Captain Alatriste

by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

  But back to my tale. I was telling you that the news of the adventure raced around the city like a trail of gunpowder, and won the heart of all Madrid, though for our lord and king and the Conde de Olivares, as we later learned, the uninvited arrival of the heir to the English crown had hit them like lead shot between the eyes. Protocol was maintained, of course, and everything was all consideration and compliments. And of the skirmish in the lane, not so much as a whisper.

  Diego Alatriste learned the particulars when the Conde de Guadalmedina returned home early in the morning, happy over the success he had just scored by escorting the two young men and being the recipient of their gratitude and that of the English ambassador. After the obligatory courtesies in the House of Seven Chimneys, Guadalmedina had been urgently summoned to the Royal Palace, where he brought the king and first minister up-to-date on the happenings. Bound by his word, the count could not reveal the details of the ambush. But without incurring the displeasure of the king, on the one hand, or betraying his word as a gentleman, on the other, Alvaro de la Marca knew how to communicate enough details through gestures, hints, and silences, that the monarch and his prime minister comprehended, to their horror, how close the two imprudent travelers had come to being filleted in a dark lane in Madrid.

  The full story, or at least some of the key points that were enough to give Diego. Alatriste an idea of who his shadowy employers were, came from Guadalmedina's mouth. After spending half the morning traveling back and forth between the House of Seven Chimneys and the palace, he brought fresh, though not especially calming, news for the captain.

  "In truth, it is very simple," the count summarized. "For some time, England has been pressing for this marriage, but Olivares and the Council, which is still under his influence, are in no hurry. That an infanta of Castile should marry an Anglican prince brought the smell of sulfur to their nostrils. The king is young, and in this, as in everything else, he lets himself be guided by Olivares. Those within the close personal circle of the king believe that the prime minister has no intention of giving his stamp of approval to the wedding—unless the Prince of Wales should convert to Catholicism. That is why Olivares has been dragging his feet, and that is also why the young Charles decided to take the bull by the horns and present us with a fait accompli."

  Alvaro de la Marca was sitting at the green-velvet-covered table, wolfing down a small snack. It was mid-morning, and they were in the same room in which he had received Diego Alatriste the night before. The aristocrat was giving his devoted attention to a chicken empanada, meat pies being one of his favorite dishes, and drinking wine from a small silver jug; his diplomatic and social success the night before had clearly whetted his appetite. He had invited Alatriste to join him at table, but the captain rejected the invitation. He remained standing, leaning against the wall, watching his protector eat. Alatriste was dressed to go out; his cape, sword, and hat were on a nearby chair, and his unshaven face showed traces of his sleepless night.

  "Your Mercy, who do you think is most disturbed by the idea of this marriage?"

  Between bites, Guadalmedina looked up. "Oof. Many people." He set the empanada on the plate and began to count on fingers shiny with grease.

  "In Spain, the Church and the Inquisition are soundly against it. To them you would have to add that the pope, France, Savoy, and Venice are still open to anything that would impede an alliance between England and Spain. Can you imagine what would have happened if you had succeeded in killing the prince and Buckingham?"

  "War with England, I suppose."

  Again the count attacked his food. "You suppose correctly." He nodded somberly. "At the moment there is general agreement that the incident should be kept quiet. The prince and Buckingham maintain that they were the object of an attack by common footpads, and the king and Olivares are acting as if they believe them. Afterward, when they were alone, the king asked the prime minister to conduct an investigation, and he promised to see to it immediately." Guadalmedina paused to take a long swallow of wine, then dried his mustache and goatee with an enormous napkin rustling with starch. "Knowing Olivares, I am sure that he himself was capable of setting up an ambush, although I do not think he would go that far. The truce with Holland is falling through, and it would be absurd to distract from the war effort by taking on an unnecessary conflict with England."

  The count finished off the empanada, staring distractedly at the Flemish tapestry on the wall behind the captain: horsemen attacking a castle, and hostile individuals in turbans aiming arrows and stones at them from the merlons. The tapestry had been hanging there for more than thirty years, ever since the old general, Don Fernando de la Marca, took it as booty during the last sacking of Antwerp, in the glorious days of the great King Philip. Now Don Fernando's son was slowly chewing and staring at it reflectively. He turned to look at Alatriste.

  "Those masked men who hired your services could be paid agents for Venice, Savoy, France, or who knows where. . . . Are you sure they were Spanish?"

  "As Spanish as you or I. And men of breeding."

  "Do not put your faith in breeding. Here everyone claims to be from an old Christian family, a gentleman, someone of stature. Yesterday I had to dismiss my barber, who had the brass to try to shave me while his sword hung at his waist. Even servants carry them. And as work degrades honor, not even Christ lifts a hand."

  "But these I speak of were gentlemen. And Spanish."

  "Very well. Spanish or not, it is all the same. As if a foreigner could not pay someone to carry out his underhanded schemes." The aristocrat laughed a bitter little laugh. "In this Hapsburg Spain, my dear fellow, the gold of nobleman and villain alike is equally welcome. Everything is for sale, except the nation's honor; and even that we secretly barter at the first opportunity As for the rest, what can I tell you? Our conscience ..." He looked at the captain over the silver jug. "Our swords ..."

  "And our souls," Alatriste finished with a flourish.

  Guadalmedina took another sip, never removing his eyes from the captain.

  "Yes," he said. "Your masked men could even be in the pay of our good pontiff, Gregory. Our Holy Father cannot abide the sight of a Spaniard."

  The fire in the great stone-and-marble hearth had burned down, and the sun shining through the windows was barely warm, but that mention of the Church was enough to make Diego Alatriste feel uncomfortably flushed. The sinister image of Fray Emilio Bocanegra floated through his mind like a specter. He had spent the night seeing him materialize on the dark ceiling of the room, in the shadows of the trees outside the window, in the dark corridor, and the light of day was not bright enough to make him fade completely. Guadalmedina's words brought him back again, like a bad omen.

  "Whoever they may be," the count continued, "their objective is clear: to avert the marriage, to teach a terrible lesson to England, and to see war explode between the two nations. And you, by changing your mind, poleaxed everything. You earned your degree in the art of making enemies, so, were I you, I would take good care to guard my back. The problem is that I cannot protect you any longer. With you here, I myself could become implicated. Again, if I were in your shoes, I would take a long journey ... a very long journey. . . . And whatever it is you know, do not tell anyone, even in confession. If a priest learned anything of this, he would hang up his habit, sell the secret, and live life as a wealthy man."

  "And what about the Englishman? Is he safe now?"

  Guadalmedina assured Alatriste that he was. With all Europe knowing where he was, the Englishman could consider himself as safe as if he were in his foul Tower of London. It was one thing for Olivares and the king to keep dragging their feet, to lionize the prince and make promise after promise, until he got bored and followed a fair wind home. It was altogether different to claim that they could not guarantee his safety.

  "Besides," the count went on, "Olivares is wily, and he knows how to improvise. He can easily change his plan, and the king with him. Do you know what he told the prince
this morning in my presence? That if they did not obtain dispensation from Rome and could not give him the infanta as a wife, they would give her to him as a lover. A fine one, that Olivares! A whoreson to end all whoresons— clever and dangerous, and sharper than the pangs of hunger. And Charles, completely content now, is sure that he will hold dona Maria in his arms."

  "Does anyone know how she feels about the matter?"

  "She is young, so use your imagination. She is not averse to love. That a young, handsome heretic of royal blood would do what he did for her both repels and fascinates her. But she is an infanta of Castile, so protocol is to be observed. I doubt that they will let them anywhere near each other, even to pray an Ave Maria. And by the way, just as I was coming home, I composed the first lines of a little sonnet.

  "Wales came to seek his infanta fair

  And a bridal bed, but if truth be told,

  The coveted prize, the Lion learned,

  Goes to the patient, not the bold."

  "What do you think?" Alvaro de la Marca looked at Alatriste, who was smiling lightly, amused but prudently abstaining from comment.

  "I am not Lope, forsooth! And I imagine that your friend Quevedo would make some serious objections, but for something of mine, it is not at all bad. If you come across it on one of those anonymous broadsheets, you will know whose it is.... Well, then."

  The count downed the rest of his wine and stood, tossing his napkin on the table. "Getting back to serious questions, one thing is true: An alliance with England would put us in a better position regarding France. After the Protestants—I would say even more than those dissenters— that is our principal threat in Europe. We must hope that over time Olivares and the king will change their minds and the wedding will take place, although from the comments I heard from them in private, that would surprise me greatly."

  The count walked aimlessly around the room, again examined the tapestry his father had stolen in Antwerp, and stopped, thoughtful, at the window.

  "It might somehow have been understandable," he went on, "if an anonymous traveler, one who officially was not even here, had been the victim of an unknown swordsman last night. But now ... If an attempt were made now on the life of the grandson of Mary Stuart, a guest of the King of Spain, and the future monarch of England . . . 'Sblood! That could not be as easily explained. The moment has passed. And for that reason I imagine that your masked men must be enraged, clamoring for vengeance. Furthermore, it is not in their best interest that there be witnesses who might speak out, and the best way to silence a witness is to fit him for a coffin."

  Again his eyes bored into Alatriste's. "Do you understand your situation? Yes? I am happy to hear that. And now, Captain Alatriste, I have devoted too much time to you. I have things to do, among them completing my sonnet. You must look to your safety, and may God help you."

  All Madrid was one great fiesta. The people's curiosity had converted the House of Seven Chimneys into a colorful place of pilgrimage. Large numbers of curious Madrilefios followed Calle de Alcala to the church of the Discalced Carmelites, passed it, and congregated before the residence of the English ambassador, where mild-mannered constables kept pushing back the spectators, who cheered every time one of the carriages going to or coming from the house passed. There were constant calls for the Prince of Wales to come out to greet them, and when at mid-morning a young blond appeared for a moment at one of the windows, he received a thunderous ovation, to which he replied with a wave of the hand so genteel that he immediately won the approval of the crowd gathered in the street.

  Generous, sympathetic, welcoming to anyone who knew how to reach their hearts, the people of Madrid would show to the heir of the English throne the same evidence of their appreciation and goodwill during all the months he was to spend at court. The history of our benighted Spain would have been very different had the generous impulses of the people won out more frequently over the arid doctrine of the state and the self-interest, venality, and ineptitude of our politicians, nobles, and monarchs. The anonymous chronicler who composed the ballad of El

  Cid says the same of the ordinary people of that day. His words come to mind when one considers the sad history of our people, who always have given the best of themselves— their innocence, their money, their labors, and their blood— only to find themselves ill repaid in return: "What a fine vassal would he have made, had he but served a good lord."

  The case is that the Madrilefios came that morning to celebrate the Prince of Wales, and I myself was there accompanying Caridad la Lebrijana, who did not want to miss the spectacle. I do not know whether I have told you, but at that time La Lebrijana was about thirty or thirty-five years old, a common but beautiful Andalusian, still spirited and well formed; she had olive skin, large black shining eyes, and a generous bosom. For five or six years she had been an actress, and about that many more a whore in a house on Calle de las Huertas. Weary of that life, at the first sign of crow's-feet she had used her savings to buy the Tavern of the Turk, and with that asset she was now living in relative decency and comfort. I will add, and this is no secret, that La Lebrijana was painfully in love with my master Alatriste. Under that binding indenture she guaranteed him bread and drink, and also—because of the situation of the captain's lodgings, which communicated via the same courtyard with the back door of the tavern and the dwelling of La Lebrijana—a certain frequency in sharing of beds. I must make it clear that the captain was always very discreet in my presence, but when you live with another person, some things cannot be hidden. And though I may still have been a little wet behind the ears, I was not a ninny.

  That day, as I was telling Your Mercies, I accompanied Caridad la Lebrijana up Mayor, Montera, and Alcala to the residence of the English ambassador, where we joined the throng cheering the prince, along with all the other idlers and assorted humanity drawn there by curiosity. The street was buzzing louder than the steps of San Felipe, and vendors were offering water and mead, meat pies and conserves. Street stalls had been hastily set up where a morning's hunger could be satisfied for a few coins; beggars were busy, servants, pages, and squires were scurrying about, creating an uproar, and tit and tittle and fabulous invention swirled through the crowd like the wind. Events and rumors from the palace were parroted in group after group, and the aplomb and chivalric daring of the young prince were praised to the heavens. Tongues—especially those of the women—were wagging over his elegance and bearing, as well as other virtues of the prince and his friend Buckingham. And so the morning raced by in a very lively, very Spanish manner.

  "How well he carries himself!" said La Lebrijana, after someone presumed to be the prince was seen at a window.

  "A fine figure of a man, and such grace. He would make a great match for our infanta!"

  She dried her tears with the tail of her shawl like most of the female spectators, she was on the side of the suitor. The audacity of his gesture had won hearts, and everyone considered the matter signed and sealed.

  "What a shame that such a handsome fellow is a heretic. But a good confessor will remedy that, and in time, a baptism." In her ignorance, the woman believed that Anglicans were like the Turks, and were never baptized. "A bosom like a pouter pigeon will win out over any religion."

  And she laughed, and the opulent bosom that so enthralled me quivered delectably, and in a certain way that I have great difficulty explaining, reminded me of my mother's. I can recall in every detail the sensation I felt every time Caridad la Lebrijana bent down to serve at table, and her blouse hinted of those great, mysterious, olive-skinned orbs, modeled by their own weight. Often I wondered what the captain might be doing with them those times that he sent me out to make a purchase, or to find something to do outside, leaving La Lebrijana and him alone in the house. As I ran down the steps two at a time, I would hear her laughing upstairs, very loud and very happy.

  So there we were, enthusiastically cheering any figure that appeared at a window, when Captain Alatriste came along. It was n
ot the first night he had not come home, not by any stretch of the imagination, and I had slept the sleep of the dead, without a worry. But the minute I saw him at the House of Seven Chimneys, I sensed that something was wrong. His hat was pulled low over his face, his cape wrapped high around his neck, and his cheeks were not shaved despite the lateness of the hour, even though with his discipline as an old soldier he was always particular about how he looked. His gray-green eyes seemed tired and suspicious at the same time, and I watched him thread his way through the crowd with the wary attitude of someone who is expecting something bad to befall him at any moment.