“Good luck, Martín.”
“The same to you. . . Captain . . . Alatriste.”
Dogs were barking in the distance, along the San Isidro road. The rest of the nighttime landscape lay in silence, and not even a breath of wind stirred the leaves on the trees. Diego Alatriste crossed the last stretch of the Segovia bridge and stopped for a moment by the washerwomen’s sheds. The waters of the Manzanares, swollen by the recent rains, lapped against the shore. Madrid was just a dark shape behind him. On the heights above the river, the dark outline of its belfries and the tower of the Alcázar Real stood silhouetted between sky and earth, and everywhere else was utter blackness apart from a few stars above and a few faint lights below, behind the city walls.
Having checked that all was well, he set off toward the Ermita del Ángel just as the damp was starting to penetrate his cloak. He encountered no further problems, although, making sure to keep his face covered, he did first call at a house near the Rastro, hold out four doubloons, and ask them to find a surgeon to tend to a man lying wounded near the abattoir. He was very close to the hermitage now and determined to take no more risks. He therefore took out one of his pistols, cocked it, and pointed it at the shadow of the man waiting there. The horse neighed anxiously at the noise, and Bartolo Cagafuego’s voice asked: “Is that you, Captain?”
“It is,” he said.
With a sigh of relief, Cagafuego sheathed his sword. He was glad, he said, that everything had gone well, and that the captain had arrived safe and sound. He handed him the reins of the horse: it was a bay, he added, good-tempered and soft-mouthed, albeit with a slight tendency to pull to the right. Otherwise, he was fit for a marquis or a Chinese emperor or any other lofty personage.
“He can keep going for miles, this one. He’s got no scabs on his flanks and no spur marks, either. I’ve checked his shoes, and there’s not a nail missing. I had a look at the saddle, and the girth, too . . . I think you’ll find him very much to your likin’, sir.”
Alatriste was patting the horse’s neck: warm, firm, and strong. He felt the horse toss its head contentedly at the touch of his hand. The warm breath of the horse’s nostrils dampened his palm.
“He can travel eight or even ten leagues, no problem, as long as you don’t push him too hard. I spent some time with the gypsies in Andalusia, so I knows a bit about horses and the like. Men can sometimes spring nasty surprises on you, but not these poor beasts. If you’re in a hurry, though, you can always change horses at the relay in Galapagar and get yourself a fresh mount to climb the hill.”
“Any food?”
“I took that liberty, yes, sir. One saddlebag containing bread, cheese, and cured meat and a skin containing a liter or so of red wine to wash it down with.”
“It’s good wine, I hope,” joked Alatriste.
“I bought it in Lepre’s tavern. Need I say more? Suleiman himself couldn’t ask for better.”
Alatriste checked headstall, bridle, saddle, girth, and stirrups. The saddlebag with the food and wine in it was hooked over the saddle-tree. He put his hand in his purse and handed Cagafuego two gold coins.
“You’ve behaved as the man you are, my friend: the cream of the ruffian classes.”
Cagafuego’s harsh laugh rang out in the darkness.
“On my grandfather’s soul, Captain, I didn’t do nothing, it wasn’t no bother at all. I didn’t even have to use my sword to kill anyone, like I did in Sanlúcar. And I’m sorry for it, too. A tiger of a man like me doesn’t want his sword to go rusty. Life can’t just be about pocketing the money your whore brings in for you.”
“Give her my best regards. And I hope she doesn’t catch the French disease like poor Blasa Pizorra, may she rest in peace.”
Alatriste saw Cagafuego silently cross himself.
“God forbid, sir.”
“And as for that brave blade of yours,” added Alatriste, “I’m sure you’ll have some occasion to use it. Life is short and art is long.”
“I don’t know much about art, Captain, but life, now, that’s a different matter. Anyway, what’s family for if not for times like these, eh? I’ll always be there when you need me: as dutiful as a pure-blood Spaniard and more reliable than quartan fever. And I can’t say fairer than that.”
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.