“But your wife . . .”
“Enough! Forget about my wife.”
He looked again at the broken demijohn and stood for a moment, motionless and frowning. Then he made a tutting noise with his tongue and regarded me with some curiosity.
“Are you going to La Fresneda on your own? And what about the royal guard, and the army, and the galleons from the Indies, and all the other sons of whores?”
“At La Fresneda there must be guards and people from the king’s household. If I get there, I’ll give the alarm.”
“Why go so far? The palace is right here. Why not tell someone there.”
“That’s not so easy. At this hour, no one will listen to me.”
“And what if you’re met with knife-thrusts? The conspirators might be there already.”
This caused me to hesitate. Cózar was pensively scratching his side whiskers.
“I played Beltrán Ramírez in The Weaver of Segovia,” he said suddenly. “I saved the king’s life.
“Follow them and find out who they are,
These men who dare to place a filthy hand
Upon the sovereign’s pure and sacred breast
And to wield that impious, treach’rous, steely wand.”
He again stood looking at me, awaiting my reaction to his artistry. I gave a short nod. It was hardly the moment for applause.
“Is that by Lope?” I asked, just to say something and to humor him.
“No. It’s by the Mexican, Alarcón. It’s a famous play, you know. It was a great success. María played Doña Ana and was applauded to the echo. And I, well, what can I say?”
He fell silent for a moment, thinking about the applause, and about his wife.
“Yes,” he went on, “in the play, the king owed his life to me. Act one, scene one. I fought off two Moors. I’m quite good at that, you know, at least with stage swords, pretend swords. As an actor, you have to know how to do everything, even fencing.”
He shook his head, amused, absorbed in his own thoughts. Then he winked at me.
“It would be amusing, wouldn’t it, if young Philip were to owe his life to Spain’s finest actor, and if María . . .”
He stopped. His gaze grew distant, fixed on scenes only he could see.
“The sovereign’s pure and sacred breast,” he murmured, almost to himself.
He continued shaking his head and muttering words I could not hear now. More lines from a play perhaps. Then his face lit up with a splendid, heroic smile. He gave me a friendly pat on the shoulder.
“After all,” he said, “it’s simply another role to play.”
11. THE HUNTING PARTY
When the rain-soaked blindfold was finally removed, Alatriste found the dawn shrouded in a grim, gray light and low dark clouds. He raised his hands—which were bound in front now—to rub his eyes; his left eye still bothered him, but he found at least that he had no problem now in opening it. He looked about him. They had brought him there mounted on a mule at first—and he had been aware of the sound of horses’ hooves beside him—then on foot across some rough ground. That short walk had warmed him up a little, although with no cloak or hat on he still had to clench his teeth to keep them from chattering. He was in a wood of oaks and elms. The shadows of night still clung to the horizon in the west, which he could just glimpse through the trees; and the drizzle drenching him and the other men—a fine rain of the kind that lingers—only accentuated the melancholy of the landscape.
Ti-ri-tu ta-ta. The sound of that whistle made him turn his head. Gualterio Malatesta, swathed in his black cape and with his hat down over his eyes, stopped whistling and made a face that could as easily have been a sneer as a greeting.
“Are you cold, Captain?”
“A little.”
“And hungry?”
“More hungry than cold.”
“Well, console yourself with the thought that your life ends here. We, on the other hand, have to go back.”
He made a gesture indicating the men around him, the same men—less the one who had been killed—who had ambushed the captain at the stream. They were still dressed as beaters, and, even more alarming than their rough-and-ready appearance and their bristling mustaches and beards was the array of weapons they had about their persons: hunting knives, daggers, swords, pistols.
“Only the very best,” said the Italian, sensing what Alatriste must be thinking.
A hunting horn sounded in the distance, and Malatesta and the three hired killers looked up and exchanged meaningful glances.
“You’re going to stay here for a while,” said Malatesta, turning to the prisoner.
One of the other men was heading off into the bushes where the sound of the horn had come from. The other two stood at either side of Alatriste, forcing him to sit on the damp ground, and one of them started tying a piece of rope around his ankles.
“An elementary precaution,” explained the Italian. “A compliment to your courage.”
The eye with the scar above it seemed to water a little whenever it fixed on anything for any length of time, as it was at that moment.
“I always thought our final meeting would be face-to-face,” said the captain, “and alone.”
“When we met in my house, you didn’t seem prepared to show me such mercy.”
“At least I left your hands free.”
“That’s true, but I can’t, I’m afraid, do the same for you today. There’s too much at stake.”
Alatriste nodded, indicating that he understood. The man tying his ankles made a couple of very tight knots.
“Do these animals know what they’re involved in?”
The dull-witted animals did not even blink. The one tying the knots was standing up and brushing the mud from his breeches. The other was making sure the rain did not soak the gunpowder in the pistol he was carrying at his waist.
“Of course they do. They’re old acquaintances of yours. They were with me in Camino de las Minillas.”
“I assume they’ve been well paid.”
“What do you think?”
Alatriste tried to move, but to no avail. His hands and feet were bound fast, although at least now his hands were tied in front of him, a precaution his captors had taken before setting out, so that he could hold himself upright on the mule.
“How do you intend carrying out your orders?”
Malatesta had taken from his leather belt a pair of black gloves, which he was now carefully drawing on. Alatriste noticed that, as well as sword, dagger, and pistol, he also had a knife in the leg of his boot.
“As I’m sure you know, the man in question has a taste for going out hunting early with just two beaters as escort. There are plenty of deer and rabbit here, and he’s an experienced, intrepid hunter, a great marksman. All of Spain knows his liking for plunging into the undergrowth alone when he’s hot on the trail of something. It’s odd, isn’t it, that someone so self-possessed, a man who never even blinks in public or looks at anyone directly, should be so utterly transformed when in pursuit of his prey.”
He flexed his fingers to make sure his gloves fitted properly, then unsheathed his sword a few inches and put it back again.
“Hunting and women,” he added with a sigh.
He remained like this for a moment, apparently absorbed in thought. Finally, he beckoned to the two ruffians, who hoisted the captain—one holding him by the legs and the other under the armpits—and carried him over to an oak tree, where they leaned him against the trunk. He was hidden there by the bushes.