If this cousin is a true one;
But she is not the first young girl
To be falsely claimed a cousin,"
the swaggerer with the cape over his shoulder once again hissed at Diego Alatriste, and this time he was joined by two of the other four troublemakers, who had inched closer during the entr'acte. The captain himself had played the same game more than once, so to him what they were doing was as clear as water, especially considering that the two remaining swashbucklers were now elbowing through the mosqueteros.
The captain looked around to assess the situation. It was significant that neither the magistrate nor the bailiffs who usually imposed order during performances were anywhere to be seen. As for other help, Licenciado Calzas was not a man-of-arms, and the fifty-year-old Juan Vicuna could not do much with just one hand. Don Francisco de Quevedo was two rows ahead of us, focused on the stage and unaware of what was brewing behind him. And the worst of it was that some of the public, influenced by the hissing of the provocateurs, began to scowl at Alatriste as if he truly were disturbing the performance. What was about to happen was as obvious as two and two make four. Or in that specific case, three and two make five. And five to one was too much, even for the captain.
Alatriste tried to ease toward the nearest door. If forced to fight, he could do so more freely outside than inside the theater, where in the time it takes to breathe "Jesus!" he was going to be stitched like a quilt by daggers. There were two churches nearby, where he could find sanctuary if the law intervened in time. But since the unholy five were already closing in, the business was taking an ugly turn.
That was the situation as the second act ended.
Applause resounded, and the insults of the miscreants grew louder. Now the rabble began to chime in. Words were exchanged, and the tone heated up.
Finally, between oaths and "By my lifes," someone uttered the word "blackguard." Then Diego Alatriste sighed deeply, down to his toes. That sealed it. With resignation, he gripped his sword and withdrew steel from scabbard.
At least, he thought fleetingly as he bared his blade, a couple of those whoresons would accompany him to Hell. Without even setting himself firmly, he cut a swath to the right to drive back the nearest ruffian, and reaching back with his left hand, he pulled the vizcaina from where it was sheathed over his kidneys. People around him scrambled to get out of the way, women in the cazuela screamed, and the occupants of the boxes leaned over the railing to see better. It was not unusual at that time, as I have said, for the entertainment to shift from the stage to the yard, so everyone settled in to enjoy a bonus performance; within moments, a circle had formed around the contenders.
The captain, sure that he could not long defend himself against five armed and skillful men, decided not to concern himself with the fine points of fencing; the best way to maintain his health was to impair that of his enemies. He took one stab at the man with the folded cape, and without stopping to see the result—which was not significant— he stooped low, hoping with his vizcaina to cut the hamstring of another opponent. If you do the arithmetic, five swords and five daggers add up to ten weapons slicing through the air, so the stabs and thrusts were raining down like hail. One came so close that it cut a sleeve of the captain's doublet, and another would have gone through his body had it not become tangled in his cape. Attacking right and left with coups and moulinets, Alatriste forced two of his adversaries to retreat, parried one with his sword and another with his knife, then felt the cold, sharp edge of a blade being drawn across his head. Blood streamed down between his eyebrows.
You are fucked, Diego, he told himself with a last shred of lucidity. This is it. And it was true, he felt exhausted. His arms were as heavy as lead, and he was blinded by blood. He raised his left hand, the one with the dagger, to swipe the blood from his eyes, and saw a sword pointed toward his throat. And in that same instant he heard Don Francisco de Quevedo yelling, "Alatriste! He's mine! He's mine!" in a voice like thunder. He had leaped from the benches to the barrier, and interposed his sword, blocking the deadly thrust.
"Five to two is a little better!" the poet exclaimed, sword raised, with a happy nod to the captain. "We have no choice but to fight!"
And in fact, he fought like the demon he was, Toledo sword tight in his grip, and completely unimpeded by his lameness. Undoubtedly verses and figures for the decima he would compose if he came out of this alive were racing through his mind. His eyeglasses had fallen to his chest and were dangling from their ribbon near the red cross of Santiago; he was sweating hard, ferociously venting the bile that he usually reserved for his verses but that on occasions like this he expressed with the point of his sword. His dramatic and unexpected charge subdued the attackers, and he even succeeded in wounding one of them with a good thrust that went through the band of the man's baldric and into the shoulder. Recovering from their shock, the attackers regained their focus and closed in again, and the battle continued in a whirlwind of steel. Even the actors came out on the stage to watch.
What happened next is history. Witnesses report that, in the box where the supposedly incognito king, Wales, Buckingham, and their train of courtiers were sitting, everyone was watching the altercation below with great interest, though with conflicting emotions. Our monarch, as was natural, was annoyed by the shameful affront to public order in his august presence, even though that presence was not official. But the young, daring, and chivalrous part of his being was not, in a deeper sense, greatly disturbed that his foreign guests were witnessing a spontaneous demonstration of courage on the part of his subjects, men whom, after all, they usually met on the field of battle.
One thing could not be disputed, and that was that the man fighting against five was doing so with unbelievable desperation and courage, and that after only a few slashes and thrusts he had drawn the sympathy of the audience and shouts of anguish among the ladies when they saw him so sorely pressed.
Our lord and king was torn, it was later reported, between protocol and enjoyment, and therefore was slow to order the head of his civilian-clad escort to intervene and put an end to the disturbance. And just as finally he opened his mouth to give a royal, uncontestable order, to everyone's surprise and admiration, Don Francisco de Quevedo, who was very well known at court, jumped resolutely into the fray.
But the greatest surprise was still to come. The poet had shouted the name Alatriste as he entered the tournament, and our lord and king, aghast at every new development, noticed that when Buckingham and Charles of England heard that name, they turned to look at each other with a start of recognition.
"Ala-tru-iste!" exclaimed the Prince of Wales, with his childish British pronunciation. And after leaning over the railing an instant, he quickly assessed the situation in the yard below, again turned to Buckingham, and then the king. In the days he had spent in Madrid he had had time to learn a few words and phrases of Spanish, and using them, he apologized and excused himself to the king.
"Diess-culpad, Si-yure.... I am indebted to that man. He saved my life."
Even as he spoke, as phlegmatic and serene as if he were at Saint James's Palace, he removed his hat, adjusted his gloves, and asking for his sword looked at Buckingham with perfect sangfroid.
"Steenie," he said.
Then, without hesitation, steel in hand, he raced down the stairs, followed by Buckingham, who was pulling out his sword. An astonished Philip did not know whether to stop them or go to the railing to watch, so that by the time he recovered the composure he had been so close to losing, the two Englishmen were already in the yard of the corral de comedias, crossing swords with the five men who had Francisco de Quevedo and Diego Alatriste boxed in.