Arturo Perez-Reverte - The Cavalier in the Yellow Doublet

“Talk,” he said, “or, by Christ, I’ll kill you.”

The man was breathing hard. He was in a bad way, but still capable of assessing the situation. He smelled of wine recently drunk, and of blood.

“Go to hell,” he muttered feebly.

Alatriste scrutinized his face as best he could. A thick beard. A single earring glinting in the darkness. The voice of a ruffian. He was clearly a professional killer and, to judge by his words, a cool customer.

“Tell me the name of the person paying you,” Alatriste said, pressing the dagger harder against the man’s throat.

“I’m not saying,” answered the man, “so slit my throat and be done with it.”

“That’s what I was thinking of doing.”

“Fine by me.”

Alatriste smiled beneath his mustache, aware that the other man could not see his face. The wily bastard had guts, and he clearly wasn’t going to get anything out of him. He quickly searched the man’s pockets, but found only a purse, which he kept, and a knife with a good blade, which he discarded.

“So you’re not going to sing, then?” he asked.

“No.”

The captain gave an understanding nod of the head and stood up. Amongst professionals like them, those were the rules of the criminal world. Trying to force the man to talk would be a waste of time, and if a patrol of catchpoles were to appear, he would be hard pushed to come up with an explanation, at that hour of the night and with a dead man lying at his feet. So he had better cut and run. He was just about to put away his dagger and leave, when he thought better of it, and instead, leaning forward again, he slashed the man across the mouth. It made a sound like meat being chopped on a butcher’s board, and this time the man really did fall silent, either because he lost consciousness or because the blade had sliced through his tongue. Just in case. Not that the man had really made much use of it, thought Alatriste, as he moved away. At any rate, if someone did manage to sew the man up and he survived, it would help Alatriste to identify him should they ever meet again in daylight. And even if they didn’t, at least the man—or what remained of him after the wound to his body and that signum crucis —would certainly never forget Calle de los Peligros.

The moon rose late, forming halos on the glass panes of the window. Diego Alatriste had his back to the window and stood framed in the rectangle of silvery light that extended as far as the bed on which María de Castro lay sleeping. The captain was studying the shape of that woman and listening to her quiet breathing and the little moans she gave as she made herself more comfortable among the sheets that barely covered her. He sniffed his own hands and forearms: he had the smell of her on him, the perfume from her body that lay resting now, exhausted, after their long interchange of kisses and caresses. He moved, and his shadow seemed to slide like the shadow of a ghost over her pale naked body. By Christ, she was beautiful.

He went over to the table and poured himself a little wine. As he did so, he went from the mat to the flagstoned floor, and the cold sent a shiver over his weather-beaten soldier’s skin. He drank, still keeping his eyes on the woman. Hundreds of men of all classes and stations, men of quality and with nice full purses, would have given anything to enjoy her for a few minutes; and yet there he was, sated with her flesh and her mouth. His only fortune was his sword and his only future, oblivion. How odd they are, he thought again, the mechanisms that move the minds of women. Or, at least, the minds of women like her. The killer’s purse, which he had placed on the table without saying a word—doubtless the price of his own life—contained only enough for her to buy herself some fashionable new clogs, a fan, and some ribbons. And yet there he was. And there she was.

“Diego.”

This was spoken in a sleepy murmur. The woman had turned over in bed and was looking at him.

“Come here, my love.”

He put down his glass of wine and went over to her, sitting down on the edge of the bed and placing one hand on her warm flesh. My love, she had said. He didn’t even have enough money to pay for his own funeral—an event he postponed each day with his sword—nor was he an elegant fop, or a gallant, cultivated man, the sort admired by women in the street or at evening parties. My love. He suddenly found himself remembering the last lines of a sonnet by Lope that he had heard that afternoon at the poet’s house:

She loves you, loathes you, treats you well, then ill. Like a leech or surgeon’s knife, she’s double-edged: Sometimes she’ll cure, but sometimes she will kill.

In the moonlight, María de Castro’s eyes looked incredibly beautiful, and it accentuated the dark abyss of her half-open mouth. So what, thought the captain. My love or not my love. My love or someone else’s love. My madness or my sanity. My, your, his heart. That night he was alive, and that was all that counted. He had eyes to see and a mouth to kiss with. And teeth to bite. None of the many sons of bitches who had crossed his path, Turks, heretics, constables, or bullies, had succeeded in stealing this moment from him. He was still breathing, although many had tried to stop him doing so. And now, as if to confirm this, one of her hands was caressing his skin, lingering over each old scar. “My love,” she said again. Don Francisco de Quevedo would doubtless have got a good poem out of this, fitting it all into fourteen perfect hendecasyllables. Captain Alatriste, however, merely smiled to himself. It was good to be alive, at least for a while longer, in a world in which no one gave anything away for nothing, in which everything had to be paid for—before, during, and afterward. “I must have paid something,” he thought. “I don’t know how much or when, but I must have done so if life is rewarding me with the prize of having a woman look at me as she is looking at me now, even if only for a few nights.”

3. THE ALCÁZAR DE LOS AUSTRIAS

“I am very much looking forward to your play, Señor de Quevedo.”

The queen was the extremely beautiful daughter of Henry IV of France, le Béarnois ; she was twenty-three years old, pale-complexioned, and had a dimple in her chin. Her accent was as charming as her appearance, especially when, in her struggle to roll her r ’s, she frowned a little, earnestly and courteously, as befitted such a refined and intelligent queen. She was clearly born to sit on a throne, and although she came from a foreign land, she reigned over Spain as a loyal Spaniard, just as her sister-in-law, Ana de Austria—sister of our Philip IV and wife of Louis XIII—reigned as a loyal Frenchwoman in her adoptive country. When the course of history brought the old Spanish lion into conflict with the young French wolf in a squabble over hegemony in Europe, both queens—brought up to fulfill the rigorous duties of honor and blood—unreservedly embraced the respective causes of their august husbands. In the harsh times that lay ahead, we Spaniards would find ourselves in the paradoxical position of coming to blows with a France ruled by a Spanish queen. Such are the vicissitudes of war and politics.

However, to return to that morning, to doña Isabel de Borbón and to the Alcázar Real, light was pouring in through the three balconies of the Room of Mirrors, gilding the queen’s curled hair and making her two simple pearl earrings gleam. She was dressed in homely fashion, within the constraints of her rank, in a mauve gown of heavy watered camlet decorated with silver braid; and sitting, as she was, on a stool by the window of the central balcony, an inch of white stocking was visible above her satin shoes.

“I hope I will not disappoint, my lady.”