The Cavalier in the Yellow Doublet (25 page)

Alatriste had knelt down to put on his spurs.

“Needless to say, we’ve never seen each other and we don’t know each other,” he said, buckling on his spurs. “And whatever happens to me, you need have no worries on that score.”

Cagafuego gave another laugh.

“That’s part of the job. Everyone knows that, however hard-pressed, you wouldn’t spill the beans, not even if they stretched you on the rack like Córdoban leather.”

“Who knows?”

“Don’t be so modest, Captain. I wish I could trust my doxy as I trust your tongue. All of Madrid knows you to be the kind of gentleman as would go to the gallows rather than say a word.”

“You’ll at least allow me the odd yelp, won’t you?”

“Well, seeing as it’s you, sir, yes, but nothing more, mind.”

They shook hands and said good-bye. Then Alatriste drew on his gloves, mounted, and rode the horse upriver—along the path that ran alongside the wall of the Casa de Campo—leaving the reins loose, so that the horse could find its own way in the dark. Once they had crossed the little bridge over the Meaque stream, where his horse’s hooves made rather too much noise for his liking, he plunged into the trees growing along the banks to avoid the guards at Puerta Real; and after a while spent slouching down in the saddle with one hand on his hat while he ducked the lower branches, he emerged, at last, at the foot of Aravaca hill, beneath the stars, leaving the murmur of the river behind him, amongst the shadowy woods that grew so thickly on its shore. The pale earth made it easier to make out the road, and so he put one of the pistols he was carrying at his waist in the holster on the front of the saddle-tree, wrapped his cloak more tightly about him, dug in his spurs, and set the horse going at a fast trot, so as to get away from there as quickly as possible.

 

 

 

 

Bartolo Cagafuego was right: the bay did pull a little more to the right than to the left, which meant that he had to rein him in a little, but he was a good mount and fairly soft-mouthed. This was fortunate, because Alatriste was not a particularly good horseman; that is, he knew as much about horses as most people, sat well in the saddle, and was comfortable at a gallop; he was equally at home on a horse or a mule, and even knew certain maneuvers proper to combat and war. However, there is a vast difference between that and being a skilled equestrian. He had spent his whole life trudging Europe with the Spanish infantry or sailing the Mediterranean in the king’s galleys, and was more accustomed to seeing horses charging toward him over Flemish plains or Barbary beaches, accompanied by enemy bugles, beating drums, and bloodied pikes. The truth is, he knew more about disemboweling horses than he did about riding them.

Once past the old Cerero inn, which was closed and in darkness, he trotted up the Aravaca hill and then slowed down, allowing the horse to proceed at a walking pace along the flat, almost treeless track that ran between the dark stains formed by the fields of wheat and barley, like large expanses of water. As was to be expected, the cold intensified just before the sky began to lighten, and the captain was glad he was wearing his buffcoat beneath his cloak. When horse and rider passed by Las Rozas, the first light was beginning to appear along the horizon, turning the shadows gray. Alatriste had decided not to take the broader, busier carriage road to Ávila, and so when he reached the crossroads, he turned right, onto the bridle path. From that point on, there were some gentle ups and downs, and the fields gave way to pine woods and scrub. He dismounted and stopped for a while to devour some of the food with which Cagafuego had filled the saddlebag. The dawn found him lost in thought, sitting on his cloak, eating a little cheese and drinking a little wine while his horse rested. Then he remounted, settled back in the saddle, and found himself pursuing the long shadow of horse and rider cast in the first reddish rays of sunlight on the path ahead. Farther on, about three leagues from Madrid and with the sun now warming the captain’s back, the path grew steeper and more rugged, and the pine forest became a leafy oak wood amongst which he occasionally caught sight of rabbits scampering away and startled deer. These woods were uninhabited, uncultivated places, the king’s hunting preserve. Anyone caught poaching was flogged and sent to the galleys.

Farther on, he began to encounter other travelers—a few muleteers on their way to Madrid—and near the Guadarrama River he overtook another mule-train transporting wineskins. At midday he crossed the Retamar bridge, where the bored guard simply pocketed the toll money without asking any questions or even demanding to see his face. From then on, the going was rougher and crag gier, with the path snaking through clumps of white broom, past ravines and rocks on which his horse’s hooves rang out as the path twisted and turned through a landscape which, thought Alatriste, studying it with a professional eye, would have been perfect for those gentlemen of the road, the highwaymen. However, one paid with one’s life for any crimes committed on the king’s lands, and such thieves preferred to carry out their trade a few leagues from there, robbing unwary travelers on the king’s highway that passed through Torre Lodones and past the Guadarrama River and into Old Castile. Reminding himself that highwaymen were not exactly his main concern, he checked that the primer was still dry in the pistol he had hung on the saddle-tree, within easy reach.

I must confess to feeling terrified, and with good reason. The Count of Guadalmedina in person had sought me out, and now we were striding along together beneath the arches of El Escorial’s main courtyard. I had been in don Francisco de Quevedo’s room, engaged in making a fair copy of some lines from his new play, when Guadalmedina appeared at the door, and Quevedo barely had time to shoot me a somber, cautionary glance before the count ordered me to follow him. The count’s elegant cape, which he wore draped over his left shoulder, swayed as he strode angrily ahead of me, his left hand on the hilt of his sword and his impatient footsteps echoing along that eastern side of the courtyard. We passed the guard, went up the small staircase adjoining the royal tennis court, and emerged onto the upper floor.

“Wait here,” he said.

I did as I was told, and he disappeared through a door. I was standing in a dreary hallway of gray granite, no tapestries, paintings, or any other ornament in evidence, and all that cold stone made me shiver. I shivered still more when the count reappeared and ordered me curtly to come in, for I found myself entering a long gallery with a painted ceiling and walls adorned with frescoes depicting scenes of war. The only furniture was a chair and a table containing writing implements. Along one wall there were nine windows that opened onto an inner courtyard, and the light from these windows lit up the fresco on the opposite wall, which showed Christian knights fighting Moors and recorded the battle in all its military detail. This was the first time I had entered the Hall of Battles, and I was far from imagining then that, in time, those paintings commemorating the victory at Higueruela, the battle of San Quintín, and the attack on the Azores would be as familiar to me as the rest of the royal palace when, years later, I was made lieutenant and then captain of King Philip IV’s guard. At that moment, however, the Íñigo Balboa walking beside the Count of Guadalmedina was merely a frightened boy, incapable of appreciating the magnificent paintings decorating the gallery. My five senses were all focused on the imposing figure waiting at the far end, next to the last of the nine windows. He was a heavily built man, with a thick, closely trimmed beard and a fearsome mustache that grew bushier at the ends. He was wearing a costume made of brown lamé with the green cross of Alcántara on his breast, and his large, powerful head sat on a thick neck barely contained by a starched ruff. As I approached, he fixed me with his dark, intelligent eyes, as threatening as two harquebuses; and at the time I am describing, those eyes could send a shudder of fear throughout the whole of Europe.

“This is the boy,” said Guadalmedina.

The count-duke, His Catholic Majesty’s favorite and adviser, nodded almost imperceptibly, without taking his eyes off me. In one hand he was holding a piece of paper, and in the other a cup of thick, hot chocolate.

“When is this Alatriste fellow supposed to arrive?” he asked Guadalmedina.

“At sunset, I believe. He has instructions to present himself here as soon as possible.”

Olivares leaned slightly toward me. Hearing him say my master’s name had left me speechless.

“Are you Íñigo Balboa?”

I nodded, incapable of uttering a word, while I struggled to put my thoughts in order. In between sips of chocolate, the count-duke was reading aloud from the piece of paper he was holding: “. . . born in Oñate, Guipúzcoa, the son of a soldier who died in Flanders, servant to Diego Alatriste y Tenorio, better known as Captain Alatriste, et cetera. A soldier’s page in the old Cartagena regiment. Present at the taking of Oudkerk, at the battles of Ruyter Mill and Terheyden, the siege of Breda . . .” After each Flemish name, he glanced up as if to compare the fact with my evident youth. “And before that, there had been an auto-da-fé in the Plaza Mayor in Madrid, in sixteen hundred and twenty-three.

“Ah, yes, I remember now,” he said, looking at me more attentively now, meanwhile putting his cup down on the table. “Some business with the Holy Office of the Inquisition.”

It was not at all reassuring to know that one’s biography was so precisely documented, and the memory of my brush with the Inquisition did nothing to calm my spirits. However, the question that followed transformed my bewilderment into panic.

“What happened in Camino de las Minillas?”

I looked at Álvaro de la Marca, who nodded reassuringly.

“You can speak openly to His Excellency,” he said. “He is fully informed.”

I continued to eye him suspiciously. When we met in Juan Vicuña’s gambling den, I had described to him the events of that ill-starred night on condition that he told no one until Captain Alatriste had spoken to him. The captain had not yet arrived; Guadalmedina, who was, after all, a courtier, had not played fair. Or perhaps he was merely covering his back.

“I don’t know anything about the captain,” I stammered.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Guadalmedina. “You were there with him and with the man who died. Tell His Excellency exactly what happened.”

I turned to the count-duke. He was still observing me with alarming fixity. That man bore on his shoulders the most powerful monarchy on earth; he could move whole armies across seas and mountains just by lifting an eyebrow. And there was I, trembling inside like a leaf and about to tell him no.

“No,” I said.

The count-duke blinked.

“Have you gone mad?” exclaimed Guadalmedina.

The count-duke still did not take his eyes off me, although his gaze seemed more curious now than angry.

“By my life, I’ll . . .” began Guadalmedina threateningly, taking a step toward me.

Olivares stopped him by making the very slightest of movements with his left hand. Then he glanced back at the piece of paper and folded it in four before putting it away.

“Why not?” he asked me.

He did so almost gently. I looked across at the windows and chimneys on the far side of the courtyard, at the blue-gray slate tiles lit by the setting sun. Then I shrugged my shoulders and said nothing.

“Ye gods,” said Guadalmedina, “I’ll make you loosen that tongue of yours.”

The count-duke again brought him up short, with that same slight gesture. He seemed to be able to see into every corner of my mind.

“He is, of course, your friend,” he said at last.

I nodded. After a moment, the count-duke nodded too.

“I understand,” he said.

He took a few steps about the gallery, stopping by a fresco that showed ranks of Spanish infantry, bristling with pikes, all grouped around the cross of San Andrés, marching toward the enemy. Sword in hand, smeared with gunpowder, hoarse with shouting out the name of Spain, I, too, had once belonged to those ranks, I thought bitterly, as had Captain Alatriste. Despite that, there we were. I noticed that the count-duke saw that I was looking at the scene and read my thoughts. The hint of a smile softened his features.

“I believe your master is innocent,” he said. “You have my word.”

I studied the imposing figure standing before me. I had no illusions. I had some experience of life, and I knew perfectly well that the kindness being shown to me by the most powerful man in Spain—indeed, in the world—was nothing but a highly intelligent ploy, as one would expect from a man capable of applying all his talents to the vast enterprise that was his one obsession: that of making his nation great, Catholic, and powerful, and defending it on land and sea against English, French, Dutch, Turks, against the world in general, for the Spanish empire was so vast and so feared that other countries could hope to achieve their own ambitions only at the expense of ours. As far as the count-duke was concerned, such an enterprise justified any means. I realized that he would use the same measured, patient tone were he issuing the order to have me quartered alive, and, if it came to that, he would do so with no more qualms than he would have about squashing a fly. I was merely the humblest of pawns on the complex chessboard where Gaspar de Guzmán, Count-Duke of Olivares, was playing the very dangerous game of being the king’s favorite. Much later on, when life again placed me in his path, I was able to confirm that while our king’s all-powerful favorite never hesitated to sacrifice as many pawns as might prove necessary, he never let go of a piece, however modest, as long as he believed it could be useful to him.

Anyway, that afternoon in the Hall of Battles, I saw that every path was blocked, and so I plucked up my courage. After all, Guadalmedina would only have passed on what I had confided to him, nothing more. There was no harm in repeating that. As for the rest, including Angélica de Alquézar’s role in the conspiracy, that was another matter entirely. Guadalmedina could not talk about what he did not know, and I—for in my youthful chivalry I was ingenuous in the extreme—would not be the one to utter the name of my lady in the presence of the count-duke.