Captain Alatriste

  "You do not approve of mutinies?"

  "I do not like to see officers murdered."

  His questioner arched an eyebrow peevishly. "Not even those who intend to hang you?"

  "One thing is one thing, and another, another."

  "To defend your field marshal, it says here, you put away another two or three with your sword."

  "They were Tudescos, Excellency. Germans. And the field marshal told me, 'Devil take it, Alatriste. If I am going to be killed by mutineers, at least let them be Spanish.' I agreed with him, lent a hand, and that won my pardon."

  Olivares was listening attentively. From time to time he looked at the papers and then at Diego Alatriste thoughtfully.

  "I see," he said. "There is also a letter of recommendation from the former Conde de Guadalmedina, and a draft from Don Ambrosio de Spinola signed in his hand, granting eight escudos extra pay for your good service in battle. Did you collect that?"

  "No, Excellency. Generals give an order, and secretaries, administrators, and scribes execute it in their own manner. When I went to claim my escudos, they had been reduced to four, and even those I have not seen to this day."

  The minister dipped his head slightly, as though he, too, had had bonuses or salaries withheld. Or perhaps he was approving the reluctance of the secretaries, administrators, and scribes to release public monies. He kept leafing through papers with the meticulousness of a clerk.

  "Discharged after Fleurus because of a serious, and honorable, wound," Olivares continued. Now he focused on the bandage on the captain's head. "You have a certain propensity for getting wounded, I see."

  "And for wounding, Excellency."

  Diego Alatriste stood a little straighter, twisting his mustache. It was obvious that he did not like for anyone— not even the person who could have him immediately executed—to take his wounds lightly. Olivares noted the insolent spark in the captain's eyes, and then turned back to the document.

  "So it seems," he concluded. "Although the references to your adventures apart from service to the flag are less exemplary than your military record. I see here a fight in Naples that involved a death. Ah! And also insubordination during the repression of the Moorish rebels in Valencia." He frowned. "Perhaps you did not agree with the decree of expulsion signed by His Majesty?"

  The captain hesitated before answering. "I was a soldier," he said after a bit. "Not a butcher."

  "I imagined you to be a better servant of your king."

  "And I am. I have served him even better than I have God, for I have broken God's commandments, but none of my king's."

  Again the favorite crooked an eyebrow. "I always believed that the Valencia campaign was glorious."

  "Then you were ill informed, Excellency. There is no glory whatsoever in sacking houses, violating women, and cutting the throats of defenseless civilians."

  Olivares's expression was impenetrable. "All of them enemies of the true religion," he pointed out. 'And unwilling to renounce Mohammed."

  The captain shrugged. "Perhaps," he replied. "But that was not my fight."

  "Come now"—the minister raised both eyebrows, with feigned surprise. "And to do murder for another party is?"

  "I do not kill the young or the old, Excellency."

  "I see. Which was why you left your company and enlisted in the galleys of Naples."

  "Yes. Given the task of goring infidels, I preferred to do so against men who could defend themselves."

  For a long moment, the once masked man sat without saying a word. Then he shifted his gaze to the papers on the table. He seemed to be turning Alatriste's last words over in his mind.

  "Regardless of your record, however, it seems that there are men of quality who defend you," he said finally.

  "Young Guadalmedina, for example. Or Don Francisco de Quevedo, who, just yesterday, in his usual bizarre behavior, decided to set his verbs in the active voice—although you know that associating with Quevedo can be a help or a hindrance, according to the ups and downs of his fortunes." Olivares paused—a significant pause. "It also appears that young Buckingham believes he is in your debt." An even longer pause followed. "And the Prince of Wales as well."

  "I know nothing of that." Again Alatriste shrugged, his expression unchanged. "But yesterday those gentlemen did more than repay a debt, real or imaginary."

  Slowly, Olivares shook his head. "Apparently not." He seemed vexed. "This very morning, Charles of England was interested enough to inquire about you and your fate. Even our lord and king, who is still stunned over what took place, wishes to be informed of the outcome." He abruptly pushed the file to one side. "This creates a troublesome situation. Very delicate."

  Now Olivares looked at Diego Alatriste as if wondering what to do with him. "A shame," he went on, "that those five bunglers did not carry out their assignment better. Whoever paid them was on the right track. In a certain way, that would have solved everything."

  "I am sorry that I do not share your regrets, Excellency."

  "I shall take note of that. . ." The minister's gaze had changed; now it was even harder and more unreadable. "Is it true what they say, that a few days back you saved the life of a certain English traveler when a comrade of yours was about to kill him?"

  Alarm. Sound the alarm with drumrolls and trumpets, thought Alatriste. This sudden shift was more dangerous than a night raid by the Dutch when an entire Spanish tercio was laid out snoring. Conversations like this could lead straight to having one's neck in a noose. At that moment he would not wager a pittance on his neck.

  "Your Excellency must be mistaken. I do not remember such a happening."

  "Well, it would be to your benefit to remember."

  The captain had been threatened many times in his life, and in addition he was sure he would not emerge unscathed from this contest. So being lost in either case, he did not flinch. But that did not stand in the way of his choosing his words with great care.

  "I do not know whether I saved anyone's life," he said after thinking a moment. "But I do recall that when I was hired for a certain service, my principal employer said that he did not want any deaths."

  "Truly? That is what he said?"

  "Yes, his very words."

  Olivares's penetrating pupils were pointed at the captain like the bore of a harquebus. "And who was that principal?" he asked with dangerous softness.

  Alatriste did not blink. "I have no idea, Excellency. He wore a mask."

  Now Olivares observed the captain with renewed interest. "And if those were your orders, how is it that your companion dared go further?"

  "I do not know what companion you are referring to, Excellency. But in any case, other gentlemen who accompanied that pre-eminent senor later gave different instructions."

  "Others?" The minister seemed very interested in that plural. '"Sblood! I would like to have their names. Or their descriptions."

  "I am afraid that is impossible. You will already have noticed, Excellency, that I have great problems with my memory. And the masks ..."

  He watched as Olivares struck the table, venting his impatience. The look that he gave Alatriste, though, was more evaluating than menacing. He seemed to be weighing something in his mind.

  "I am beginning to have my fill of your bad memory. And I warn you that there are executioners capable of making the strongest man sing a tune."

  "I beg of Your Excellency, look at me. Carefully."

  Olivares, who had done nothing else, frowned, both irritated and surprised. From his expression, Alatriste believed that he was going to call the guard and have him removed and hanged at that moment. But he did nothing. He did not comment or speak, but only stared at the captain's face, as requested. Finally, something in the firm chin or the cold, gray-green eyes, which had not blinked once during the examination, seemed to persuade him.

  "Perhaps you are right," he nodded. "I would be willing to swear that you are the sort who forgets. Or does not talk." He stared pensively at the papers on the
table. "I have matters to attend to," he said. "I hope you will not mind waiting here a while more."

  He got up then, and went to a bell-pull near a wall and tugged it once. Then he sat down again, and paid no further attention to the captain. Alatriste's sense that he knew the individual who answered the bell increased as soon as he heard his voice. By my life . . . ! This, he mused, was beginning to resemble a reunion of old friends. The only ones needed to complete the crew were Fray Emilio Bocanegra and the Italian swordsman. The man before him had a round head, on which floated a few graying brown hairs. All his hair was sparse: the sideburns halfway down his face, the thinly trimmed beard from lower lip to chin, and the scraggly mustache curling over cheeks streaked with red veins, like the ones on his fat nose. He was wearing black, and the embroidered cross of Calatrava on his chest did nothing to improve the vulgarity of his appearance. His wilted ruff was far from clean, as were the ink-stained hands that resembled those of an amanuensis who had hit a run of good fortune; only the heavy gold ring on the little finger of his left hand spoke to his privileged state. The eyes, though, were sharp and intelligent, and the knowing, critical arch of the left eyebrow lent a crafty, dangerous tone to the expression—first surprised and then cold and scornful— that crossed his face when he saw Diego Alatriste.

  It was none other than Luis de Alquezar, private secretary to king Philip the Fourth. And this time he was wearing no mask.

  "To sum up," said Olivares. "We are dealing here with two conspiracies. One intended to give a lesson to certain English travelers and to relieve them of a bundle of secret documents. And another intended simply to assassinate them. Of the first I had some knowledge, I seem to remember. . . . But the second is practically new to me. Perhaps you, Don Luis, as secretary to His Majesty and an expert observer in certain ministerial offices at court, may have heard something?"

  The favorite of the king had spoken very slowly, taking his time and leaving long pauses between his sentences, and never taking his eyes off the man he had summoned. The secretary stood before Olivares, wary, occasionally sneaking a glance at Diego Alatriste. The captain had stepped to one side, wondering where the devil all this was going to end. A gathering of shepherds, and one dead sheep? Or about to be.

  Olivares had stopped talking and was waiting. Luis de Alquezar cleared his throat.

  "I fear I will be of very little help to Your Eminence," he said, and in his meticulously cautious tone showed his discomfort at Alatriste's presence. "I, too, had heard something about the first conspiracy. As for the second ..." He looked at the captain and his left eyebrow rose in a sinister arch, like an upraised Turkish scimitar. "I do not know what this, ahem, person, may have told you."

  Olivares's fingers drummed impatiently on the table. "This, ahem, person, has said nothing. He is waiting here for me to deal with another matter."

  Luis de Alquezar was slow to speak, processing what he had just heard. Once it was digested, he looked toward Alatriste, and then Olivares again.

  "But. . ." he began.

  "There are no buts."

  Alquezar again cleared his throat. "As Your Eminence has set forth such a delicate subject in the presence of a third party, I thought that. . ." "You thought wrongly."

  "Forgive me." The secretary looked at the papers on the table with an uneasy expression, as if expecting to find something alarming in them. He had paled noticeably. "But I do not know whether before a stranger I should . .."

  The favorite of the king lifted an authoritative hand. Alatriste, who was watching closely, would have sworn that Olivares was enjoying himself.

  "You should."

  Alquezar swallowed four times and again cleared his throat, this time noisily. "I am always at the service of Your Eminence." His skin went from an extreme pallor to a sudden flush, as though he were suffering attacks of cold and heat. "What I can imagine of that second conspiracy . . ."

  "Try to imagine every detail, I beg you."

  "Of course, Your Eminence." Alquezar's eyes were still futilely scrutinizing the minister's papers; his instinct as a functionary impelled him to seek in them the explanation of what was happening to him. "As I was saying, all I can imagine, or suppose, is that certain interests crossed paths along the way. The Church, for example?"

  "The word 'church' is very broad. Were you referring to someone in particular?"

  "Very well. There are some who have secular, as well as ecclesiastic, power. And they fervently disapprove of a heretic's—"

  "I see," the minister interrupted. "You were referring to saintly men like Fray Emilio Bocanegra, for example."

  Alatriste saw the king's secretary repress a sudden start.

  "I have not named the holy father," said Alquezar, regaining his composure. "But now that Your Eminence has seen fit to mention him, I would say yes. By that I mean that, in fact, Fray Emilio may be one of those who does not look kindly upon an alliance with England."

  "I am surprised that you did not come to consult me, if you were harboring such suspicions."

  The secretary sighed, venturing a discreet conciliatory smile. The longer the conversation continued, and he tested which tack to take, the more artful and sure of himself he seemed to be.

  "Your Eminence is aware of how it is at court. It is difficult to survive—walking the line between Tynans and Trojans, you know. There are influences. Pressures. Besides, it is well known that Your Eminence is not among those who favor an alliance with England. It was, actually, all in your best interests."

  "By His wounds, Alquezar! I swear to you that for such 'services' I have had more than one man hanged." Olivares's glare bored through the royal secretary like a lethal musket ball. "Although I imagine that the gold of Richelieu, of Savoy and Venice, would not have persuaded anyone otherwise."

  The royal secretary's complicit and servile smile vanished as if by magic. "I cannot know to what Your Eminence is referring."

  "You do not know? How curious. My spies have confirmed the delivery of an important sum of money to some person at court, but without identifying the recipient. All this makes things a little clearer for me."

  Alquezar placed a hand on the embroidered cross of Calatrava. "I pray that Your Eminence does not believe that I..."

  "You?" Olivares gave a dismissive wave, as if to brush away a fly, causing Alquezar to smile with relief. "I do know what you have to gain in this business. After all, everyone knows that I myself named you private secretary to His Majesty. You enjoy my trust. And although recently you have obtained a certain power, I doubt that you were sufficiently bold to think of conspiring to effect your own reward. Is that not true?"

  The confident smile was no longer as firm on the secretary's lips. "Naturally, Your Eminence," he said in a low voice.

  "And especially," Olivares continued, "not in matters involving foreign powers. Fray Emilio Bocanegra can emerge from this unscathed, since he is a man of the Church with influence at court. But it may cost others their heads."

  As he spoke these words he threw a terrible and meaningful glance toward Alquezar.

  "Your Eminence knows"—the royal secretary was nearly stuttering, and was again turning pale—"that I am completely loyal."

  The minister's expression was one of profound irony. "Completely?"

  "Yes, Your Eminence, that is what I said. Loyal. And useful."

  "But let me remind you, Don Luis, that I have cemeteries filled with 'completely' faithful and useful collaborators."