I pressed my hand to my heart, offended.
“I would never betray Angélica.”
He looked at me and smiled the weary smile of a veteran.
“Just imagine that you did.”
“Impossible. I didn’t give you away to the Inquisition, did I?”
“True.”
He was still looking at me, but he said no more. I knew what he was thinking, though. Dominican friars were one thing, but royal justice another. As Cagafuego had said, there were torturers capable of loosening the tongue of even the bravest man. I considered this new variant to the plot, and could see that it was not unreasonable. Thanks to our strolls through Madrid’s mentideros, or gossip-shops, and to conversations with the captain’s friends, I was up to date on all the latest news: the struggle between Richelieu, the minister of France, and our Count-Duke of Olivares was already sounding the drum of future wars in Europe. No one doubted that once our froggy neighbors resolved the problem with the Huguenots in La Rochelle, the Spanish and the French would go back to killing each other on the battlefield. Implying that the queen was involved, regardless of whether this was true or false, was therefore not so very outlandish and could prove very useful to certain people. There were those who loathed Isabel de Borbón—Olivares, his wife, and followers among them—and there were those inside and outside Spain—England, for example, as well as Venice, the Turk, and even the pope in Rome—who wanted us to go to war with France. An anti-Spanish plot implicating the sister of the French king was all too credible. On the other hand, it might be an explanation that concealed others.
“It’s time, I think,” said the captain, looking at his sword, “for me to pay a little visit.”
It was a shot in the dark. Three years had passed, but there was no harm in trying. In his drenched cloak and dripping hat, Diego Alatriste studied the house carefully. By curious chance, the house was only two streets from his hiding place, or perhaps it wasn’t chance. That area of Madrid was one of the worst in the city, home to the lowest taverns, bars, and inns. And if, he concluded, it was a good place for him to hide, then it would be for others as well.
He looked around. Behind him, the Plaza de Lavapiés was veiled by a translucent gray curtain of rain that almost concealed the stone fountain. Calle de la Primavera—“Spring Street, indeed,” he thought with some irony. At that moment it couldn’t have been a less appropriate name, what with the muddy unpaved street awash with filth. The house, formerly the Landsknecht Inn, was directly opposite him; thick trails of water poured from the roof down the façade, where some much-darned white bed linen, put out to dry before the rains came, hung like shrouds from the windows.
He watched for one long hour before deciding to act. He crossed the road and went through the archway into a courtyard that stank of horse manure. There was no one to be seen. A few bedraggled chickens were pecking around beneath the galleries, and as he went up the wooden stairs, which creaked beneath his feet, a fat cat engaged in devouring a dead rat eyed him impassively. The captain unfastened his drenched cloak, which weighed too heavily on him. He also took off his hat, because the brim was so sodden it was obscuring his view. Thirty or so steps took him up to the top floor, and there he paused to think. If his memory served him well, the door was the last one on the right, in the corner of the corridor. He went over and pressed his ear to the door. Not a sound. Only the cooing of the pigeons sheltering in the dripping roof of the gallery. He put his cloak and hat down on the floor and took from his belt the weapon for which, that very afternoon, he had paid Bartolo Cagafuego ten escudos: a flintlock pistol, almost new, with a damascus barrel two spans long and the initials of an unknown owner on the butt. He checked that it was still primed despite the damp, then cocked the hammer—clack. He held it firmly in his right hand and, with his left, opened the door.
It was the same woman. She was sitting in the light from the window, mending the clothes in the basket on her lap. When she saw the intruder enter, she stood up, threw down her work, and opened her mouth to cry out, and only failed to do so because a slap from Alatriste propelled her backward against the wall. Better to hit her once now, thought the captain, than several times later on, when she’s had time to collect her thoughts. There’s nothing like that initial shock and fear. And so, once he had slapped her, he grabbed her violently by the throat, then, releasing his grip, covered her mouth with his left hand and pressed the pistol to her head.
“Not a word,” he whispered, “or I’ll blow your face off.”
He felt the woman’s damp breath on the palm of his hand, her body trembling against his, and while he held her in his grasp, he looked about him. The room had barely changed: the same miserable bits of furniture, the chipped crockery on the table, the same rough tablecloth. Nevertheless, everything was tidy. There was a copper brazier and a rug on the floor. A bed, separated off from the rest of the room by a curtain, was neatly made and clean, and a cooking pot was boiling in the hearth.
“Where is he?” he asked the woman, slightly easing his grip on her mouth.
Another shot in the dark. She might have nothing to do with the man he was looking for, but it was the only trail he had to follow. As he recalled, and according to his hunter’s instinct, this woman was not an insignificant player in the game. He had only seen her once before, years ago, and only for a matter of moments, but he remembered the expression on her face and her anxiety, her disquiet for the man who, at the time, was defense-less and under threat. Even snakes need company, he thought with a sardonic smile; yes, even snakes have their other half.
She said nothing, simply stared at the pistol out of the corner of her eye, terrified. She was a slender, ordinary-looking young woman, neither pretty nor ugly, but with a good figure; the dark hair caught back at her neck fell in loose locks about her face. She was wearing a skirt made of some cheap fabric and a sleeveless blouse that left her arms bare, her shawl having slipped off in the struggle. She smelled slightly of the food steaming in the pot, and of sweat, too.
“Where is he?” asked the captain again.
She focused her terrified gaze on him again, breathing hard, but still she said nothing. Alatriste could feel her agitated bosom rise and fall beneath his arm. He glanced around for some sign of a male presence: a short black cape hanging from a hook, a man’s shirts in the basket she had dropped, two clean collars, newly starched. Although, of course, it might not be the same man. Life goes on, and women are women; men come and go. These things happen.
“When will he be back?” he asked.
She remained dumb, staring at him with fearful eyes. Now, however, he saw in them a glimmer of comprehension. “Perhaps she recognizes me,” he thought. “At least she’ll realize that I mean her no harm.”
“I’m going to let you go,” he said, sticking the pistol back in his belt and taking out his dagger. “But if you scream or try to run away, I’ll slit your throat like I would a sow’s.”
At that hour, the gambling den in the Cava de San Miguel was in full swing. The place was packed with gamblers and cheats, and with hangers-on hoping that the winners might toss them a fraction of their winnings. The atmosphere was, in short, thick with possibilities. Juan Vicuña, the owner, came over to me as soon as I walked through the door.
“Have you seen him?” he asked in a low voice.