Arturo Perez-Reverte - The Cavalier in the Yellow Doublet

“You never can tell, my lad,” he murmured, “you never can tell.”

It had grown cooler and there were no stars to be seen. As we crossed the esplanade, gusts of wind were whirling up leaves torn from the tops of the trees. When we reached the palace, where we had to give the password because it was after ten o’clock, there was still no news of the captain. According to what don Francisco told me after he had exchanged a few words with the Count of Guadalmedina, the latter wished him in hell. “I hope for Alatriste’s sake,” he had said, “that he doesn’t create problems for me with the count-duke.” As you can imagine, that thought tormented me, and I wanted to stay there at the door, in case my master should arrive. Don Francisco tried to reassure me by giving me various sensible explanations. It was seven long leagues from Madrid to El Escorial. The captain might have been delayed by some minor accident, or perhaps preferred to arrive at night for greater safety. Whatever the case, he knew how to take care of himself. In the end, more resigned than convinced, I agreed that he was right, aware that he was not entirely persuaded by his own eloquence. The truth is that we could do nothing but wait. Don Francisco went about his business, and I again walked over to the great palace gate, where I decided I would remain all night, awaiting news. I was walking between the columns of the courtyard where the kitchens were located when, by a narrow staircase, ill lit and half hidden behind the thick walls, I heard the rustle of silk, and my heart stopped as if I had been shot. Even before I heard her whisper my name, even before I turned toward the shape crouched in the shadows, I knew that it was Angélica de Alquézar, and that she was waiting for me. Thus began the happiest and most terrible night of my life.

10. THE BAIT AND THE TRAP

Despite having his hands tied behind him, Diego Alatriste managed, with some difficulty, to raise himself up so that he was sitting with his back against the wall. He could remember falling off his horse and being kicked in the face, and his head hurt so much that, at first, he thought that either the fall or the kick must be the cause of the surrounding darkness. With a shudder, he said to himself: “I must have gone blind.” Then, after turning anxiously this way and that, he saw a line of reddish light under the door and gave a sigh of relief. It was perhaps simply that it was night or that he was being held in a cellar. He moved his numb fingers and had to bite his lip so as not to groan out loud; his veins felt as if they were full of a thousand pricking needles. Later, when the pain had eased slightly, he tried to piece together out of the confusion in his head exactly what had happened. The journey. The staging post. The ambush. He recalled, with bewilderment, the pistol-shot which, instead of killing him, had felled his horse. The man firing had not, he concluded, simply missed or made a mistake. They were clearly men who knew what they were about and were rigorously carrying out orders. So disciplined were they, in fact, that, even though he had shot one of their comrades at point-blank range, they had not given in to the natural desire for revenge. He could understand this because he worked in the same trade. The really weighty questions were these: Who held the purse strings? Who was paying the piper? Who wanted him alive, and why?

As if in answer to these questions, the door was suddenly flung open and a bright light dazzled his eyes. A black figure stood on the threshold, with a lantern in one hand and a wineskin in the other.

“Good evening, Captain,” said Gualterio Malatesta.

It seemed to Alatriste that, lately, he always seemed to be seeing the Italian framed in doorways, either entering or leaving. This time, however, he was the one who was tied up like a sausage and Malatesta was seemingly in no hurry at all. He came over to him, crouched down beside him, and took a close look at him.

“I’m afraid you’re not your usual handsome self,” he commented drily.

The light hurt Alatriste’s eyes, and when he blinked, he realized that his left eye was so badly swollen he could barely open it. Nevertheless, he could still see his enemy’s pockmarked face and the scar above his right eyelid, a souvenir of their fight on board the Niklaasbergen .

“I could say the same of you,” he said.

Malatesta’s mouth twisted into an almost conspirato rial smile.

“I’m sorry about this,” he said, looking at Alatriste’s bound hands. “Is the rope very tight?”

“Pretty tight, yes.”

“I thought so. Your hands are about the size and color of aubergines.”

He turned toward the door and called out. A man appeared. Alatriste recognized him as the man he had almost bumped into in Galapagar. Malatesta ordered him to slacken the rope binding Alatriste’s hands. While the man was doing this, Malatesta took out his dagger and held it to Alatriste’s throat, just to make sure that the captain didn’t take advantage of the situation. Then the man left, and they were alone again.

“Are you thirsty?”

“What do you think?”

Malatesta sheathed his dagger and held the wineskin to the captain’s lips, letting him drink as much as he wanted. He was observing him intently. By the light of the lantern, Alatriste could, in turn, study the Italian’s hard, dark eyes.

“Now, tell me what this is all about,” he said.

Malatesta’s smile broadened. It was, thought the captain, a smile that seemed to counsel Christian resignation, which, given the circumstances, was hardly encouraging. Malatesta thoughtfully probed one ear with his finger, as if carefully considering which word or words to use.

“Basically, you’re done for,” he said at last.

“And are you the one who’s going to kill me?”

Malatesta shrugged, as if to say: “What does it matter who kills you?”

“Yes, I suppose I will be,” he said.

“On whose behalf?”

Malatesta slowly shook his head, still not taking his eyes off the captain, but did not reply. Then he got to his feet and picked up the lantern.

“You have some old enemies,” he said, going over to the door.

“Aside from you, you mean?”

The Italian gave a harsh laugh.

“I’m not your enemy, Captain Alatriste, I’m your adversary. Do you not know the difference? An adversary respects you even if he stabs you in the back. Enemies are something else entirely. An enemy loathes you, even though he may praise and embrace you.”

“Cut the philosophy, please. You’re going to slit my throat and leave me to die like a dog.”

Malatesta, who was about to close the door, stopped for a moment, his head slightly bowed. He seemed to be hesitating over whether to add anything further or not.

“Well, ‘dog’ is perhaps a trifle strong,” he said at last, “but it will do.”

“Bastard.”

“Don’t be too upset about it. Remember the other day . . . in my house. And, by way of consolation, I will just say that you’ll be in illustrious company.”

“What do you mean, ‘illustrious’?”

“Guess.”

Alatriste put two and two together. The Italian was waiting at the door, circumspect and patient.

“You can’t be serious,” blurted out the captain.

“In the words of my compatriot Dante,” replied Malatesta, ‘Poca favilla gran fiamma seconda.’ From a little spark may burst a mighty flame.”

“The king again?”

This time Malatesta did not reply. He merely smiled more broadly at Alatriste’s look of stupefaction.

“Well, that doesn’t console me in the least,” replied Alatriste, once he had recovered his composure.

“It could be worse. For you, I mean. You’re about to make history.”