The captain leaned back against the wall. It would have to have happened some time, but it was grotesque that it had to be like this. Diego Alatriste, regicide. That isn’t how he wanted to be remembered by the few friends who would be likely to remember him in a tavern or a trench. It would be worse, though, he concluded, to end up ill and dying in a hospital for veterans, or else crippled and begging for alms at the door of a church. At least in his case, Malatesta would act cleanly and quickly. They couldn’t risk him blabbing on the rack.
“I’d rather confess to the devil. I know him better.”
He heard the Italian spluttering in the background in spontaneous laughter, which was interrupted by a fierce look from Fray Emilio Bocanegra. Then the Inquisitor studied Alatriste’s face long and hard, finally shaking his head, as if handing down a sentence against which there could be no appeal. He got to his feet, smoothing his robes.
“So be it. The devil and you, face-to-face.”
He left, followed by Malatesta bearing the lantern. The door closed behind them like a tombstone closing over a tomb.
We rehearse our death in sleep, which serves us as both rest and warning. I was never more aware of the truth of these words than when I emerged, bathed in an unwholesome sweat, from a strange half-sleep, a state of unconsciousness filled with images, like some kind of slow nightmare. I was lying facedown and naked on the bed, and my back hurt me terribly. It was still night. Always assuming, I thought with some alarm, that it was the same night. When I felt for my wound, I found my torso swathed in a bandage. I moved cautiously, making sure that I was alone. The memory of what had happened rose up inside me—beautiful and terrible. Then I remembered Captain Alatriste and wondered what fate he might have met.
This thought decided me. I stumbled to my feet, looking for my clothes, and clenching my teeth so as not to cry out in pain. Each time I bent down in search of some item of clothing, I felt dizzy and feared I might faint again. I was almost fully dressed when I noticed a light underneath the door and the sound of voices. As I moved toward that sound, I accidentally kicked my dagger where it lay on the floor. I froze, but no one came. I carefully slipped the dagger into its sheath, then finished tying the laces on my shoes.
The noise outside stopped, and I heard footsteps moving off. The line of light on the floor trembled and grew brighter. I moved back and hid behind the door as Angélica de Alquézar, holding a lighted candle, came into the room. She was wearing a woolen shawl over her chemise and had her hair caught back. She stood very still, staring at the empty bed, but uttered no exclamation of surprise, not a word. Then she spun around, sensing me behind her. The reddish light of the candle lit up her blue eyes, as intense as two points of frozen steel, almost hypnotic. At the same time, she opened her mouth to say something or to cry out, but I was ready and prepared and could not allow her such a luxury. This was no time for reproaches or conversation. The blow I struck hit her on one side of the face, erasing that hypnotic look and causing her to drop the candle. She stumbled backward. The candle was still rolling about on the floor, not quite extinguished, when I clenched my fist again—I swear to you I felt no remorse—and punched her, this time on the temple, and she fell back unconscious onto the bed. I felt my way toward her—for the candle had burned out now—to make sure she was still breathing. I placed one hand on her lips—after that punch my knuckles hurt me almost as much as the wound in my back—and felt her breath on my fingers. That calmed me a little. Then I got down to practical matters. Postponing until later any consideration of my emotions, I first made my way over to the window and opened it, but it was too big a drop for me to consider jumping. I returned to the door, cautiously pushed it open, and found myself on the landing. I groped my way downstairs to a narrow passageway, lit by an oil lamp hanging from the wall. There was a rug at the far end, a door, and another flight of steps. I tiptoed past the door. I had one foot on the second step when I became aware of people talking. Had I not heard Captain Alatriste’s name, I would have simply continued on down.
Sometimes God, or the devil, guides your feet in the right direction. I turned back and pressed my ear to the door. There were at least two men on the other side, and they were talking about a hunt: deer, rabbits, beaters. I wondered what the captain had to do with all that. Then they said another name: Philip. He’ll be there at such and such a hour, they were saying. In such and such a place. They only mentioned his name, but I had a sudden presentiment that sent a shudder through me. The nearness of Angélica’s room made it easy enough to make the logical connection. I must be standing outside the room of Luis de Alquézar, Angélica’s uncle, the royal secretary. Then a word and another name reached me through the door: “dawn” and “La Fresneda.” My knees almost buckled beneath me, whether this was because I was still weak from my wound or because I was so shaken by the idea that had suddenly installed itself inside my head, I don’t know. The memory of the cavalier in the yellow doublet resurfaced and threaded together all those disparate fragments. María de Castro had gone to spend the night at La Fresneda. The person she had gone to meet was planning to go hunting at dawn, with just two beaters as escort. The Philip they had mentioned was none other than Philip IV. They were talking about the king!
I leaned against the wall, trying to order my thoughts. Then I took a deep breath and gathered all my strength—for I was going to need it, just as long, that is, as the wound in my back didn’t open. My first thought was to go to see don Francisco de Quevedo. So I went down the stairs as quietly as I could. Don Francisco, however, was not in his room. I went in and lit a candle. The table was full of books and papers and the bed undisturbed. Then I remembered the Count of Guadalmedina and walked across the large courtyard to the rooms occupied by members of the royal entourage. As I feared, I was not allowed through. One of the guards, who knew me, said that they wouldn’t wake up His Excellency at that hour for all the wine in Spain. “No matter what,” he added. I did not tell them just how urgent this particular matter was. I knew what catchpoles, soldiers, and guards were like, and knew that telling my story to such lumps of flesh was tantamount to talking to a wall. They were typical big-bellied, mustachioed veterans who simply wanted a quiet life. Getting involved was-n’t part of the job, which was to make sure that no one got past them—and no one did. Talking to them about conspiracies and regicides would be like talking to them about the man in the moon, and I risked, in the process, getting thrown in a dungeon. I asked them if they had paper I could write on and they said no. I went back to don Francisco’s room, where, making use of his pen, inkwell, and sandbox, I composed, as best I could, a note for him and another for Álvaro de la Marca. I sealed both letters with wax, scrawled their respective names on them, left the poet’s note on his bed, and returned to the guards.
“This is for the count as soon as he wakes up. It’s a matter of life and death.”
They seemed unconvinced, but they kept the note. The guard who knew me promised that he would give it to the count’s servants if one of them happened to pass or, at the very latest, when he came off duty. I had to be content with that.
The Cañada Real was my last faint hope. Don Francisco might have gone back for more wine and might still be there, drinking and writing; or, having bent his elbow one too many times, he might have decided to sleep there rather than wend his unsteady way back to the palace. I went over to one of the servants’ doors and walked across the esplanade beneath a black, starless sky that was just beginning to grow light in the east. I was shivering in the cold wind blowing down from the mountains in brief rainy gusts. While this helped to clear my head, it gave me no new ideas. I walked quickly, anxiously. The image of Angélica came into my mind. I sniffed my hands, which still smelled of her. Then I shivered to remember the touch of her delicious skin and cursed my bad luck. The wound to my back hurt more than I can say.