Other guests were arriving too: wealthy merchants accompanied by spouses decked out in jewels, mantillas, and fans; minor aristocrats who had probably pawned their few remaining valuables in order to buy new clothes especially for the occasion; clerics in cassock and cloak; and representatives of the local guilds. Almost everyone was staring openmouthed this way and that, overwhelmed and impressed by the splendid appearance of the Spanish, Burgundian, and German guards, and as if half afraid that, at any moment, someone would demand to know what they were doing there and throw them out in the street. All the guests knew that they would see the king and queen only for an instant and from a distance, that their contribution would consist of little more than doffing their hats and bowing low to Their August Majesties as they passed; however, the mere fact of being present at such an event and being able to stroll like grandees in all their finery in the gardens of that former Moorish palace and talk about it afterward, this was the very acme of the ambitions cultivated by even the most plebeian of Spaniards. And when, the following day, this fourth Philip proposed, perhaps, that the municipal council should approve the imposition of a new charge or an extraordinary tax on the newly arrived treasure, he did so in the knowledge that Seville would still have enough of a taste of syrup in its mouth to sweeten that bitter pill—for the deadliest thrusts are always those that pierce the purse—and would, therefore, loosen their purse strings without too much complaint.
“There’s Guadalmedina,” said don Francisco.
The count, who was chatting to some ladies, saw us from afar, excused himself with a gracious bow, and came to meet us, oozing politeness and wearing his very best smile.
“By God, Alatriste, you’ve no idea how pleased I am to see you.”
He greeted Quevedo with his usual bonhomie, complimented me on my new doublet, and gave the captain a gentle, friendly pat on the arm.
“There’s someone else who’s very pleased to see you too,” he added.
He was dressed as elegantly as ever, in pale blue with silver braiding and with a magnificent pheasant feather in his hat. His courtly appearance was in marked contrast to that of Quevedo, who was dressed all in black, with the cross of St. James on his breast, and of my master, dressed entirely in browns and blacks, in an old but clean and scrupulously brushed doublet, canvas breeches, and boots, and with a gleaming sword hanging from his newly polished belt. His only new items of clothing were his hat—a broad-brimmed felt affair with a red feather in it—the starched white Walloon collar, which he wore open, as befitted a soldier, and the dagger bought for ten escudos to replace the one he had broken during his encounter with Gualterio Malatesta: a magnificent blade nearly two spans long and bearing the marks of the swordsmith Juan de Orta.
“He didn’t want to come,” said don Francisco, indicating the captain.
“I imagined he wouldn’t,” replied Guadalmedina. “However, there are some orders that must be obeyed.” He winked familiarly. “Certainly by a veteran like you, Alatriste. And that is an order.”
The captain said nothing. He was looking awkwardly about him, occasionally tugging at his clothes as if he didn’t know quite what to do with his hands. Beside him, Guadalmedina stood smiling to this person or that, waving to an acquaintance, sometimes nodding to the wife of a merchant or pettifogging lawyer, who then furiously fanned away her blushes.
“I should tell you, captain, that the parcel reached its addressee, and that everyone took great pleasure in it,” he said, with a smile. Then he lowered his voice. “Well, to be honest, some took rather less pleasure in it than others. The Duque de Medina Sidonia very nearly died of grief. And when Olivares returns to Madrid, your friend the royal secretary Luis de Alquézar will certainly have some explaining to do.”
Guadalmedina continued chuckling to himself, vastly amused, all the while waving and nodding and generally flaunting his impeccably courtly appearance.
“The count-duke is in the seventh heaven of delight,” he went on, “happier than if Christ himself had struck Richelieu down with a thunderbolt. That is why he wanted you to be here today, to greet you, albeit from a distance, when he passes by with the king and queen. You can’t deny that it’s quite an honor to receive a personal invitation from the king’s favorite.”
“Our captain,” said Quevedo, “feels that the greatest honor the count-duke could have bestowed on him would have been simply to forget the whole affair.”
“He may be right,” commented the count. “The favor of the great is often both more dangerous and more paltry than their disfavor. I can only say that it’s very fortunate that you’re a soldier, Alatriste, because you would make a disastrous courtier. I wonder sometimes if my profession isn’t harder than yours.”
“To each his own,” replied the captain.
“Quite. But returning to the matter at hand, I’ll have you know that yesterday the king himself asked Olivares to tell him the story. I was there, and the count-duke painted a very vivid picture. As you know, Our Catholic Majesty is not one to show his feelings, but I’ll be hanged if I didn’t see him blink several times while he listened to the account, and for him, that’s the very height of emotion.”
“Will this translate into anything tangible?” asked Quevedo, ever practical.
“If you’re referring to something that jingles and has a head and a tail, I doubt it. When it comes to cheese paring, if Olivares pares it fine, then His Majesty pares it finer still. They consider that the work was paid for at the time, and very generously too.”
“True enough,” said Alatriste.
“Well, you would know,” said the count with a shrug. “Today is, shall we say, by way of an honorific coda. The king’s curiosity was aroused when he was reminded of your involvement in that incident two years ago with the Prince of Wales at the Corral del Príncipe. And so he has a fancy to see you in the flesh.” The count paused significantly. “The other night, at Triana, it was far too dark.”
He fell silent again, studying Alatriste’s impassive face.
“Did you hear what I said?”
My master held his gaze, but did not respond, as if the count had spoken of something that he felt neither a need nor a desire to remember, something in which he preferred not to be implicated. After a moment, the count looked away, slowly shaking his head and smiling to himself, in an amused, understanding manner. Then his eye fell on me.
“They say the boy acquitted himself well,” he said, changing the subject. “And that he even brought away with him a nice little souvenir.”
“Yes, he acquitted himself very well indeed,” agreed Alatriste, making me blush with pride.
“Regarding this afternoon, you know the protocol,” Guadalmedina said, indicating the large doors that opened out onto the garden. “Their Majesties will enter through there, the yokels will bow, and then the king and queen will leave through that door over there. It’ll be over in a flash. As for you, Alatriste, all you have to do is doff your hat and, for once in your wretched life, bow that stubborn soldier’s head of yours. The king—who will, as usual, be gazing somewhere at the horizon—will merely glance at you for a moment. Olivares will do the same. You nod, and that’s that.”