whom he was better known than was convenient. At the other window, don Francisco de Quevedo was also observing from behind a half-closed curtain. Diego Alatriste sat between them, legs in long leather boots stretched out before him, rocked by the soft swaying of the coach, and silent, as was his custom. All three rested their swords between their knees and were wearing their hats.
“There he is,” said Guadalmedina.
Quevedo and Alatriste leaned toward the count to take a look. A black carriage similar to theirs, with no coat-of-arms on the door and with drawn curtains, had just passed the Torrecilla and was proceeding along the paseo. The coachman was dressed in brown, with one white and one green plume in his hat.
Guadalmedina opened the window behind the coach-box and gave instructions to the driver, who slapped the reins to catch up with the other carriage. They drove on for a short distance, until the first carriage stopped at a discreet nook beneath the branches of an old chestnut standing near a fountain topped with a stone dolphin. The second coach pulled up beside the first. Guadalmedina opened the door, and stepped down into the narrow space between them. Alatriste and Quevedo, removing their hats, did the same. And when the curtain of the black carriage was pulled back, they saw a strong, ruddy face hardened by dark, intelligent eyes; a ferocious beard and mustache; a large head set on powerful shoulders; and the crimson design of the cross of Calatrava. Those shoulders bore the weight of the largest monarchy on the earth, and they belonged to don Gaspar de Guzmán, Conde de Olivares, favorite of our lord and sovereign, Philip IV, King of All the Spains.
“I did not expect to see you again so soon, Captain Alatriste,” said Olivares. “You were on your way to Flanders.”
“That was my intention, Excellency. But something came up.”
“So I see. Have you been told that you possess a rare ability for complicating your life?”
It was an uncommon dialogue, especially given that it was taking place between the favorite of the King of Spain and an obscure swordsman. In the narrow space between the two coaches, Guadalmedina and Quevedo listened in silence. The Conde de Olivares had exchanged conventional greetings with them, and was now addressing his remarks to Captain Alatriste with a nearly courtly attention that softened the hauteur of his severe countenance. Such deference from a favorite was not usual, a fact that escaped no one.
“An astounding ability,” Olivares repeated, as if to himself.
The captain refrained from comment and waited quietly, hat doffed, with a respect not lacking aplomb. After a last look at
the captain, Olivares directed himself to Guadalmedina.
“About the issue that concerns us,” he said, “you must know that there is nothing to be done. I appreciate your information, but I can offer nothing in exchange. No one can intervene in the affairs of the Holy Office, not even our lord and king.” He gestured with a broad, strong hand knotted with prominent veins. “Regardless, this is not something we can bother His Majesty with.”
Álvaro de la Marca looked at Alatriste, whose expression had not changed, and then turned to Olivares. “No way out of it, then?”
“None. And I regret being unable to help you.” There was a trace of condescending sincerity in the favorite’s tone. “Especially because the shot aimed at our Captain Alatriste was also meant for me. But that is how things are.”
Guadalmedina bowed. Despite his title of grandee of Spain he, too, was hatless before Olivares. Álvaro de la Marca was a courtier, and he knew that any give and take at court had its limits. For him, it was already a triumph that the most powerful man in the monarchy would grant him a minute of his time. Yet he persisted.
“Will the boy burn, Excellency?”
The favorite tugged at the Flemish lace falling from the wrists of his dark green-trimmed doublet, bare of jewels or adornment, austere, as decreed by the current edict against pomp and ostentation that he himself had urged the king to sign.
“I fear so,” he said dispassionately. “And the girl. And we can be thankful that there are no others to lead to the coals.”
“How much time do we have left?”
“Very little. According to my information, they are speeding up the particulars of the trial, and it may be the Plaza Mayor within a couple of weeks. Considering the current state of my relationship with the Holy Office, that would be a feather in their caps.” He shook his powerful head nested in the starched collar encircling a ruddy neck. “They have not forgiven me the business of the Genoese.”
A slight, melancholy smile appeared between the dark beard on his chin and the fierce mustache, and he lifted his enormous hand to indicate the interview closed. Guadalmedina again bowed slightly, enough to be polite without compromising his honor.
“You have been very generous with your time. We are deeply grateful, and indebted to Your Lordship.”
“You may expect a bill, don Álvaro. My Lordship never does anything gratis.” The favorite turned toward don Francisco, who was playing the part of the stone guest in Tirso’s The Trickster of Seville. “As for you, Señor de Quevedo, it is my hope that our relations may improve. A sonnet or two praising my policy in Flanders would not go unappreciated, one of those anonymous broadsheets that everyone knows are written by you. And a timely poem on the need to reduce by half the value of the vellón coin. Something in the vein of those verses you had the kindness to devote to me the other day:
“May the courtly star that disposes you
to the King’s favor, without intent or vengeance,
a miracle that curtails envy’s diligence…”
An uncomfortable don Francisco shot an oblique glance toward his companions. Following his long and painful exile from favor—which he had good signs of at last regaining—the poet hoped to recover his cachet at court, emerging from all his lawsuits and reversals of fortune. The events of the convent of Las Benitas came at an inopportune moment for him, and the fact that for an old debt of honor and friendship he would place his present good star in danger said a great deal for his character. Loathed and feared for his acerbic pen and his extraordinary wit, Quevedo had in recent days attempted not to appear hostile to the powers that be, and that had led him to intersperse his accustomed pessimistic vision and outbursts of bad humor with praise. Human after all, little inclined to return to exile, and hoping to shore up his waning estate, the great satirist was endeavoring to curb his pen, for fear of losing everything. Furthermore, he still sincerely believed, as many did, that Olivares could be the ironfisted surgeon needed to cure the aged and sickly Spanish lion.
It must be said, however, in defense of Alatriste’s friend that, even during the times of his bonanza, Quevedo had written a play entitled What Should the Favorite Be Like, which did not argue well for the future Conde-Duque’s influence at court. And despite the attempts of Olivares and other powers at court to attract the poet, that tenuous friendship burst apart some years later. Tittle-tattle had it that the king was irritated by a satiric poem he found beneath his napkin, although I think it was something of greater substance that turned them into mortal enemies, awakened the wrath of our lord and king, and was the cause of an old and ill Quevedo’s being imprisoned in San Marcos de León.
That happened later, when the monarchy had become an insatiable machine for devouring taxes, while a drained populace received nothing in exchange but the political blunders and the disasters of war. Catalonia and Portugal rebelled, the French—as usual—wanted to slice off their share, and Spain plunged into civil war, ruin, and shame. But I will refer to such somber times at the proper moment. What I wish to relate now is that that evening in the Prado, the poet gave an austere but accommodating and nearly courtly reply.
“I shall consult the Muses, Excellency. And do what can be done.”
Olivares nodded, already satisfied. “I have no doubt you will.” His tone was that of someone who does not remotely consider a different possibility. “As for your suit for the eight thousand four hundred reales owed by the Duque de Osuna, you know that things at the palace go slowly. All in good time. Come by to see me some day and we will have a leisurely chat. And do not forget my poem.”
Quevedo nodded, not without a second slightly embarrassed glance toward his companions. He particularly studied Guadalmedina, searching for a sign of mockery, but Álvaro de la Marca was an experienced courtier; he knew the sword-sharp gifts of the satirist, and his face showed only the prudent expression of someone who has heard nothing. The favorite turned to Diego Alatriste.
“As for you, Señor Captain, I regret that I cannot help you.” His tone, although again distant as befitted their relative positions, was amiable. “I confess that for some strange reason, which perhaps both you and I recognize, I have a certain fondness for your person…. That, in addition to the request from my dear friend don Álvaro, caused me to grant you this meeting. But you are aware that the more power one obtains, the more limited is the opportunity to exercise it.”
Alatriste held his hat in one hand and rested the other on the pommel of his sword. “With all respect, Your Excellency, one word from you can save that lad.”
“I suppose that is true. In fact, an order signed by my hand would be enough. But it is not that easy. That would place me in the position of having to make concessions in return. And in my office, concessions can be made only rarely. Your young friend weighs very little on the scales in relation to other serious burdens that God and our king have placed in my hands. So I have no choice but to wish you good fortune.”
He concluded with an expression that boded no appeal; the matter was sealed. But Alatriste held his eyes without blinking.
“Excellency. I have nothing but the sword I live by and my record of service, which means nothing to anyone.” The captain spoke very slowly, as if thinking aloud more than addressing the first minister of two worlds. “Neither am I a man of many words or resources. But they are going to burn an innocent lad whose father, my comrade, died fighting in those wars that are as much the king’s as they are yours. Perhaps I, and Lope Balboa, and Balboa’s son, do not tip the scale that Your Excellency so rightly mentioned. Yet one never knows what twists and turns life will take, nor whether one day the full reach of a good blade will not be more beneficial than all the papers and all the notaries and all the royal seals in the world. If you help the orphan of one of your soldiers, I give you my word that on such a day you can count on me.”
Neither Quevedo nor Guadalmedina—no one—had ever heard Diego Alatriste utter so many words at one time. And the king’s favorite listened, inscr
utable, motionless, with only an attentive gleam in his astute dark eyes. The captain had spoken with melancholy respect, but with a firmness that might have seemed brusque had it not been made amenable by his serene gaze and calm tone, totally devoid of arrogance. He seemed merely to have enunciated objective fact.
“I do not know whether it will be five, six, even ten days, months, or years hence,” the captain persisted. “But you can count on me.”
There was a long silence. Olivares, who had begun to close the coach door, concluding the interview, paused. Beneath his terrible mustache, Alatriste and his companions glimpsed something resembling a smile.
“’Sblood!” he said.
The favorite stared for what seemed an eternity. And then, very slowly, after removing a sheet of paper from a portfolio lined with Moroccan leather, he took a lead pencil and wrote four words: Alquézar. Huesca. Green Book. Pensively, he reread several times what he’d written. Finally, slowly, as if doubting what he was about to do until the last moment, he handed it to Diego Alatriste.
“You are absolutely right, Captain,” he murmured, still thoughtful, before glancing toward the sword Alatriste wore on his left side. “In truth, one never knows.”
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