The Cavalier in the Yellow Doublet (29 page)

She dragged me back onto the bed, tugging at my hair, keeping the dagger pressed to my throat, forcing me to lie down again, this time on my stomach. Then she sat astride me, half naked as she was, her thighs gripping my waist. She still had a firm hold on my hair. Then she removed the dagger from my throat, and I felt her lips on my still bleeding wound, felt her licking the edges, kissing it just as she had kissed my mouth.

“I’m so glad,” she whispered, “that I haven’t killed you just yet.”

The light was paining Diego Alatriste’s eyes, or, rather, his right eye, because his left was still swollen, and both eyelids felt as heavy as loaded dice. This time, he saw two shadows moving about near the door of his cell. He sat looking at them from his position on the floor, his back against the wall, having failed to free his bound hands, despite almost rubbing the skin raw in his efforts.

“Do you recognize me?” asked a dour voice.

The man was lit now by the lantern. Alatriste recognized him at once, with a shiver of fear and surprise that must, he thought, have been evident on his face. Who could forget that vast tonsure, that gaunt, ascetic face, those fanatical eyes, the stark black-and-white Dominican habit? Fray Emilio Bocanegra, president of the Court of the Inquisition, was the last man he would have expected to meet there.

“Now,” said the captain, “I really am done for.”

Behind the lantern, Gualterio Malatesta gave a harsh, appreciative laugh. The Inquisitor, however, lacked any sense of humor. His piercing, deep-set eyes fixed on the captain.

“I have come to confess you,” he said.

Alatriste shot an astonished look in the direction of Malatesta’s dark silhouette, but this time the Italian neither laughed nor commented. This offer of confession was clearly intended seriously, too seriously.

“You are a mercenary and a murderer,” the Inquisitor went on. “During your unfortunate life, you have broken each and every one of God’s commandments, and now you are about to be called to account.”

The captain finally recovered the use of his tongue, which had stuck to the roof of his mouth when he heard the word “confession.” Surprising even himself, he managed to keep his composure.

“My accounts,” he retorted, “are my own affair.”

Fray Emilio Bocanegra regarded him impassively, as if he had not heard that last remark.

“Divine Providence,” he went on, “is offering you the chance to reconcile yourself with God, to save your soul, even if you must then spend hundreds of years in Purgatory. In a few hours’ time, the holy swords of the archangel and of Joshua will fall and you will have been transformed into an instrument of God. You can decide whether to go to your death with your heart closed to God’s grace or to accept it with goodwill and a clear conscience. Do you understand?”

The captain shrugged. It was one thing for them to kill him and quite another to come bothering his head with such stuff. He could still not fathom what Bocanegra was doing there.

“One thing I do understand is that today is not a Sunday, so please spare me the sermon and tell me what is going on.”

Fray Emilio Bocanegra fell silent for a moment, but his eyes remained fixed on the prisoner. Then he raised one bony, admonitory finger.

“Very shortly, the world will know that a hired killer named Diego Alatriste, acting out of jealousy for some vile imitator of Jezebel, liberated Spain of a king unworthy to wear the crown. A base instrument wielded by God for a just cause.”

The friar’s eyes were flashing now, aflame with divine wrath. And Alatriste’s suspicions were finally confirmed. He, Alatriste, was to be the holy sword of Joshua, or would, at least, pass into the history books as such.

“The ways of the Lord are unknowable,” commented Malatesta, who was standing behind the friar and saw that the captain had finally understood.

He sounded almost encouraging, persuasive, respectful. Too respectful, thought Alatriste, knowing as he did the depths of Malatesta’s cynicism. Malatesta must have been enjoying this absurd little interlude immensely. Grave-faced, the Dominican half turned toward the Italian, and the latter’s derisive comment died on his lips. In the presence of the Inquisitor, even Gualterio Malatesta did not dare overstep.

“Just what I needed,” said the captain with a sigh. “To fall into the hands of a mad friar.”

The slap was as loud as a whiplash and flung his face to one side.

“Hold your tongue, wretch.” The Dominican still held his hand high, threatening to slap him again. “This is your last chance before you face eternal damnation.”

The captain looked again at Fray Emilio Bocanegra. His cheek smarted from the blow, and he was not the kind of man to turn the other cheek. Despair formed a knot in the pit of his stomach. “By Lucifer’s balls,” he said to himself, repressing his anger. Up until that night, no one had ever slapped him in the face—ever. By Christ and the father who engendered him, he would gladly have sold his soul, always assuming he had one, just to have his hands free for a moment to strangle this friar. He glanced over at the black shape that was Malatesta, still concealed behind the lantern. No laughter and no jocular remarks emerged from him now. That slap had not pleased him one iota. Among their kind, killing was one thing—part of the job—but humiliation was another matter entirely.

“Who else is involved in this?” Alatriste asked, pulling himself together. “Besides Luis de Alquézar, of course. One doesn’t just kill a king like that. An heir is needed, and our king has not yet had a son.”

“The natural order will be followed,” the Dominican said coolly.

So that was it, thought Alatriste, biting his lip. The natural order of succession would fall on the Infante don Carlos, the eldest of the king’s two brothers. It was said that he was the least gifted of the family, and that given his weak will and lack of intelligence, he could easily fall under the influence of the right confessor for the purpose. Despite his youthful licentiousness, Philip IV was nevertheless a devout man; however, unlike his father, Philip III, who spent all his life beset by priests, he never gave the clergy a free hand. On the advice of the Count-Duke of Olivares, the Spanish king always maintained a certain distance from Rome, whose pontiffs knew, much to their regret, that the Hapsburg army was the main Catholic bulwark against the Protestant heretics. Like Olivares, the young king showed some sympathy for the Jesuits, but in a land where one hundred thousand priests and friars and monks were ever battling it out amongst themselves for control of men’s souls and of ecclesiastical privileges, it was neither easy nor advisable to come down in favor of any one group. The Jesuits were hated by the Dominicans, who ran the Holy Office of the Inquisition and were the implacable enemies of the Franciscans and Augustinians, yet they all joined forces when it came to eluding royal authority and justice. In that struggle for power, driven by fanaticism, pride, and ambition, it was hardly surprising that the Dominican order, and, of course, the Inquisition, enjoyed an excellent relationship with the Infante don Carlos. And it was no secret that he, in turn, favored them to the extent of having chosen a Dominican as his confessor. If it was red and served in a jug, Alatriste decided, it must be wine. Or blood.

“If the infante involves himself in this,” he said, “he’s an utter rogue.”

Making a gesture as if brushing away a fly, Fray Emilio Bocanegra resorted to professional rhetoric:

“The right hand does not always know what the left hand is doing. What matters is that we serve the Almighty, and that is our sole aim.”

“It will cost you your heads—you, that Italian over there, Alquézar, and the infante himself.”

“Worry about your own head,” remarked Malatesta phlegmatically.

“Rather,” added the Inquisitor, “worry about the health of your soul.” Again his terrible eyes fixed on Alatriste. “Will you make your confession to me?”

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.