“Let’s see what the boy has learned,” said Malatesta mockingly.
I took my dagger in my left hand and prepared myself. The Italian’s pockmarked face was a sarcastic mask, and the scar above his eye accentuated his sinister air.
“Old scores to settle,” he said in his harsh voice and gave a hoarse laugh.
Then they fell upon us. All of them. And as they did so, my courage rose. Our situation might be desperate, but we would not go like lambs to the slaughter. And I stood my ground and fought for my pride and my life. The years and the century I lived in had trained me for this, and dying here was as good as dying anywhere else—at my age, only a little earlier than expected. A matter of luck. And I only hope, I thought, fleetingly, as I fought, that the great Philip unsheathes his sword too and throws in his lot with us; it is, after all, his illustrious skin that’s at stake. I did not have time to find out whether he did or not. Thrusts and lunges were raining down upon my sword, my dagger, and my buffcoat, and out the corner of my eye I glimpsed Captain Alatriste withstanding the same deluge, without giving an inch. One of his opponents leapt back, cursing, dropping his sword and clutching his belly. At the same moment, I felt a steel blade cut into my buffcoat; without it, the blade would have sliced open my shoulder. I drew back, alarmed, avoiding as best I could the various sharp points and edges seeking my body. I stumbled as I did so and fell backward, striking my head on the fallen capital of a pillar, and my mind suddenly filled up with night.
The voice pronouncing my name gradually wormed its way into my consciousness. I lazily ignored it. It was good there, in that peaceful torpor, without past or future. Suddenly, the voice sounded much closer, almost in my ear, and a pain seared down my backbone from top to bottom.
“Íñigo,” said Captain Alatriste again.
I sat up, remembering the glinting swords, my fall backward, the darkness filling everything. I moaned as I did so—my neck felt stiff and my brain as if it were about to burst—and when I opened my eyes, I saw my master’s face only a few inches away. He looked very tired. The light from the oil lamp lit up his mustache, his aquiline nose, and the anxious look in his green eyes.
“Can you move?”
I gave a nod which only intensified the pain, and the captain helped me to remain in a sitting position. His hands left bloody stains on my buffcoat. In alarm, I started feeling my own body, but could find no wound. Then I saw the cut to his right thigh.
“Not all the blood is mine,” he said.
He gestured toward the motionless body of the king, lying at the foot of a pillar. His yellow doublet was badly slashed and, in the light from the lamp, I could see a dark stream spreading out over the flagstoned floor of the cloister.
“Is he . . . ?” I began, but stopped, incapable of uttering the terrifying word.
“He is.”
I felt too stunned to take in the magnitude of the tragedy. I looked to either side, but saw no one else, not even the man I had seen the captain run through with his sword. He had disappeared into the night, along with Gualterio Malatesta and the others.
“We must go,” said my master urgently.
I picked up my sword and my dagger. The king was lying face up, his eyes wide open, locks of his fair, bloodied hair sticking to his skin. He no longer looked very dignified, I thought. No dead man does.
“He fought well,” remarked the captain, ever objective.
He was pushing me toward the garden and the shadows. I still hesitated, confused.
“What about us? Why are we still alive?”
My master glanced about him. I saw that he still had his sword in his hand.
“They need us. He was the one they wanted dead. You and I are merely scapegoats.”
He paused for a moment, thinking.
“They could have killed us,” he added, “but that isn’t why they came.” He eyed the corpse gravely. “They fled as soon as they had killed him.”
“What was Malatesta doing here?”
“Hang me if I know.”
On the other side of the house, in the street, we heard voices. The hand resting on my shoulder tensed, digging steely fingers into me.
“They’re here,” said the captain.
“You mean they’ve come back?”
“No, these are different men . . . worse.”
He continued to propel me away from the light and out of the cloister.
“Run, Íñigo.”
I stopped. I was confused. We had almost reached the shadows of the garden now and I couldn’t see his face.
“Run and keep running. And remember, whatever happens, you weren’t here tonight. Do you understand? You weren’t here.”
I resisted for a moment. “And what about you, captain?” I was about to ask, but there was no time. When I did not obey immediately, he gave me a shove, sending me several paces into the long grass.
“Go, damn it!” he said.
The entrance to the corridor leading to the cloister was lit up now with torches, and there was the sound of clanking weapons and people talking. “In the name of the king,” said a distant voice. “In the name of the law.” And that cry in the name of a dead king made my scalp creep.
“Run!”
And by my life, I did. Running because you want to run is not the same as having to run. I swear to God that if a precipice had opened up before me, I would have leapt unhesitatingly over it. Blind with panic, I ran through the undergrowth, past trees, across fields, jumping fences and walls, splashing through the stream and climbing out and up toward the city. And only when I was safe, far from that accursed cloister, did I drop to the ground, half mad with horror and fear, heart pounding, lungs burning, and a thousand pins and needles pricking neck and temples. Only then did I stop to wonder what may have happened to Captain Alatriste.
He limped over to the wall, looking for the best path to follow. Fighting with so many men at once had worn him down; the cut to his thigh was not that deep, but it was still bleeding. Besides, knowing the identity of the corpse lying in the cloister was enough to shake anyone’s composure and lower his spirits. Despite his wound, fear—had he felt any—might have lent wings to his feet, but he did not feel afraid, only a grim sense of desolation at the trick played on him by Fate. A black, despairing melancholy. The utter certainty that his luck had finally run out.
The lights were filling the cloister now. He could see them glinting through the trees and the undergrowth. Voices and shadows everywhere. “Tomorrow,” he thought, “the whole of Europe and the world will tremble when they learn what has happened.”
He took a run at the wall, about five cubits high. He tried twice, but failed. Christ’s blood! The pain from the wound in his leg was too much.
“Here he is!” cried a voice behind him.
He turned slowly around, resigned, his sword held firmly in his hand. Four men were coming toward him through the garden, lighting their way with torches. He had no difficulty in recognizing the Count of Guadalmedina, who had his arm in a sling. The others were Martín Saldaña and a couple of constables. Behind them, he saw catchpoles moving about in the cloister.
“Give yourself up, in the name of the king.”
These words brought a wry smile to Alatriste’s lips. In the name of what king, he felt like asking. He looked at Guadalmedina, who was standing there, sword sheathed, hand on hip, regarding him, as he never had before, with utter scorn. The splint on his arm was clearly a souvenir from their encounter in Calle de los Peligros. More unfinished business.