Arturo Perez-Reverte - The Cavalier in the Yellow Doublet

“It’s the truth.”

Cózar was staring thoughtfully at the mess on the ground.

“Even if it is,” he said, “what do I care whether it’s the king or his knave?”

“As I said, they’re trying to implicate your wife—and Captain Alatriste.”

When he heard my master’s name, he gave a quiet, incredulous chuckle. I seized his hand and made him place it on my back.

“Touch it.”

I felt his fingers on the bandage and saw the look on his face change.

“You’re bleeding!”

“Of course I’m bleeding. Less than three hours ago, someone stuck a knife in me.”

He jumped to his feet as if he’d felt a snake brush past him. I stayed where I was, watching him pace up and down, taking short strides.

“Come the Day of Judgment,” he said as if to himself, “all will be revealed.”

Then he stopped. The gusts of rain-filled wind were growing stronger, snatching at his cloak.

“They want to kill young Philip, you say?”

I nodded.

“To kill a king . . .” he went on, getting used to the idea now. “It has its comic side, you know. Yes, it’s like a scene from a comedy.”

“A tragicomedy,” I said.

“That, my boy, depends on your point of view.”

Suddenly my brain woke up.

“Have you still got your carriage?”

He seemed confused. He stood, looking at me, swaying slightly.

“Of course I have,” he said at last. “It’s in the square. The driver’s asleep inside; that’s what I pay him for. Mind you, he’s had his fair share of wine too. I had them take him over a few bottles.”

“Your wife has gone to La Fresneda.”

His confusion changed to distrust.

“So?” he asked warily.

“That’s almost a league away, and I can’t make it on foot. In a carriage, I could be there in an instant.”

“To do what?”

“To save the king’s life and possibly hers as well.”

He started laughing mirthlessly, but stopped almost at once. Then he stood thoughtfully shaking his head. Finally, he wrapped his cloak about him and intoned theatrically:

“In leaving Fate to go its own sweet way,

I’ve been unfortunately fortunate,

For my revenge comes early in the day

Before offense has even had its say.

“My wife can take care of herself,” he said, grave-faced. “You should know that.”

And with the same grave expression, he struck a fencing pose, albeit without his sword, which still lay on the bench beside me. En garde, attack, and parry. “What a strange man this Cózar fellow is,” I thought. Then he suddenly looked at me again and smiled, and neither smile nor look were those of a cuckolded man about whom everyone gossips behind his back. But there was no time to ponder such things.

“Think of the king, then,” I said.

“Young Philip?” He made the gesture of elegantly sheathing his imaginary blade. “By my grandfather’s beard, I wouldn’t mind someone showing him that only in plays do kings have blue blood.”

“He’s the king of Spain, our king.”

The actor seemed unaffected by that “our.” He arranged his cloak about his shoulders, shaking off the drops of rain.

“Look, my boy, I deal with kings every day on stage, be they emperors or the Great Turk or Tamburlaine. Sometimes I even play them myself. On stage, I’ve done the most extraordinary things. Kings, be they alive or dead, don’t impress me very much.”

“But your wife . . .”

“Enough! Forget about my wife.”

He looked again at the broken demijohn and stood for a moment, motionless and frowning. Then he made a tutting noise with his tongue and regarded me with some curiosity.

“Are you going to La Fresneda on your own? And what about the royal guard, and the army, and the galleons from the Indies, and all the other sons of whores?”

“At La Fresneda there must be guards and people from the king’s household. If I get there, I’ll give the alarm.”

“Why go so far? The palace is right here. Why not tell someone there.”

“That’s not so easy. At this hour, no one will listen to me.”

“And what if you’re met with knife-thrusts? The conspirators might be there already.”

This caused me to hesitate. Cózar was pensively scratching his side whiskers.

“I played Beltrán Ramírez in The Weaver of Segovia ,” he said suddenly. “I saved the king’s life.

“Follow them and find out who they are,

These men who dare to place a filthy hand

Upon the sovereign’s pure and sacred breast

And to wield that impious, treach’rous, steely wand.”

He again stood looking at me, awaiting my reaction to his artistry. I gave a short nod. It was hardly the moment for applause.

“Is that by Lope?” I asked, just to say something and to humor him.

“No. It’s by the Mexican, Alarcón. It’s a famous play, you know. It was a great success. María played Doña Ana and was applauded to the echo. And I, well, what can I say?”

He fell silent for a moment, thinking about the applause, and about his wife.

“Yes,” he went on, “in the play, the king owed his life to me. Act one, scene one. I fought off two Moors. I’m quite good at that, you know, at least with stage swords, pretend swords. As an actor, you have to know how to do everything, even fencing.”

He shook his head, amused, absorbed in his own thoughts. Then he winked at me.

“It would be amusing, wouldn’t it, if young Philip were to owe his life to Spain’s finest actor, and if María . . .”

He stopped. His gaze grew distant, fixed on scenes only he could see.

“The sovereign’s pure and sacred breast,” he murmured, almost to himself.

He continued shaking his head and muttering words I could not hear now. More lines from a play perhaps. Then his face lit up with a splendid, heroic smile. He gave me a friendly pat on the shoulder.

“After all,” he said, “it’s simply another role to play.”

11. THE HUNTING PARTY

When the rain-soaked blindfold was finally removed, Alatriste found the dawn shrouded in a grim, gray light and low dark clouds. He raised his hands—which were bound in front now—to rub his eyes; his left eye still bothered him, but he found at least that he had no problem now in opening it. He looked about him. They had brought him there mounted on a mule at first—and he had been aware of the sound of horses’ hooves beside him—then on foot across some rough ground. That short walk had warmed him up a little, although with no cloak or hat on he still had to clench his teeth to keep them from chattering. He was in a wood of oaks and elms. The shadows of night still clung to the horizon in the west, which he could just glimpse through the trees; and the drizzle drenching him and the other men—a fine rain of the kind that lingers—only accentuated the melancholy of the landscape.

Ti-ri-tu ta-ta . The sound of that whistle made him turn his head. Gualterio Malatesta, swathed in his black cape and with his hat down over his eyes, stopped whistling and made a face that could as easily have been a sneer as a greeting.

“Are you cold, Captain?”

“A little.”

“And hungry?”

“More hungry than cold.”

“Well, console yourself with the thought that your life ends here. We, on the other hand, have to go back.”

He made a gesture indicating the men around him, the same men—less the one who had been killed—who had ambushed the captain at the stream. They were still dressed as beaters, and, even more alarming than their rough-and-ready appearance and their bristling mustaches and beards was the array of weapons they had about their persons: hunting knives, daggers, swords, pistols.