“I’m sure you’ll agree,” said a voice beside us, “that she is very pretty indeed.”
We turned around, surprised. Lopito de Vega had come up behind us and there he was, thumbs hooked in the leather belt from which hung his sword, cloak wrapped about one arm, and his soldier’s hat pushed slightly back over the bandage he still wore about his head. He was gazing adoringly at Moscatel’s niece.
“Don’t tell me,” exclaimed don Francisco, “that she is she.”
“She is.”
We were all astonished, and even Captain Alatriste regarded Lope’s son with a certain degree of interest.
“Does don Gonzalo Moscatel approve of your courtship?” asked don Francisco.
“No, on the contrary,” the young man said, bitterly twisting the ends of his mustache. “He says his honor is sacred, et cetera. And yet half Madrid knows that as the city’s supplier of meat, he’s stolen money hand over fist. Nevertheless, Señor Moscatel cares only for his honor. You know—grandparents, coats of arms, ancestry . . . the usual thing.”
“Well, given who he is and with a name like that, this Moscatel fellow must go back a long way.”
“Oh, yes, as far back as the Goths, of course. Like everyone else.”
“Alas, my friend,” sighed Quevedo, “Spain the grotesque never dies.”
“Well, someone should kill her, then. Listening to that fool talk, anyone would think we were still in the days of the Cid. He has sworn to kill me if he finds me loitering near his niece’s window.”
Don Francisco looked at Lopito with renewed interest.
“And do you or do you not loiter?”
“Do I look like a man who wouldn’t loiter, Señor de Quevedo?”
And Lopito briefly described the situation to us. It was not a caprice on his part, he explained. He sincerely loved Laura Moscatel, for that was the young woman’s name, and he was prepared to marry her as soon as he was given the post of ensign he was seeking. The problem was that, as a professional soldier and the son of a playwright—Lope de Vega may have been ordained as a priest, but his reputation as a rake placed the morality of the whole family in jeopardy—his chances of obtaining don Gonzalo’s permission were remote indeed.
“And have you tried every possible argument?”
“I have, but without success. He refuses point-blank.”
“And what if you were to stick a foot of steel through that turd of a suitor, that “Apollo”?” asked Quevedo.
“It would change nothing. Moscatel would simply engage her to another.”
Don Francisco adjusted his spectacles in order to study the young woman in the carriage more closely, then he said to the lovelorn gallant:
“Do you really wish to win her hand?”
“On my life, I do,” replied the young man earnestly, “but when I went to Señor Moscatel to speak honestly and seriously with him, I was met by a couple of ruffians he had hired to frighten me off.”
Captain Alatriste turned to listen, suddenly interested. This, to him, was familiar music. Quevedo arched his eyebrows in curiosity. He, too, knew a fair bit about wooings and sword fights.
“And how did you get on?” he asked.
“Quite well, really. Being a soldier and a swordsman has its uses. Besides, they weren’t up to much, the ruffians. I drew my sword, which they weren’t expecting; luck was on my side, and they both took to their heels. Don Gonzalo still refused to receive me, though. And when I returned that night to her window, accompanied this time by a servant who, as well as a guitar, was armed with a sword and a shield so that we would be equally matched, we found that there were now four ruffians.”
“A prudent man, the butcher.”
“He certainly is, and he has a large purse to pay for his prudence. They nearly sliced off my poor servant’s nose, and after a few skirmishes, we decided to make ourselves scarce.”
All four of us were now looking at Moscatel, who was most put out by our stares and by seeing in good company the two men who, from very different angles, were both hammering at his walls. He smoothed the fierce points of his mustache and paced back and forth a little, grasping the hilt of his sword as if he could barely keep himself from coming over and cutting us to pieces. In the end, he furiously fastened the curtain at the carriage window, thus hiding his niece from view, then gave orders to the coachman as he himself got into the carriage, drew up the running board, and drove off up the avenue, cutting a broad swathe through the crowds.
“He’s a real dog in the manger,” said Lopito sadly. “He doesn’t want to eat, but he doesn’t want anyone else to eat either.”
Were all love affairs so difficult? I was pondering this question that very night, while I waited, leaning against the wall of the Puerta de la Priora, staring into the darkness that extended beyond the bridge toward the Camino de Aravaca and into the trees in the neighboring gardens. The nearness of Leganitos Stream and the river Manzanares had a cooling effect. I had my cloak wrapped about me—concealing the dagger tucked in my belt at the back and the short sword at my waist—but that wasn’t enough to keep me warm. I preferred, however, not to move in case I caught the eye of some marauding group, whether curious or criminal, trying to scrape a living in that solitary place. And so there I stayed, like part of the shadow cast by the wall, alongside the door of the passageway that connected the Convento de la Encarnación, the Plaza de la Priora, and the riding school, linking the north wing of the Alcázar Real to the outskirts of the city. Waiting.
I was, as I said, pondering the problematic nature of love affairs, all love affairs it seemed to me then, and thinking how strange women were, capable of captivating a man and leading him to such extremes that he would risk money, honor, freedom, and life. There was I, no mere foolish boy, at dead of night, armed to the teeth like some lout from La Heria, exposed to all kinds of danger and not knowing what the devil the devil wanted of me, and all because a girl with blue eyes and fair hair had scribbled me two lines: If you are gentleman enough to escort a lady . . . Every woman knows how to look after herself. Even the most stupid woman can apply those skills, without even realizing that she is. No astute man of the law, no memorialist, no petitioner at court can better them when it comes to appealing to a man’s purse, vanity, chivalry, or stupidity. A woman’s weapons. Wise, experienced, lucid don Francisco de Quevedo filled pages and pages with words on the subject:
You are very like the blade of a sword:
You kill more when bare than clothed.
The angelus bell at the Convento de la Encarnación rang out, and this was immediately followed, like an echo, by the bell from San Agustín, whose tower could be seen among the dark rooftops, bright in the light of the half-moon. I crossed myself and, before the last chime had even faded away, heard the door to the passageway creak open. I held my breath. Then, very cautiously, I pushed back my cloak to free the hilt of my sword, just in case, and turning in the direction of the noise, glimpsed a lantern which, before it was withdrawn, lit up from behind a slender figure that slipped quickly out, shutting the door behind it. This confused me, because the figure I had seen was that of an agile young man, with no cloak, but dressed all in black and with the unmistakable glint of a dagger at his waist. This was not what I had expected, far from it. And so I did the only sensible thing I could at that hour of night and in that place: quick as a squirrel, I grabbed my dagger and pressed the point to the new arrival’s chest.
“Another step,” I whispered, “and I’ll nail you to the door.”
Then I heard Angélica de Alquézar laugh.
4. CALLE DE LOS PELIGROS
“We’re getting close,” she said.
We were walking along in the dark, guiding ourselves by the moonlight that filled the way ahead with the cutout shapes of rooftops and projected our own shadows onto the rough ground that ran with streams of grubby water and filth. We were speaking in whispers, and our footsteps echoed in the empty streets.
“Close to what?” I asked.
/>
“Close.”
We had left behind us the Convento de la Encarnación and were approaching the little Plaza de Santo Domingo, presided over by the sinister bulk of the monastery occupied by the monks of the Holy Office. There was no one to be seen near the old fountain, and the fruit and vegetable stalls were, of course, bare. A guttering lamp above an image of the Virgin lit up the corner of Calle de San Bernardo beyond.
“Do you know the Tavern of the Dog?” asked Angélica.
I stopped and, after a few steps, so did she. By the light of the moon, I could see her man’s costume, the tight doublet concealing all feminine curves, her fair hair caught up beneath a felt cap, the metallic glint of the dagger at her waist.
“Why have you stopped?” she asked.
“I never imagined I would hear the name of that inn on your lips.”
“There are, I’m afraid, far too many things you have never imagined. But don’t worry, I won’t ask you to go in.”
This reassured me somewhat, but not much. The Tavern of the Dog was a place even I would tremble to enter, for it was a meeting place for whores, ruffians, louts, and other passing trade. The quarter itself, Santo Domingo and San Bernardo, was a perfectly reputable area, inhabited by respectable people; however, the narrow alleyway where the inn was to be found—between Calle de Tudescos and Calle de Silva—was a kind of pustule that none of the neighbors’ protests could burst.
“Do you know the inn or don’t you?”
I said that I did, but avoided going into further detail. I had been there once with Captain Alatriste and don Francisco de Quevedo when the poet was in search of inspiration and looking for fresh material for his lighter verse. “The Dog” was the illustrative nickname given to the owner of the tavern, who sold hippocras, an infamous and extremely expensive cordial whose consumption was forbidden by various decrees, because, in order to make the drink more cheaply, its manufacturers routinely adulterated it with alum stone, waste matter, and other substances harmful to the health. Despite this, it continued to be drunk clandestinely, and since any prohibition brings wealth to those tradesman who flouts it, the Dog sold his particular brand of rat poison at twenty-five maravedís for half a quart—which was very good business indeed.
“Is there a place where we could keep watch on the tavern?”
I tried to remember. It was a short, gloomy street which at various points—by a crumbling wall, say, or around some hidden corner—would be pitch-black at night. The only problem, I explained, was that such places might be occupied by trulls.
“Trulls?”
“Whores.”
I felt a kind of cruel pleasure in using such words, as if this gave me back a little of the initiative which she seemed determined to seize. Angélica de Alquézar did not, after all, know everything. Besides, she may have been dressed as a man, and be very brave indeed, but in Madrid, and at night, I was in my element and she was not. The sword hanging from my belt was not an ornament.
“Oh,” she said.
This restored my composure. I might be head over heels in love, but this in no way diminished me, and, I concluded, it was no bad thing to make this clear.
“Tell me what exactly you’re up to and where I fit in.”
“Later,” she said and set off with determined step.
I stayed where I was. After going only a short distance, she stopped and turned.
“Tell me,” I insisted, “or you’re on your own.”
“You wouldn’t do that.”
She was standing there defiantly, a black shape in male costume, one hand resting casually on the belt on which she wore her dagger. I counted to ten, then spun round and strode away. Six, seven, eight steps. I was cursing inside and my heart was breaking. She was letting me leave, and I could not go back.
“Wait,” she said.
I stopped, much relieved. I heard her footsteps approaching, felt her hand on my arm. When I turned, her eyes were lit by a ray of moonlight slipping between the eaves. I thought I could smell fresh bread. It was her. Yes, she smelled of fresh bread.
“I need an escort,” she said.
“But why me?”
“Because there’s no one else I can trust.”
It sounded like the truth. It sounded like a lie. It sounded probable and improbable, possible and impossible, and the fact is, I didn’t care. She was close. Very close. If I had reached out a hand, I could have touched her body, her face.
“There’s a man I have to watch,” she said.
I stared at her in astonishment. What was a maid of honor from the court doing out alone in the dangerous Madrid night, keeping watch on a man? On whose orders? The sinister figure of her uncle, the royal secretary, came into my mind. I was, I realized, getting drawn in again. Angélica was the niece of one of Captain Alatriste’s mortal enemies; she was the same girl-woman who, three years before, had led me to the Inquisition’s dungeons and, almost, to the stake.
“You must take me for a fool.”
She said nothing, and the oval of her face was like a pale stain in the darkness, although there was still that glint of moonlight in her eyes. I noticed that she was edging closer and closer. Her body was so near now that the guard of her dagger was digging into my thigh.
“Once I told you that I loved you,” she whispered.
And she kissed me on the mouth.
The only sources of light in the alleyway were a lit window and the grubby, smoky glow from a torch fixed in a ring on the wall next to the tavern door. Everything else lay in darkness, which meant that it was easy to melt into the shadow provided by a dilapidated wall that gave onto an abandoned garden. We positioned ourselves where we could see the door and window of the tavern. At the other end of the street, in the neighboring gloom of Calle de Tudescos, we could see a few ladies of the night casting their bait—with little success. Now and then, men, singly or in groups, would enter or leave the inn. Voices and laughter emerged from inside, and occasionally we caught a line from a song or the sound of a chaconne being strummed on a guitar. A drunk staggered over to where we were sitting in order to relieve himself and got the devil of a fright when I unsheathed my dagger, held it between his eyes, and told him in no uncertain terms to take himself and his bladder elsewhere. He must have assumed we were engaged in carnal business, because he said nothing, but stumbled off, weaving from one side of the street to another. Close by me, Angélica de Alquézar, vastly amused, was trying not to laugh.
“He took us for something we’re not,” she said, “and thought we were doing something we’re not.”
She seemed delighted with the whole situation—the strange place, the late hour, the danger. Perhaps, or so I wanted to believe, she was equally delighted to have me as her companion. Earlier, we had seen the night watch in the distance: a constable and four catchpoles armed with shields and swords and carrying a lantern. This had obliged us to take a different route, first, because the use of a sword by a boy of my years, just below the decreed limit, might be taken ill by the law. A far more serious danger, however, was the fact that Angélica’s male costume would not have survived scrutiny by the catchpoles, and such an event, while pleasant and amusing in a stage play, could have grave consequences in real life. The wearing of men’s clothes by women was strictly forbidden and was sometimes even banned in the theater. Indeed, it was only allowed if the actress was playing the part of a wronged or dishonored maiden—like Petronila and Tomasa in The Garden of Juan Fernández or Juana in Don Gil of the Green Breeches (both by Tirso), or Clavela in Lope’s The Little French Maid, and other such delicious characters in similar situations—who had a genuine excuse for going in search of their honor and of marriage and were not disguising themselves for vicious, capricious, or whorish reasons.
Don’t pretend to be so shocked,
And take away that frown;
I am a mermaid from the sea
And thus a fish—waist down!
This zealous desire to regulate clothing came no
t only from the prudes and hypocrites who later filled the bawdy houses (although that’s another story) but from the Church, which, through the offices of royal confessors, bishops, priests, and nuns (and we have always had more of them than a muleteers’ inn has bedbugs and ticks), was striving to save our souls and to stop the devil getting his own way, so much so that wearing men’s apparel came to be considered an aggravating factor when sending women to the stake in autos-da-fé. Yes, even the Holy Office of the Inquisition had a hand in the matter, as it did—and, indeed, still has—in so many aspects of life in this poor wretched Spain of ours.
That night, however, I was not feeling in the least wretched, hidden there in the shadows with Angélica de Alquézar, opposite the Tavern of the Dog. We were sitting on my cloak, waiting, and now and then our bodies touched. She was looking at the door of the inn, and I was looking at her, and sometimes, when she moved, the spluttering torch on the wall opposite would illuminate her profile, the whiteness of her skin, a few locks of blond hair escaping from beneath her felt cap. In her tight-fitting doublet and breeches, she resembled a young page, but that impression was given the lie when a brighter light fell upon her pale, fixed, resolute gaze. Occasionally, she appeared to be studying me with great calm and penetration, peering into the innermost recesses of my soul. And when she had finished, and before she resumed her watch on the inn door, the lovely line of her mouth would curve into a smile.
“Tell me something about yourself,” she said suddenly.
I placed my sword between my legs and sat for a while, nonplussed, not knowing what to say. Finally, I spoke about the first time I had seen her, in Calle de Toledo, when she was still little more than a child. I spoke about the Fuente del Acero, the dungeons of the Inquisition, the shame of the auto-da-fé, about her letter to me in Flanders, about how I had thought of her when the Dutch charged us at the Ruyter Mill and at the Terheyden barracks, while I was running after Captain Alatriste, carrying the flag, convinced that I was going to die.
The Cavalier in the Yellow Doublet ca-5 Page 8