“Can you hear me, Martín?”
Martín replied in a feeble voice that he could.
“Try not to cough or to move.”
He lifted Saldaña’s head and placed beneath it the wounded man’s own cloak, folded up by way of a pillow, to prevent the blood rising up from his lungs to his throat and choking him. “How am I?” he heard Martín say. The last word was drowned in a thick, liquid cough.
“Not too good. If you cough, you’ll bleed to death.”
Saldaña nodded weakly and lay still, his face in shadow, his pierced lung making an ominous noise each time he breathed. He nodded again a moment later, when Alatriste glanced impatiently from side to side and announced that he had to go.
“I’ll see if I can find someone to help you,” he said. “Do you want a priest as well?”
“Don’t talk such . . . nonsense.”
Alatriste stood up.
“You might pull through.”
“I might.”
The captain moved off, but heard the wounded man calling him. He went back and knelt down again.
“What is it, Martín?”
“You didn’t mean . . . what you said . . . did you?”
Alatriste found it hard to open his mouth to speak. His lips felt dry, as if stuck together, and when he spoke, his lips hurt him, as if the skin on them were tearing.
“No, of course I didn’t.”
“Bastard.”
“You know me. I took the easy path.”
Saldaña was gripping his arm now, as if all the strength of his battered body were concentrated in his fingers.
“You just wanted to make me angry, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“It was just . . . just a trick.”
“Of course. A trick.”
“Swear that it was.”
“I swear.”
Saldaña’s wounded chest was racked by a painful cough, or perhaps laughter.
“I knew it . . . you bastard . . . I knew it.”
Alatriste stood up and wrapped his own cloak around him. Now that his blood had cooled and after the physical exertion of the fight, he was conscious of the chill night air, or perhaps it wasn’t just the night air.
“Good luck, Martín.”
“The same to you. . . Captain . . . Alatriste.”
Dogs were barking in the distance, along the San Isidro road. The rest of the nighttime landscape lay in silence, and not even a breath of wind stirred the leaves on the trees. Diego Alatriste crossed the last stretch of the Segovia bridge and stopped for a moment by the washerwomen’s sheds. The waters of the Manzanares, swollen by the recent rains, lapped against the shore. Madrid was just a dark shape behind him. On the heights above the river, the dark outline of its belfries and the tower of the Alcázar Real stood silhouetted between sky and earth, and everywhere else was utter blackness apart from a few stars above and a few faint lights below, behind the city walls.
Having checked that all was well, he set off toward the Ermita del Ángel just as the damp was starting to penetrate his cloak. He encountered no further problems, although, making sure to keep his face covered, he did first call at a house near the Rastro, hold out four doubloons, and ask them to find a surgeon to tend to a man lying wounded near the abattoir. He was very close to the hermitage now and determined to take no more risks. He therefore took out one of his pistols, cocked it, and pointed it at the shadow of the man waiting there. The horse neighed anxiously at the noise, and Bartolo Cagafuego’s voice asked: “Is that you, Captain?”
“It is,” he said.
With a sigh of relief, Cagafuego sheathed his sword. He was glad, he said, that everything had gone well, and that the captain had arrived safe and sound. He handed him the reins of the horse: it was a bay, he added, good-tempered and soft-mouthed, albeit with a slight tendency to pull to the right. Otherwise, he was fit for a marquis or a Chinese emperor or any other lofty personage.
“He can keep going for miles, this one. He’s got no scabs on his flanks and no spur marks, either. I’ve checked his shoes, and there’s not a nail missing. I had a look at the saddle, and the girth, too . . . I think you’ll find him very much to your likin’, sir.”
Alatriste was patting the horse’s neck: warm, firm, and strong. He felt the horse toss its head contentedly at the touch of his hand. The warm breath of the horse’s nostrils dampened his palm.
“He can travel eight or even ten leagues, no problem, as long as you don’t push him too hard. I spent some time with the gypsies in Andalusia, so I knows a bit about horses and the like. Men can sometimes spring nasty surprises on you, but not these poor beasts. If you’re in a hurry, though, you can always change horses at the relay in Galapagar and get yourself a fresh mount to climb the hill.”
“Any food?”
“I took that liberty, yes, sir. One saddlebag containing bread, cheese, and cured meat and a skin containing a liter or so of red wine to wash it down with.”
“It’s good wine, I hope,” joked Alatriste.
“I bought it in Lepre’s tavern. Need I say more? Suleiman himself couldn’t ask for better.”
Alatriste checked headstall, bridle, saddle, girth, and stirrups. The saddlebag with the food and wine in it was hooked over the saddle-tree. He put his hand in his purse and handed Cagafuego two gold coins.
“You’ve behaved as the man you are, my friend: the cream of the ruffian classes.”
Cagafuego’s harsh laugh rang out in the darkness.
“On my grandfather’s soul, Captain, I didn’t do nothing, it wasn’t no bother at all. I didn’t even have to use my sword to kill anyone, like I did in Sanlúcar. And I’m sorry for it, too. A tiger of a man like me doesn’t want his sword to go rusty. Life can’t just be about pocketing the money your whore brings in for you.”
“Give her my best regards. And I hope she doesn’t catch the French disease like poor Blasa Pizorra, may she rest in peace.”
Alatriste saw Cagafuego silently cross himself.
“God forbid, sir.”
“And as for that brave blade of yours,” added Alatriste, “I’m sure you’ll have some occasion to use it. Life is short and art is long.”
“I don’t know much about art, Captain, but life, now, that’s a different matter. Anyway, what’s family for if not for times like these, eh? I’ll always be there when you need me: as dutiful as a pure-blood Spaniard and more reliable than quartan fever. And I can’t say fairer than that.”
Alatriste had knelt down to put on his spurs.
“Needless to say, we’ve never seen each other and we don’t know each other,” he said, buckling on his spurs. “And whatever happens to me, you need have no worries on that score.”
Cagafuego gave another laugh.
“That’s part of the job. Everyone knows that, however hard-pressed, you wouldn’t spill the beans, not even if they stretched you on the rack like Córdoban leather.”
“Who knows?”
“Don’t be so modest, Captain. I wish I could trust my doxy as I trust your tongue. All of Madrid knows you to be the kind of gentleman as would go to the gallows rather than say a word.”
“You’ll at least allow me the odd yelp, won’t you?”
“Well, seeing as it’s you, sir, yes, but nothing more, mind.”
They shook hands and said good-bye. Then Alatriste drew on his gloves, mounted, and rode the horse upriver—along the path that ran alongside the wall of the Casa de Campo—leaving the reins loose, so that the horse could find its own way in the dark. Once they had crossed the little bridge over the Meaque stream, where his horse’s hooves made rather too much noise for his liking, he plunged into the trees growing along the banks to avoid the guards at Puerta Real; and after a while spent slouching down in the saddle with one hand on his hat while he ducked the lower branches, he emerged, at last, at the foot of Aravaca hill, beneath the stars, leaving the murmur of the river behind him, amongst the shadowy woods that grew so thickly on its
shore. The pale earth made it easier to make out the road, and so he put one of the pistols he was carrying at his waist in the holster on the front of the saddle-tree, wrapped his cloak more tightly about him, dug in his spurs, and set the horse going at a fast trot, so as to get away from there as quickly as possible.
Bartolo Cagafuego was right: the bay did pull a little more to the right than to the left, which meant that he had to rein him in a little, but he was a good mount and fairly soft-mouthed. This was fortunate, because Alatriste was not a particularly good horseman; that is, he knew as much about horses as most people, sat well in the saddle, and was comfortable at a gallop; he was equally at home on a horse or a mule, and even knew certain maneuvers proper to combat and war. However, there is a vast difference between that and being a skilled equestrian. He had spent his whole life trudging Europe with the Spanish infantry or sailing the Mediterranean in the king’s galleys, and was more accustomed to seeing horses charging toward him over Flemish plains or Barbary beaches, accompanied by enemy bugles, beating drums, and bloodied pikes. The truth is, he knew more about disemboweling horses than he did about riding them.
Once past the old Cerero inn, which was closed and in darkness, he trotted up the Aravaca hill and then slowed down, allowing the horse to proceed at a walking pace along the flat, almost treeless track that ran between the dark stains formed by the fields of wheat and barley, like large expanses of water. As was to be expected, the cold intensified just before the sky began to lighten, and the captain was glad he was wearing his buffcoat beneath his cloak. When horse and rider passed by Las Rozas, the first light was beginning to appear along the horizon, turning the shadows gray. Alatriste had decided not to take the broader, busier carriage road to Ávila, and so when he reached the crossroads, he turned right, onto the bridle path. From that point on, there were some gentle ups and downs, and the fields gave way to pine woods and scrub. He dismounted and stopped for a while to devour some of the food with which Cagafuego had filled the saddlebag. The dawn found him lost in thought, sitting on his cloak, eating a little cheese and drinking a little wine while his horse rested. Then he remounted, settled back in the saddle, and found himself pursuing the long shadow of horse and rider cast in the first reddish rays of sunlight on the path ahead. Farther on, about three leagues from Madrid and with the sun now warming the captain’s back, the path grew steeper and more rugged, and the pine forest became a leafy oak wood amongst which he occasionally caught sight of rabbits scampering away and startled deer. These woods were uninhabited, uncultivated places, the king’s hunting preserve. Anyone caught poaching was flogged and sent to the galleys.
Farther on, he began to encounter other travelers—a few muleteers on their way to Madrid—and near the Guadarrama River he overtook another mule-train transporting wineskins. At midday he crossed the Retamar bridge, where the bored guard simply pocketed the toll money without asking any questions or even demanding to see his face. From then on, the going was rougher and crag gier, with the path snaking through clumps of white broom, past ravines and rocks on which his horse’s hooves rang out as the path twisted and turned through a landscape which, thought Alatriste, studying it with a professional eye, would have been perfect for those gentlemen of the road, the highwaymen. However, one paid with one’s life for any crimes committed on the king’s lands, and such thieves preferred to carry out their trade a few leagues from there, robbing unwary travelers on the king’s highway that passed through Torre Lodones and past the Guadarrama River and into Old Castile. Reminding himself that highwaymen were not exactly his main concern, he checked that the primer was still dry in the pistol he had hung on the saddle-tree, within easy reach.
9. THE SWORD AND THE DAGGER
I must confess to feeling terrified, and with good reason. The Count of Guadalmedina in person had sought me out, and now we were striding along together beneath the arches of El Escorial’s main courtyard. I had been in don Francisco de Quevedo’s room, engaged in making a fair copy of some lines from his new play, when Guadalmedina appeared at the door, and Quevedo barely had time to shoot me a somber, cautionary glance before the count ordered me to follow him. The count’s elegant cape, which he wore draped over his left shoulder, swayed as he strode angrily ahead of me, his left hand on the hilt of his sword and his impatient footsteps echoing along that eastern side of the courtyard. We passed the guard, went up the small staircase adjoining the royal tennis court, and emerged onto the upper floor.
“Wait here,” he said.
I did as I was told, and he disappeared through a door. I was standing in a dreary hallway of gray granite, no tapestries, paintings, or any other ornament in evidence, and all that cold stone made me shiver. I shivered still more when the count reappeared and ordered me curtly to come in, for I found myself entering a long gallery with a painted ceiling and walls adorned with frescoes depicting scenes of war. The only furniture was a chair and a table containing writing implements. Along one wall there were nine windows that opened onto an inner courtyard, and the light from these windows lit up the fresco on the opposite wall, which showed Christian knights fighting Moors and recorded the battle in all its military detail. This was the first time I had entered the Hall of Battles, and I was far from imagining then that, in time, those paintings commemorating the victory at Higueruela, the battle of San Quintín, and the attack on the Azores would be as familiar to me as the rest of the royal palace when, years later, I was made lieutenant and then captain of King Philip IV’s guard. At that moment, however, the Íñigo Balboa walking beside the Count of Guadalmedina was merely a frightened boy, incapable of appreciating the magnificent paintings decorating the gallery. My five senses were all focused on the imposing figure waiting at the far end, next to the last of the nine windows. He was a heavily built man, with a thick, closely trimmed beard and a fearsome mustache that grew bushier at the ends. He was wearing a costume made of brown lamé with the green cross of Alcántara on his breast, and his large, powerful head sat on a thick neck barely contained by a starched ruff. As I approached, he fixed me with his dark, intelligent eyes, as threatening as two harquebuses; and at the time I am describing, those eyes could send a shudder of fear throughout the whole of Europe.
“This is the boy,” said Guadalmedina.
The count-duke, His Catholic Majesty’s favorite and adviser, nodded almost imperceptibly, without taking his eyes off me. In one hand he was holding a piece of paper, and in the other a cup of thick, hot chocolate.
“When is this Alatriste fellow supposed to arrive?” he asked Guadalmedina.
“At sunset, I believe. He has instructions to present himself here as soon as possible.”
Olivares leaned slightly toward me. Hearing him say my master’s name had left me speechless.
“Are you Íñigo Balboa?”
I nodded, incapable of uttering a word, while I struggled to put my thoughts in order. In between sips of chocolate, the count-duke was reading aloud from the piece of paper he was holding: “. . . born in Oñate, Guipúzcoa, the son of a soldier who died in Flanders, servant to Diego Alatriste y Tenorio, better known as Captain Alatriste, et cetera. A soldier’s page in the old Cartagena regiment. Present at the taking of Oudkerk, at the battles of Ruyter Mill and Terheyden, the siege of Breda . . .” After each Flemish name, he glanced up as if to compare the fact with my evident youth. “And before that, there had been an auto-da-fé in the Plaza Mayor in Madrid, in sixteen hundred and twenty-three.
“Ah, yes, I remember now,” he said, looking at me more attentively now, meanwhile putting his cup down on the table. “Some business with the Holy Office of the Inquisition.”
It was not at all reassuring to know that one’s biography was so precisely documented, and the memory of my brush with the Inquisition did nothing to calm my spirits. However, the question that followed transformed my bewilderment into panic.
“What happened in Camino de las Minillas?”
I looked at Álvaro de la Marca,
who nodded reassuringly.
“You can speak openly to His Excellency,” he said. “He is fully informed.”
I continued to eye him suspiciously. When we met in Juan Vicuña’s gambling den, I had described to him the events of that ill-starred night on condition that he told no one until Captain Alatriste had spoken to him. The captain had not yet arrived; Guadalmedina, who was, after all, a courtier, had not played fair. Or perhaps he was merely covering his back.
“I don’t know anything about the captain,” I stammered.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Guadalmedina. “You were there with him and with the man who died. Tell His Excellency exactly what happened.”
I turned to the count-duke. He was still observing me with alarming fixity. That man bore on his shoulders the most powerful monarchy on earth; he could move whole armies across seas and mountains just by lifting an eyebrow. And there was I, trembling inside like a leaf and about to tell him no.
“No,” I said.
The count-duke blinked.
“Have you gone mad?” exclaimed Guadalmedina.
The count-duke still did not take his eyes off me, although his gaze seemed more curious now than angry.
“By my life, I’ll . . .” began Guadalmedina threateningly, taking a step toward me.
Olivares stopped him by making the very slightest of movements with his left hand. Then he glanced back at the piece of paper and folded it in four before putting it away.
“Why not?” he asked me.
He did so almost gently. I looked across at the windows and chimneys on the far side of the courtyard, at the blue-gray slate tiles lit by the setting sun. Then I shrugged my shoulders and said nothing.
“Ye gods,” said Guadalmedina, “I’ll make you loosen that tongue of yours.”
The count-duke again brought him up short, with that same slight gesture. He seemed to be able to see into every corner of my mind.