He had allowed himself to be ambushed in the most ridiculous fashion, but there was no time now for lamentations. Resigned to the inevitable, Diego Alatriste dug his spurs in hard and forced his horse to ford the stream, splashing noisily through the water. The two horsemen were closing on him, but the people he was really worried about were two new arrivals, who had emerged out of the trees on the opposite bank and were riding toward him with what were clearly evil intentions.
He looked about him to see what possibilities lay open to him. He had sensed danger ever since he left the inn at Galapagar; then, as he was riding down the hill toward the stream and could just make out the gray mass of El Escorial in the distance, he realized that the men he had seen at the inn were following him. His professional instincts told him at once who they were. He had immediately spurred the bay on, hoping to force the horse across the stream and up the hill as quickly as possible with the intention of reaching the nearby woods, where he would at least have the advantage of surprise. However, the appearance of two more horsemen made the situation clear. They were obviously what, in the army, he would have called “beaters”—a patrol sent out to look for someone—and given the way things stood, the captain had few doubts about who that “someone” was.
His horse almost slipped on the pebbles in the streambed but managed to make it to the other side without falling, about twenty paces ahead of the men galloping toward him along the bank. The captain observed them with a practiced eye: they both had bushy mustaches, were dressed as hunters or gamekeepers, armed with pistols and swords, and one of them had a harquebus resting crosswise on his saddle. They were obviously professionals. The captain glanced behind him and saw the two men from the inn urging on their mounts and racing down the hill from Galapagar. It was all as clear as day. He pulled up his horse and, gripping the reins between his teeth, quietly drew his pistol and cocked it. Then he cocked the other pistol which he had ready in the holster on the saddle-tree. He was not expert in such fighting methods, but dismounting in order to face four mounted men would have been madness. The wryly consoling thought occurred to him that whether on foot, on horseback, or accompanied by a chaconne, there was nothing for it but to fight. When the two men on the bank were about four feet away, he stood up in the stirrups, took careful aim, arm outstretched, and had time enough, as he squeezed the trigger and unleashed a bullet, to see the look on the face of the man he had singled out. He would have killed him, too, if his own horse hadn’t started and caused his aim to suffer. The noise and the flash caused the rider with the harquebus to pull his horse up short to avoid the shot. His companion did the same, tugging on the reins. This gave Alatriste time to wheel his horse around, put the discharged pistol away, and take out the other. With this in his hand, he intended to drive his horse forward and get closer, so as not to miss the second time. His mount, however, was no war horse and, terrified by the noise of the pistol shot, set off at a gallop downstream. Cursing, Alatriste found himself with his back to the men and unable to take proper aim. He yanked so hard at the reins that the horse reared up, almost unseating him. When he finally managed to regain control, he had a man on either side of him, each with a pistol in his hand, and the men from the inn were now splashing their way toward him across the stream. They had their swords unsheathed, but the captain was more concerned about the pistols threatening him on either flank. And so he commended himself to the devil, raised his pistol and shot the nearer man at point-blank range. This time, he saw the man slump back onto his horse’s rump, one leg sticking up and the other caught in the stirrup. Then, throwing down the pistol and grabbing his sword, Alatriste watched as the other man raised his pistol and aimed it in his direction. Behind the pistol, Alatriste could see the man’s fierce eyes, as fixed and black as the mouth of the barrel pointing straight at him. “This is where it all ends,” he thought, “and there’s nothing to be done about it.” He brandished his sword anyway, in an attempt at least, with that one last impulse, to cut down the bastard who was about to kill him. And then, to his surprise, he saw that the black hole of the barrel was aimed instead at his horse’s head, and found himself splattered by the creature’s blood and brains. He fell forward onto the dead beast and was thrown off onto the stony bank. Dazed, he tried to get up, but his strength failed him and he lay motionless, his face pressed into the mud. Shit. His back hurt as badly as if he had broken his spine. He glanced wildly around for his sword, but saw only a pair of boots and spurs in front of him. One of the boots kicked him in the face, and he lost consciousness.
My anxiety began to grow at the hour of the angelus, when don Francisco de Quevedo, looking very somber, came to tell me that my master had still not presented himself to the Count of Guadalmedina, and that the latter was growing impatient. Gripped by dark thoughts, I went outside and sat on the parapet along the east-facing esplanade, known as La Lonja, from where I could see the road from Madrid. I remained there until the sun, veiled at the last moment by ugly gray clouds, finally sank behind the mountains. Then, feeling uneasy, I went in search of don Francisco but failed to find him. I wanted to go into the main courtyard, but the archers on guard barred my way, saying that the king and queen and their guests were attending a musical evening in the little temple. I asked them to tell don Álvaro de la Marca that I wished to speak to him, but the sergeant told me that this was not an opportune moment and that I should wait until the gathering was over or else go and bother someone else. Finally, an acquaintance of don Francisco’s whom I met at the foot of the main staircase told me that don Francisco had gone to dine at the Cañada Real, through the archway opposite the palace, which was where he usually ate. And so I set off again, once more crossing the esplanade and going up the slight hill to the archway, where I turned left and made my way to the inn.
It was a small, pleasant place, lit by tallow candles set in lanterns. The walls, made of the same granite as the palace, were adorned with hams, sausages, and strings of garlic. There was a large stove tended by the mistress of the house, and the innkeeper himself waited at table. I found don Francisco de Quevedo, María de Castro, and her husband all seated there. The poet shot me a questioning glance, frowned when I shook my head, then invited me to join them.
“I believe you know my young friend,” he said.
They did indeed know me, especially La Castro. The lovely actress welcomed me with a smile, and her husband with an ironic and exaggeratedly friendly gesture, for he knew who my master was. They had just finished eating a dish of braised trout, it being Friday, and offered me what was left. My stomach, alas, was too troubled, and I dined instead on a little bread dipped in wine. It was no ordinary wine, either, and that night Rafael de Cózar had clearly drunk his fair share, for he had the red eyes and thick tongue of someone who has paid generous tribute to the jug. The innkeeper brought more wine, this time a sweet Pedro Ximénez. María de Castro—whose outfit, a close-fitting bodice and long riding skirt, was adorned with at least fifty escudos’ worth of Flemish lace at neck, wrist, and hem—was drinking prettily and only a little at a time; don Francisco was drinking equally moderately, while Cózar drank on like a man dying of thirst. Between sips of wine, the three continued discussing things theatrical—what gestures to make at a particular moment, or how to say this or that line—while I awaited the right moment to speak to don Francisco alone. Despite my great unease, I was nonetheless able to admire once more the beauty of the woman for whose sake the captain had set himself against the king’s will. What shook me was the nonchalance with which María de Castro threw back her head to laugh, sipped her wine, played with the round coral earrings that hung from her lovely ears, or looked at her husband, at don Francisco, and at me in the particular way she had of looking at men, making each of us feel that she had singled us out as the only man on earth. I could not help thinking of Angélica de Alquézar, and that made me wonder if La Castro cared a jot about what happened to the captain, or even to the king himself, or if, on the contrary, in the game of chess played by women like her—and perhaps by all women—kings and pawns were all the same: temporary and dispensable. And I found myself toying with the idea that María de Castro, Angélica, and other such women were like soldiers in hostile territory, who saw themselves as foragers prowling a world of men and forced to use their beauty as ammunition and the vices and passions of the enemy as their weapons. It was a war in which only the bravest and cruelest could survive and one in which, almost always, the passage of time would finally vanquish them. Seeing María de Castro in all the perfect beauty of her youth, no one would have thought that, a few years later, for reasons that have no bearing on this story, my master would visit her for the last time in the hostel for sick women opposite Atocha Hospital, and find her aged and disfigured by syphilis, covering her face with her cloak, ashamed to be seen in that state. Or that I, standing unseen by the door, would see Captain Alatriste, when the time came to say good-bye, lean toward her and, despite her resistance, draw aside the cloak and place a final kiss on her withered lips.