The Cavalier in the Yellow Doublet ca-5

by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

  “I love her,” I said when I had done.

  And I said this as if it entirely justified my actions. The captain had got up and was standing at the window, watching the rain.

  “Very much?” he asked pensively.

  “Too much to put into words.”

  “Her uncle is the royal secretary.”

  I understood the implications of these words, which were more warning than reproach. However, they showed on what slippery ground we stood. Apart from the matter of whether or not Luis de Alquézar did or didn’t know—Malatesta had, after all, worked for him before—the question was whether or not Angélica was part of the conspiracy, or whether her uncle or others, without being directly involved themselves, were trying to take advantage of the situation and climbing aboard a wagon that was already in motion.

  “She is also,” added the captain, “one of the queen’s maids of honor.”

  This, it was true, was no small thing either. Then I suddenly caught what he meant by these last words and froze. The idea that our queen could have anything to do with the intrigue was not so very ridiculous. Even a queen is a woman, I thought. She can feel jealousy just as keenly as a kitchen maid.

  “But then why involve you?” the captain wondered out loud. “I was more than enough.”

  I thought for a while.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It would provide the executioner with another head to chop off, I suppose. But you’re right, if the queen were involved, it would make sense if one of her maids of honor was too.”

  “Or perhaps someone simply wants to make it seem that way.”

  I looked at him, startled. He had gone over to the table and was studying the little pile of gold coins.

  “Hasn’t it occurred to you that someone might want to lay the blame for the incident on the queen?”

  I stared at him, openmouthed, aghast at the sinister implications of such an idea.

  “After all,” the captain went on, “as well as being a deceived wife, she’s also French. Imagine the situation: the king dies, Angélica disappears, you’re arrested along with me, and on the rack you reveal that it was one of the queen’s maids of honor who lured you into the trap . . .”

  I pressed my hand to my heart, offended.

  “I would never betray Angélica.”

  He looked at me and smiled the weary smile of a veteran.

  “Just imagine that you did.”

  “Impossible. I didn’t give you away to the Inquisition, did I?”

  “True.”

  He was still looking at me, but he said no more. I knew what he was thinking, though. Dominican friars were one thing, but royal justice another. As Cagafuego had said, there were torturers capable of loosening the tongue of even the bravest man. I considered this new variant to the plot, and could see that it was not unreasonable. Thanks to our strolls through Madrid’s mentideros, or gossip-shops, and to conversations with the captain’s friends, I was up to date on all the latest news: the struggle between Richelieu, the minister of France, and our Count-Duke of Olivares was already sounding the drum of future wars in Europe. No one doubted that once our froggy neighbors resolved the problem with the Huguenots in La Rochelle, the Spanish and the French would go back to killing each other on the battlefield. Implying that the queen was involved, regardless of whether this was true or false, was therefore not so very outlandish and could prove very useful to certain people. There were those who loathed Isabel de Borbón—Olivares, his wife, and followers among them—and there were those inside and outside Spain—England, for example, as well as Venice, the Turk, and even the pope in Rome—who wanted us to go to war with France. An anti-Spanish plot implicating the sister of the French king was all too credible. On the other hand, it might be an explanation that concealed others.

  “It’s time, I think,” said the captain, looking at his sword, “for me to pay a little visit.”

  It was a shot in the dark. Three years had passed, but there was no harm in trying. In his drenched cloak and dripping hat, Diego Alatriste studied the house carefully. By curious chance, the house was only two streets from his hiding place, or perhaps it wasn’t chance. That area of Madrid was one of the worst in the city, home to the lowest taverns, bars, and inns. And if, he concluded, it was a good place for him to hide, then it would be for others as well.

  He looked around. Behind him, the Plaza de Lavapiés was veiled by a translucent gray curtain of rain that almost concealed the stone fountain. Calle de la Primavera—“Spring Street, indeed,” he thought with some irony. At that moment it couldn’t have been a less appropriate name, what with the muddy unpaved street awash with filth. The house, formerly the Landsknecht Inn, was directly opposite him; thick trails of water poured from the roof down the façade, where some much-darned white bed linen, put out to dry before the rains came, hung like shrouds from the windows.

  He watched for one long hour before deciding to act. He crossed the road and went through the archway into a courtyard that stank of horse manure. There was no one to be seen. A few bedraggled chickens were pecking around beneath the galleries, and as he went up the wooden stairs, which creaked beneath his feet, a fat cat engaged in devouring a dead rat eyed him impassively. The captain unfastened his drenched cloak, which weighed too heavily on him. He also took off his hat, because the brim was so sodden it was obscuring his view. Thirty or so steps took him up to the top floor, and there he paused to think. If his memory served him well, the door was the last one on the right, in the corner of the corridor. He went over and pressed his ear to the door. Not a sound. Only the cooing of the pigeons sheltering in the dripping roof of the gallery. He put his cloak and hat down on the floor and took from his belt the weapon for which, that very afternoon, he had paid Bartolo Cagafuego ten escudos: a flintlock pistol, almost new, with a damascus barrel two spans long and the initials of an unknown owner on the butt. He checked that it was still primed despite the damp, then cocked the hammer—clack. He held it firmly in his right hand and, with his left, opened the door.

  It was the same woman. She was sitting in the light from the window, mending the clothes in the basket on her lap. When she saw the intruder enter, she stood up, threw down her work, and opened her mouth to cry out, and only failed to do so because a slap from Alatriste propelled her backward against the wall. Better to hit her once now, thought the captain, than several times later on, when she’s had time to collect her thoughts. There’s nothing like that initial shock and fear. And so, once he had slapped her, he grabbed her violently by the throat, then, releasing his grip, covered her mouth with his left hand and pressed the pistol to her head.

  “Not a word,” he whispered, “or I’ll blow your face off.”

  He felt the woman’s damp breath on the palm of his hand, her body trembling against his, and while he held her in his grasp, he looked about him. The room had barely changed: the same miserable bits of furniture, the chipped crockery on the table, the same rough tablecloth. Nevertheless, everything was tidy. There was a copper brazier and a rug on the floor. A bed, separated off from the rest of the room by a curtain, was neatly made and clean, and a cooking pot was boiling in the hearth.

  “Where is he?” he asked the woman, slightly easing his grip on her mouth.

  Another shot in the dark. She might have nothing to do with the man he was looking for, but it was the only trail he had to follow. As he recalled, and according to his hunter’s instinct, this woman was not an insignificant player in the game. He had only seen her once before, years ago, and only for a matter of moments, but he remembered the expression on her face and her anxiety, her disquiet for the man who, at the time, was defense-less and under threat. Even snakes need company, he thought with a sardonic smile; yes, even snakes have their other half.

  She said nothing, simply stared at the pistol out of the corner of her eye, terrified. She was a slender, ordinary-looking young woman, neither pretty nor ugly, but with a good figure; the dark hair caught back at her nec
k fell in loose locks about her face. She was wearing a skirt made of some cheap fabric and a sleeveless blouse that left her arms bare, her shawl having slipped off in the struggle. She smelled slightly of the food steaming in the pot, and of sweat, too.

  “Where is he?” asked the captain again.

  She focused her terrified gaze on him again, breathing hard, but still she said nothing. Alatriste could feel her agitated bosom rise and fall beneath his arm. He glanced around for some sign of a male presence: a short black cape hanging from a hook, a man’s shirts in the basket she had dropped, two clean collars, newly starched. Although, of course, it might not be the same man. Life goes on, and women are women; men come and go. These things happen.

  “When will he be back?” he asked.

  She remained dumb, staring at him with fearful eyes. Now, however, he saw in them a glimmer of comprehension. “Perhaps she recognizes me,” he thought. “At least she’ll realize that I mean her no harm.”

  “I’m going to let you go,” he said, sticking the pistol back in his belt and taking out his dagger. “But if you scream or try to run away, I’ll slit your throat like I would a sow’s.”

  At that hour, the gambling den in the Cava de San Miguel was in full swing. The place was packed with gamblers and cheats, and with hangers-on hoping that the winners might toss them a fraction of their winnings. The atmosphere was, in short, thick with possibilities. Juan Vicuña, the owner, came over to me as soon as I walked through the door.

  “Have you seen him?” he asked in a low voice.

  “The wound in his leg has healed up. He’s well and sends you greetings.”

  The former sergeant of horse, maimed in the dunes at Nieuwpoort, nodded, pleased. His friendship with my master went back a long way. Like other denizens of the Inn of the Turk, he was concerned about Captain Alatriste’s fate.

  “And what about Quevedo? Is he talking to people at the palace?”

  “He’s doing what he can, but that isn’t very much.”

  Vicuña sighed deeply and said nothing more. Like don Francisco de Quevedo, Master Pérez, and Licentiate Calzas, Vicuña believed not a word of what was being said about the captain, but my master didn’t want to go to any of them for help in case he implicated them, too. The crime of lèse-majesté was far too serious to involve one’s friends; it ended on the scaffold.

  “Guadalmedina is inside,” he said.

  “Alone?”

  “No, with the Duke of Cea and a Portuguese gentleman I’ve never seen before.”

  I handed him my dagger, as everyone did, and Vicuña gave it to the guard on the door. In that city of proud people who all too easily reached for sword or dagger, it was forbidden to bear arms when entering gambling dens or whorehouses. Despite that precaution, however, it was still not uncommon for cards and dice to end up stained with blood.

  “Is he in a good mood?”

  “Well, he’s just won a hundred escudos, so, yes, but you’d better be quick because they’re talking about going to the Soleras bawdy house, where they’ve arranged a supper and a few girls.”

  He squeezed my shoulder affectionately and left me. Vicuña had behaved like a loyal friend by advising me of the count’s presence there that night. After my talk with Captain Alatriste, I had spent a long time pondering a possibly desperate plan—desperate, but one to which I could see no alternative. Then I trudged across the city in the rain, visiting friends and weaving my web as I went. I was now soaked to the skin and exhausted, but I had flushed out my prey in the most propitious of places, something I could never have done at the Guadalmedina residence or in the palace itself. After giving it much thought, I had decided to go through with my plan, even if it cost me my liberty or my life.

  I walked across the room, beneath the yellowish light from the tallow lamps hanging from the ceiling. As I said, the atmosphere was as heavily weighted as the dice they used in some of the games. Money, cards, and dice came and went on the half-dozen tables around which sat the players. At one table, cards were being dealt, at another, dice were being rolled, yet another rang with curses—“A pox on’t,” “Damn my luck,” “Od’s my life”; and at every table, sharpers and swindlers, skilled at palming an ace or weighting a die, were trying to fleece their fellow men, either by a slow bloodletting, one maravedí at a time, or by a single fulminating blow, of the sort that left the poor dupe plucked and singed, and all his cargo gone.

  A pox on you, vile card—

  Accursed, cruel, ill-starred—

  Which, with rigor fierce and rash

  Has left me cards, but no cash.

  Álvaro de la Marca was not one to be fleeced. He had a good eye and even better hands, and was himself a master at cozening, beguiling, and duping. If the fancy took him, he could have gulled any gambler worth his salt. I saw him at one of the tables, in good spirits and still winning. He was as elegantly dressed as ever: gray doublet embroidered with silver thread, breeches, and turned-down boots, with a pair of amber-colored gloves folded and tucked in his belt. With him, along with the Portuguese gentleman Vicuña had referred to—and whom I found out later to be the young Marquis of Pontal—was the Duke of Cea, grandson of the Duke of Lerma and brother-in-law of the Admiral of Castile, a young man of the best family who, shortly afterward, won fame as the bravest of soldiers in the wars in Italy and Flanders, before dying with great dignity on the banks of the Rhine. I made my way discreetly through the throng of hangers-on, gawpers, and cheats, and waited until the count looked up from the table, where he had just beaten two other dice players by throwing a double six. When he saw me, he looked half surprised, half annoyed. Frowning, he returned to the game, but I stood my ground, determined not to move until he took proper notice of me. When he glanced at me again, I gestured knowingly to him and moved away a little, hoping that, if he didn’t have the decency to greet me, he might at least feel curious about what I had to tell him. In the end, albeit reluctantly, he gave in. I saw him pick up his winnings from the table, give a tip to a couple of the hangers-on, and put the rest in his purse. Then he came toward me. On the way, he made a sign to one of the serving boys, who hurried over to him with a mug of wine. The rich never lack for minions to fulfill their hedonistic desires.

  “Well,” he said coldly, taking a sip of his wine. “What are you doing here?”

  We went into the small room that Juan Vicuña had set aside for us. There were no windows, just a table, two chairs, and a burning candle. I closed the door and leaned against it.

  “Be brief,” said Guadalmedina.

  He was looking at me suspiciously, and the coolness of his manner and his words saddened me greatly. The captain must have offended him greatly, I thought, for him to have forgotten that he saved his life in the Kerkennahs, that we attacked the Niklaasbergen out of friendship for him and in the king’s service, and that one night, in Seville, we saw off a patrol of catchpoles together outside a bawdy house. Then, however, I noticed the purplish marks still visible on his face, the awkward way he moved the arm injured in Calle de los Peligros, and realized that we all have our reasons for doing what we do or don’t do. Álvaro de la Marca had more than enough reason to bear my master a grudge.

  “There’s something you should know,” I said.

  “Something? Too many things, you mean. But time will tell . . .”

  Like an evil omen, or a threat, he left those last words floating in the wine that he raised to his lips. He had not sat down, as if to convey that he intended to get the conversation over with as quickly as possible, and he maintained his lofty pose, mug of wine in one hand, the other hand planted nonchalantly on his hip. I looked at his aristocratic face, his wavy hair, curled mustache, and fair beard, at his elegant white hands and at the ring which, alone, was worth the ransom of some poor captive in Algeria. The Spain he inhabited, I concluded, was another world, one endowed with power and money from the cradle onward. For someone in Álvaro de la Marca’s position, there were certain things that could never be
contemplated with equanimity. Nevertheless, I had to try. It was my last chance.

  “I was there that night, too,” I said.

  Darkness had descended. Outside, the rain was still falling. Diego Alatriste remained motionless, sitting at the table, observing the woman sitting equally still in the other chair, her hands tied behind her back and a gag in her mouth. He did not like having to do this, but he felt he had his reasons. If the man he was waiting for was who he thought, it would be too dangerous to leave the woman free to move or cry out.

  “Is there nothing I can light the candle with?” he asked.

  She did not stir. She kept staring at him, her mouth covered by the gag. Alatriste got up and rummaged around in the larder until he found a match and a few wood shavings, which he threw onto the coals in the kitchen, where he had hung his cloak and hat to dry. While he was there, he removed the pot from the fire and found that the contents had boiled half away. With the match, he lit a candle on the table. Then he emptied some of contents of the pot into a bowl; the lamb and chickpea stew had rather too strong a flavor, was overcooked and very hot, but he ate it anyway, along with some bread and a pitcher of water, and wiped the plate clean. Then he glanced at the woman. He had been there for three hours, and in all that time, she had uttered not a single word.

  “Don’t worry,” he lied. “I just want to talk to him.”

  Alatriste had used the time to confirm to himself that he was in the right place. Besides observing the short black cape, the shirts, collars, and other clothes in the house, all of which might have belonged to anyone, he had opened a chest and found a pair of good pistols, a flask of gunpowder, a small bag of bullets, a knife as sharp as a razor, a coat of mail, and a few letters and documents evidently giving coded place names and itineraries. There were also two books which he was now leafing curiously through, having first loaded the two pistols and placed them in his belt, leaving Cagafuego’s on the table. One of the books was, surprisingly enough, an Italian translation of Pliny’s Natural History, printed in Venice, which, for a moment, made the captain doubt that the owner of the book and the man he was waiting for could be the same person. The other book was in Spanish and the title made him smile: God’s Politics, Christ’s Governance, by don Francisco de Quevedo y Villegas.