“My Queen, what I order is just,
If not, what’s the point of being king
If one cannot make a law of lust
When one’s own lust doth sing.
“Not for nothing am I Spain’s finest actor. But wait, Señor Poet, for another particularly apt sonnet springs to mind. I refer to the one that begins: ‘The voice of the eye that we call a fart.’ ”
“That, as far as I know, is anonymous.”
“Yes, but everyone attributes it to your illustrious pen.”
Don Francisco was beginning to get really angry now, although he still kept glancing to left and right. The relieved expression on his face was saying, “At least we’re alone and the innkeeper’s nowhere to be seen.” For Cózar, with no prompting, was declaiming:
“To hell with vaunting, boastful kings
Who, puffed up by toadying courtiers,
Think life and death their own playthings.”
These lines had, in fact, been written by don Francisco, although he swore blind that they hadn’t. Written at a time when the poet was rather less popular at court, manuscript copies were still making the rounds in Spain, and he would have given his right arm to have them withdrawn. On this occasion, they proved to be the final straw. Don Francisco summoned the innkeeper, paid for the meal, and got angrily to his feet, leaving Cózar sitting there. I followed behind.
“In a couple of days, he’s going to perform before the king,” I said uneasily, once we were out in the hallway. “And in your play, too.”
Still frowning, don Francisco glanced back.
“Oh, there’s no need to worry,” he said at last in a wry, mocking tone. “It’s just a temporary lapse. Tomorrow morning, once he’s slept off the wine, everything will be as normal.”
He threw his short black cape over his shoulders and fastened it.
“By my life, though,” he added after a moment’s thought, “I never suspected that such a tame beast would have had qualms about his honor.”
I cast a last astonished glance at the small figure of the actor, whom I, like don Francisco, had always taken to be a jolly man of great good humor and few morals. All of which goes to show—and he was to surprise me still further in the hours that followed—one can never fathom the hearts of men.
“Have you ever considered that he might love her?” I asked.
I blushed as soon as these unconsidered words had left my mouth. Don Francisco, who was tucking his sword into his leather belt, paused in what he was doing and regarded me with interest. Then he smiled and slowly finished buckling on his belt and sword, as though my remark had given him food for thought, yet he said nothing. He put on his hat and we walked silently out into the street. Only after we had gone a few steps did I see him nod as if after long reflection.
“You never can tell, my lad,” he murmured, “you never can tell.”
It had grown cooler and there were no stars to be seen. As we crossed the esplanade, gusts of wind were whirling up leaves torn from the tops of the trees. When we reached the palace, where we had to give the password because it was after ten o’clock, there was still no news of the captain. According to what don Francisco told me after he had exchanged a few words with the Count of Guadalmedina, the latter wished him in hell. “I hope for Alatriste’s sake,” he had said, “that he doesn’t create problems for me with the count-duke.” As you can imagine, that thought tormented me, and I wanted to stay there at the door, in case my master should arrive. Don Francisco tried to reassure me by giving me various sensible explanations. It was seven long leagues from Madrid to El Escorial. The captain might have been delayed by some minor accident, or perhaps preferred to arrive at night for greater safety. Whatever the case, he knew how to take care of himself. In the end, more resigned than convinced, I agreed that he was right, aware that he was not entirely persuaded by his own eloquence. The truth is that we could do nothing but wait. Don Francisco went about his business, and I again walked over to the great palace gate, where I decided I would remain all night, awaiting news. I was walking between the columns of the courtyard where the kitchens were located when, by a narrow staircase, ill lit and half hidden behind the thick walls, I heard the rustle of silk, and my heart stopped as if I had been shot. Even before I heard her whisper my name, even before I turned toward the shape crouched in the shadows, I knew that it was Angélica de Alquézar, and that she was waiting for me. Thus began the happiest and most terrible night of my life.
10. THE BAIT AND THE TRAP
Despite having his hands tied behind him, Diego Alatriste managed, with some difficulty, to raise himself up so that he was sitting with his back against the wall. He could remember falling off his horse and being kicked in the face, and his head hurt so much that, at first, he thought that either the fall or the kick must be the cause of the surrounding darkness. With a shudder, he said to himself: “I must have gone blind.” Then, after turning anxiously this way and that, he saw a line of reddish light under the door and gave a sigh of relief. It was perhaps simply that it was night or that he was being held in a cellar. He moved his numb fingers and had to bite his lip so as not to groan out loud; his veins felt as if they were full of a thousand pricking needles. Later, when the pain had eased slightly, he tried to piece together out of the confusion in his head exactly what had happened. The journey. The staging post. The ambush. He recalled, with bewilderment, the pistol-shot which, instead of killing him, had felled his horse. The man firing had not, he concluded, simply missed or made a mistake. They were clearly men who knew what they were about and were rigorously carrying out orders. So disciplined were they, in fact, that, even though he had shot one of their comrades at point-blank range, they had not given in to the natural desire for revenge. He could understand this because he worked in the same trade. The really weighty questions were these: Who held the purse strings? Who was paying the piper? Who wanted him alive, and why?
As if in answer to these questions, the door was suddenly flung open and a bright light dazzled his eyes. A black figure stood on the threshold, with a lantern in one hand and a wineskin in the other.
“Good evening, Captain,” said Gualterio Malatesta.
It seemed to Alatriste that, lately, he always seemed to be seeing the Italian framed in doorways, either entering or leaving. This time, however, he was the one who was tied up like a sausage and Malatesta was seemingly in no hurry at all. He came over to him, crouched down beside him, and took a close look at him.
“I’m afraid you’re not your usual handsome self,” he commented drily.
The light hurt Alatriste’s eyes, and when he blinked, he realized that his left eye was so badly swollen he could barely open it. Nevertheless, he could still see his enemy’s pockmarked face and the scar above his right eyelid, a souvenir of their fight on board the Niklaasbergen.
“I could say the same of you,” he said.
Malatesta’s mouth twisted into an almost conspirato rial smile.
“I’m sorry about this,” he said, looking at Alatriste’s bound hands. “Is the rope very tight?”
“Pretty tight, yes.”
“I thought so. Your hands are about the size and color of aubergines.”
He turned toward the door and called out. A man appeared. Alatriste recognized him as the man he had almost bumped into in Galapagar. Malatesta ordered him to slacken the rope binding Alatriste’s hands. While the man was doing this, Malatesta took out his dagger and held it to Alatriste’s throat, just to make sure that the captain didn’t take advantage of the situation. Then the man left, and they were alone again.