“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 not 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.