The Cavalier in the Yellow Doublet (27 page)

 

 

 

 

His horse almost slipped on the pebbles in the streambed but managed to make it to the other side without falling, about twenty paces ahead of the men galloping toward him along the bank. The captain observed them with a practiced eye: they both had bushy mustaches, were dressed as hunters or gamekeepers, armed with pistols and swords, and one of them had a harquebus resting crosswise on his saddle. They were obviously professionals. The captain glanced behind him and saw the two men from the inn urging on their mounts and racing down the hill from Galapagar. It was all as clear as day. He pulled up his horse and, gripping the reins between his teeth, quietly drew his pistol and cocked it. Then he cocked the other pistol which he had ready in the holster on the saddle-tree. He was not expert in such fighting methods, but dismounting in order to face four mounted men would have been madness. The wryly consoling thought occurred to him that whether on foot, on horseback, or accompanied by a chaconne, there was nothing for it but to fight. When the two men on the bank were about four feet away, he stood up in the stirrups, took careful aim, arm outstretched, and had time enough, as he squeezed the trigger and unleashed a bullet, to see the look on the face of the man he had singled out. He would have killed him, too, if his own horse hadn’t started and caused his aim to suffer. The noise and the flash caused the rider with the harquebus to pull his horse up short to avoid the shot. His companion did the same, tugging on the reins. This gave Alatriste time to wheel his horse around, put the discharged pistol away, and take out the other. With this in his hand, he intended to drive his horse forward and get closer, so as not to miss the second time. His mount, however, was no war horse and, terrified by the noise of the pistol shot, set off at a gallop downstream. Cursing, Alatriste found himself with his back to the men and unable to take proper aim. He yanked so hard at the reins that the horse reared up, almost unseating him. When he finally managed to regain control, he had a man on either side of him, each with a pistol in his hand, and the men from the inn were now splashing their way toward him across the stream. They had their swords unsheathed, but the captain was more concerned about the pistols threatening him on either flank. And so he commended himself to the devil, raised his pistol and shot the nearer man at point-blank range. This time, he saw the man slump back onto his horse’s rump, one leg sticking up and the other caught in the stirrup. Then, throwing down the pistol and grabbing his sword, Alatriste watched as the other man raised his pistol and aimed it in his direction. Behind the pistol, Alatriste could see the man’s fierce eyes, as fixed and black as the mouth of the barrel pointing straight at him. “This is where it all ends,” he thought, “and there’s nothing to be done about it.” He brandished his sword anyway, in an attempt at least, with that one last impulse, to cut down the bastard who was about to kill him. And then, to his surprise, he saw that the black hole of the barrel was aimed instead at his horse’s head, and found himself splattered by the creature’s blood and brains. He fell forward onto the dead beast and was thrown off onto the stony bank. Dazed, he tried to get up, but his strength failed him and he lay motionless, his face pressed into the mud. Shit. His back hurt as badly as if he had broken his spine. He glanced wildly around for his sword, but saw only a pair of boots and spurs in front of him. One of the boots kicked him in the face, and he lost consciousness.

 

 

 

 

My anxiety began to grow at the hour of the angelus, when don Francisco de Quevedo, looking very somber, came to tell me that my master had still not presented himself to the Count of Guadalmedina, and that the latter was growing impatient. Gripped by dark thoughts, I went outside and sat on the parapet along the east-facing esplanade, known as La Lonja, from where I could see the road from Madrid. I remained there until the sun, veiled at the last moment by ugly gray clouds, finally sank behind the mountains. Then, feeling uneasy, I went in search of don Francisco but failed to find him. I wanted to go into the main courtyard, but the archers on guard barred my way, saying that the king and queen and their guests were attending a musical evening in the little temple. I asked them to tell don Álvaro de la Marca that I wished to speak to him, but the sergeant told me that this was not an opportune moment and that I should wait until the gathering was over or else go and bother someone else. Finally, an acquaintance of don Francisco’s whom I met at the foot of the main staircase told me that don Francisco had gone to dine at the Cañada Real, through the archway opposite the palace, which was where he usually ate. And so I set off again, once more crossing the esplanade and going up the slight hill to the archway, where I turned left and made my way to the inn.

It was a small, pleasant place, lit by tallow candles set in lanterns. The walls, made of the same granite as the palace, were adorned with hams, sausages, and strings of garlic. There was a large stove tended by the mistress of the house, and the innkeeper himself waited at table. I found don Francisco de Quevedo, María de Castro, and her husband all seated there. The poet shot me a questioning glance, frowned when I shook my head, then invited me to join them.

“I believe you know my young friend,” he said.

They did indeed know me, especially La Castro. The lovely actress welcomed me with a smile, and her husband with an ironic and exaggeratedly friendly gesture, for he knew who my master was. They had just finished eating a dish of braised trout, it being Friday, and offered me what was left. My stomach, alas, was too troubled, and I dined instead on a little bread dipped in wine. It was no ordinary wine, either, and that night Rafael de Cózar had clearly drunk his fair share, for he had the red eyes and thick tongue of someone who has paid generous tribute to the jug. The innkeeper brought more wine, this time a sweet Pedro Ximénez. María de Castro—whose outfit, a close-fitting bodice and long riding skirt, was adorned with at least fifty
escudos’
worth of Flemish lace at neck, wrist, and hem—was drinking prettily and only a little at a time; don Francisco was drinking equally moderately, while Cózar drank on like a man dying of thirst. Between sips of wine, the three continued discussing things theatrical—what gestures to make at a particular moment, or how to say this or that line—while I awaited the right moment to speak to don Francisco alone. Despite my great unease, I was nonetheless able to admire once more the beauty of the woman for whose sake the captain had set himself against the king’s will. What shook me was the nonchalance with which María de Castro threw back her head to laugh, sipped her wine, played with the round coral earrings that hung from her lovely ears, or looked at her husband, at don Francisco, and at me in the particular way she had of looking at men, making each of us feel that she had singled us out as the only man on earth. I could not help thinking of Angélica de Alquézar, and that made me wonder if La Castro cared a jot about what happened to the captain, or even to the king himself, or if, on the contrary, in the game of chess played by women like her—and perhaps by all women—kings and pawns were all the same: temporary and dispensable. And I found myself toying with the idea that María de Castro, Angélica, and other such women were like soldiers in hostile territory, who saw themselves as foragers prowling a world of men and forced to use their beauty as ammunition and the vices and passions of the enemy as their weapons. It was a war in which only the bravest and cruelest could survive and one in which, almost always, the passage of time would finally vanquish them. Seeing María de Castro in all the perfect beauty of her youth, no one would have thought that, a few years later, for reasons that have no bearing on this story, my master would visit her for the last time in the hostel for sick women opposite Atocha Hospital, and find her aged and disfigured by syphilis, covering her face with her cloak, ashamed to be seen in that state. Or that I, standing unseen by the door, would see Captain Alatriste, when the time came to say good-bye, lean toward her and, despite her resistance, draw aside the cloak and place a final kiss on her withered lips.

Just then, the innkeeper came over and whispered something to María de Castro. She nodded, stroked her husband’s hand, and stood up with a rustle of skirts.

“Good night,” she said.

“Shall I come with you?” asked Cózar distractedly.

“There’s no need. Some friends are expecting me, the queen’s ladies.”

She was looking at herself in a small mirror and touching up her rouge. At that hour, I thought, the only ladies who weren’t safe in bed were whores and the queens in a deck of cards. Don Francisco and I exchanged a meaningful glance, which Cózar caught. His face was an impassive mask.

“I’ll have them bring the coach around for you,” he said to his wife.

“There’s no need,” she said confidently. “My friends have sent theirs.”

Her husband nodded indifferently, as if he didn’t care one way or the other. He was bent over his wine and seemed entirely unmoved.

“May I know where you’ll be?”

She gave a charming smile and put away the mirror in her little silver mesh bag.

“Oh, somewhere or other. In La Fresneda, I think. But don’t sit up for me.”

With another smile and with great aplomb, she said good-bye, arranged her cloak to cover head and shoulders, gathered up her skirt, and departed, gently shaking her head at don Francisco, who had gallantly stood up in order to accompany her to the door. I noticed that her husband did not stir from his seat, but sat with doublet unfastened and mug in hand, staring into his wine with an absorbed expression on his face and a strange grimace of distaste beneath that long mustache of his. If that remarkable woman is leaving alone, I thought, while her drunkard husband stays here with don Pedro Ximénez and with that look on his face, she’s clearly not simply going off to say her prayers before bed. Don Francisco shot me a grave glance, eyebrows raised, which only confirmed me in my view. La Fresneda was a hunting lodge on the royal estate, just over half a league from El Escorial, at the far end of a long avenue of poplars. Neither the queen nor her ladies had ever been known to set foot there.

“It’s time we all went to bed,” said don Francisco.

Cózar still did not move, his eyes fixed on his mug of wine. The ironic, scoundrelly smirk had grown more marked.

“Why the rush?” he murmured.

He seemed quite different from the man whom I had previously only seen from afar; it was as if the wine were revealing shadowy corners that normally went unperceived in the glare of the stage lights. Then, abruptly raising his glass, he said:

“Let’s drink to young Philip’s health!”

I eyed him uneasily. Even famous actors had to watch what they said. In truth he was not the sparkling, witty character we had seen on stage, always with a sharp riposte on his lips and always in a buoyant mood, with that peculiarly mocking air about him, as if he were saying: “I’m enjoying myself, the worms can wait.” Don Francisco again looked at me, then poured himself some more wine and raised it to his lips. I was fidgeting in my seat, shooting him impatient glances. He, however, shrugged his shoulders, as if to say: “There’s not much we can do. Your master holds all the cards, but where is he? As for this other man, sometimes a few glasses of wine reveal things that sobriety keeps at bay.”

“How does that wonderful sonnet of yours go, Señor de Quevedo?” Cózar had placed one hand on don Francisco’s arm. “Something about a ruddy-faced silversmith pursuing the nymph Diana . . . Do you know the one I mean?”

Don Francisco observed him intently, as if trying to see what was going on behind the other man’s eyes. The light from the candles was reflected in the lenses of his spectacles.

“I can’t remember,” he said at last.

He was anxiously twirling his mustache. I concluded that he had not liked what he saw inside Cózar. Even I sensed in the actor’s tone of voice something I would never have imagined—a vague rancour, contained and dark—entirely opposed to the person Cózar was, or usually seemed to be.

“You don’t? Well, I do,” Cózar raised a finger. “Wait.”

And albeit rather hesitantly, he proceeded to recite with actorly skill, for he was a magnificent player possessed of an excellent voice:

One didn’t have to be a literary expert to be able to decipher the symbols, and the poet and I exchanged another uncomfortable look. Cózar, on the other hand, seemed entirely unperturbed. He had once more raised his mug of wine to his lips and appeared to be chuckling to himself.

“And what about that other poem of yours?” he said, having taken two long gulps of wine. “Don’t you remember that one, either? Of course you do. ‘A cuckold, you are, sir, up to your brows.’ ”

Don Francisco was shifting uneasily in his seat, looking around like someone seeking an escape route.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Really? Well, you wrote it, and it’s famous. In the gossip-shops they say it may be a reference to me.”

“Ridiculous. You’ve had too much to drink.”

“Of course, but I have a superb memory for poetry. Listen:

“Not for nothing am I Spain’s finest actor. But wait, Señor Poet, for another particularly apt sonnet springs to mind. I refer to the one that begins: ‘The voice of the eye that we call a fart.’ ”

“That, as far as I know, is anonymous.”

“Yes, but everyone attributes it to your illustrious pen.”

Don Francisco was beginning to get really angry now, although he still kept glancing to left and right. The relieved expression on his face was saying, “At least we’re alone and the innkeeper’s nowhere to be seen.” For Cózar, with no prompting, was declaiming: