Arturo Perez-Reverte - The Cavalier in the Yellow Doublet

Here lies virtue, rough as sin,

Less rich, ’tis true, but feared the more,

With the vanity and dreams it’s buried in.

In the times I am describing, virtues, assuming always that they even existed, had almost all gone to the devil. We were left with nothing but the blind pride and lack of loyalty that would finally drag us into the abyss; and the little dignity we retained became the province of a few isolated individuals, or else appeared on the stages of our theaters—in the poetry of Lope and Calderón, and on the distant battlefields where our veteran troops were still fighting. It has always made me laugh to hear men declare, with a twirl of their mustaches, that ours is a dignified and gentlemanly nation. Well, I was, and am, a Basque and a Spaniard; I’ve lived my century from beginning to end, and along the way I’ve encountered many more San cho Panzas than Don Quixotes, more base, despicable, wicked, ambitious people than valiant, honest folk. Our one virtue was that when there was no alternative, some, even the very worst of us, died like men, standing up with sword in hand. The truth is, though, that it would have been far better to live and work for the progress we so rarely enjoyed; alas, kings and royal favorites and priests obstinately denied us this possibility. Each nation is as it is, and what happened in Spain happened. Yet, since we all went down in the end, perhaps it was better like that, with just a few desperate men salvaging the dignity of the unspeakable rump—as if it were the tattered standard from the Terheyden redoubt—by praying, blaspheming, killing, and fighting to their last breath. And that, at least, is something. When anyone asks me what I admire about this poor, sad land of Spain, I always repeat what I said to that French officer in Rocroi: “Count the dead.”

If you are gentleman enough to escort a lady, wait for me tonight at the Puerta de la Priora when the angelus is rung.

And that was all the note said; there was no signature. I read it several times, leaning against a column in the courtyard while don Francisco chatted with a group of acquaintances. Each time I read those words, my heart started pounding in my breast. During the time that Quevedo and I had been in the presence of the queen, Angélica de Alquézar had displayed no particular interest in me. She sat surrounded by her whispering companions, and even her smiles were subtle and contained, although, having said that, her blue eyes did occasionally fix on me with such intensity that I feared my legs might buckle. I was a handsome youth at the time, tall for my age, with bright eyes and thick black hair, and I cut quite a decent figure in my new clothes, and in the cap, complete with a red feather, that I was holding now in my hands. That is what had given me the courage to bear the scrutiny of my young lady, if the word “my” can be applied to the niece of the royal secretary Luis de Alquézar, for she was always herself alone, and even when I knew her mouth and her flesh—and I could not have imagined then how soon I would do so for the first time—I always felt like a temporary guest, an interloper, uncertain of the ground I was treading on and expecting, at any moment, that the servants should throw me out into the street. And yet, as I have said before, despite all that happened between us, despite the scar from the knife wound I bear on my back, I know—at least I want to believe that I do—that she always loved me. In her fashion.

We met the Count of Guadalmedina beneath one of the archways on the stairs. He had just emerged from Philip IV’s apartments, where he came and went much as he pleased, and to which the king had just retired after a morning spent hunting in the woods around Casa del Campo. Hunting was one of the king’s greatest pleasures, and it was known that he liked to hunt boar without the aid of dogs and could happily spend all day riding the hills in pursuit of his prey. Álvaro de la Marca was wearing a chamois leather doublet, mud-spattered gaiters, and a neat little hat adorned with emeralds. He was dabbing at his face with a handkerchief drenched in scented water as he made his way to the front of the palace, where his carriage awaited him. He looked even more handsome than usual in his hunting costume, which gave a spuriously rustic touch to his otherwise courtly appearance. It was hardly surprising, I thought, that the ladies of the court always fanned themselves more furiously and more ostentatiously whenever the count looked at them; and that even the queen had at first shown a certain fondness for him, without, of course, acting in any way that went against her high rank and person. And I say “at first” because, by this time, Isabel de Borbón was aware of her august husband’s escapades and of the role that Guadalmedina played in these—as companion, escort, and procurer. She despised him for that, and although protocol obliged her to be polite—for as well as being her husband’s servant, he was also a grandee of Spain—she always went out of her way to treat him with particular coldness. There was only one other person at court whom the queen hated quite as much, and that was the Count-Duke of Olivares, whose position as royal favorite never met with the approval of that princess brought up in the arrogant court of Marie de’ Medici and Henry IV of France. Although loved and respected until her death, Isabel de Borbón would eventually lead the courtly palace faction which, a decade and a half later, would call a halt to the count-duke’s absolute power, pushing him off the pedestal to which he had been elevated by his intelligence, ambition, and pride. The people had listened to, admired, and feared great Philip II, then quietly complained about Philip III, but, under Philip IV, they had become so broken and exhausted, so weary of financial ruin and disaster, that their feelings had begun to shift from respect to despair. To assuage those feelings, they had to be served up a political head:

You who think you’ll never fall,

You who dare to swagger tall,

Remember this, be not deceived:

Troy finally fell, its power o’erheaved,

As did the Princesse de Bretagne.

That morning at the palace, when the Count of Guadalmedina spotted don Francisco and me, he came running down the last few stairs, elegantly sidestepping a small knot of petitioners—a retired captain, a cleric, a mayor, and three provincial hidalgos hoping for someone to breathe life into their pretensions. Then, having greeted the poet affectionately and clapped me cordially on the back, he took us to one side and came straight to the point.

“We have a problem,” he said gravely.

He looked at me out of the corner of his eye, as if wondering whether he should say anything further in my presence. I had, however, already lived through many adventures with Captain Alatriste and don Francisco, such that my loyalty and discretion were proven beyond doubt. Glancing around him to make sure that no palace ears were listening, he touched his cap to a member of the Council of the Exchequer who was walking past beneath the arches—and after whom the group of petitioners scuttled like pigs to a maize field—then, lowering his voice to a whisper, said:

“Tell Alatriste to change mounts.”

It took me a while to understand what he meant. Not so the ever-sharp don Francisco, who adjusted his glasses in order to study the count more closely.

“Are you serious?”

“I certainly am. Do I look as if I were in the mood for jokes?”

A silence. I was beginning to understand. Quevedo cursed quietly:

“Where women are concerned, I am, in every sense and tense, finished. You should give him the message yourself. If you have the balls for it, that is.”