Arturo Perez-Reverte - The Cavalier in the Yellow Doublet

“Only the very best,” said the Italian, sensing what Alatriste must be thinking.

A hunting horn sounded in the distance, and Malatesta and the three hired killers looked up and exchanged meaningful glances.

“You’re going to stay here for a while,” said Malatesta, turning to the prisoner.

One of the other men was heading off into the bushes where the sound of the horn had come from. The other two stood at either side of Alatriste, forcing him to sit on the damp ground, and one of them started tying a piece of rope around his ankles.

“An elementary precaution,” explained the Italian. “A compliment to your courage.”

The eye with the scar above it seemed to water a little whenever it fixed on anything for any length of time, as it was at that moment.

“I always thought our final meeting would be face-to-face,” said the captain, “and alone.”

“When we met in my house, you didn’t seem prepared to show me such mercy.”

“At least I left your hands free.”

“That’s true, but I can’t, I’m afraid, do the same for you today. There’s too much at stake.”

Alatriste nodded, indicating that he understood. The man tying his ankles made a couple of very tight knots.

“Do these animals know what they’re involved in?”

The dull-witted animals did not even blink. The one tying the knots was standing up and brushing the mud from his breeches. The other was making sure the rain did not soak the gunpowder in the pistol he was carrying at his waist.

“Of course they do. They’re old acquaintances of yours. They were with me in Camino de las Minillas.”

“I assume they’ve been well paid.”

“What do you think?”

Alatriste tried to move, but to no avail. His hands and feet were bound fast, although at least now his hands were tied in front of him, a precaution his captors had taken before setting out, so that he could hold himself upright on the mule.

“How do you intend carrying out your orders?”

Malatesta had taken from his leather belt a pair of black gloves, which he was now carefully drawing on. Alatriste noticed that, as well as sword, dagger, and pistol, he also had a knife in the leg of his boot.

“As I’m sure you know, the man in question has a taste for going out hunting early with just two beaters as escort. There are plenty of deer and rabbit here, and he’s an experienced, intrepid hunter, a great marksman. All of Spain knows his liking for plunging into the undergrowth alone when he’s hot on the trail of something. It’s odd, isn’t it, that someone so self-possessed, a man who never even blinks in public or looks at anyone directly, should be so utterly transformed when in pursuit of his prey.”

He flexed his fingers to make sure his gloves fitted properly, then unsheathed his sword a few inches and put it back again.

“Hunting and women,” he added with a sigh.

He remained like this for a moment, apparently absorbed in thought. Finally, he beckoned to the two ruffians, who hoisted the captain—one holding him by the legs and the other under the armpits—and carried him over to an oak tree, where they leaned him against the trunk. He was hidden there by the bushes.

“It wasn’t easy, but we managed,” the Italian went on. “We were told that he would be here tonight, taking his ease with . . . well, you know with who. Certain people arranged for him to be accompanied this morning by two trusted beaters. Trusted by us, that is. They have just informed us, by sounding the hunting horn, that everything is going to plan and that the prey is near at hand.”

“A difficult task very delicately handled,” remarked the captain.

Malatesta thanked him for the compliment by touching the dripping brim of his hat.

“I hope that after such a wanton night, the illustrious personage made his confession before setting out,” said Malatesta, and his pockmarked face again twisted into a grimace. “Not that I care, but they do say he is a pious man. I doubt very much he would want to die in mortal sin.”

He seemed to find this thought vastly amusing. He gazed off into the distance, as if trying to spot his prey amongst the trees, then burst out laughing, his hand still resting on the hilt of his sword. In a tone that was at once jocular and sinister, he said:

“I like the idea that today we’ll be providing two new recruits for hell.”

He continued to smile, savoring the thought. Then he again looked at the captain.

“By the way,” he added courteously, “I think you were quite right last night to refuse the sacrament of penitence. If either you or I ever recounted our lives to a priest, he’d immediately hang up his habit, write a highly unexem plary novel, and make more money than Lope does each time he puts on a new play.”

Despite the situation, Alatriste could not help but agree.

“Fray Emilio Bocanegra,” he said, “isn’t much of an incentive to unburden one’s conscience.”

The Italian gave another brief laugh.

“Oh, I’m with you there. If I had to choose between two devils, I’d prefer the one with the tail and the horns to the one with the tonsure and the crucifix.”

“You haven’t yet told me what my part is in all this?”

“Your part?” Malatesta looked at him for a moment, uncertain how to reply, then he understood. “Oh, of course. The hunter and the prey. I thought you would have guessed what would happen next: a rabbit, say, or a deer rushes into the woods with the royal personage after him. The beaters hang back, and the spurned lover, namely you, appears out of nowhere and promptly runs him through. A simple case of jealousy avenged.”

“Will you run him through yourself?”

“Of course. Both him and you. A double pleasure. Then we’ll untie you, leaving your sword, dagger, and everything else nearby. Those faithful beaters, arriving at the tragic scene too late, will at least have the official honor of avenging the king.”

“I see.” Alatriste was studying his own bound hands and feet. “A shut mouth catches no flies.”

“You have a reputation, Captain, as a brave man. No one would be surprised to learn that you fought like a tiger to the death, and many would be disappointed if they thought you had surrendered your life without a struggle.”

“And what about you?”

“Oh, I know that isn’t how it was. You can depart this life with an easy mind. After all, you killed one of my men yesterday and another in Camino de las Minillas.”

“No, I meant what will you do afterward?”

Malatesta smugly stroked his mustache.

“Ah, that’s the best part. I will disappear for a while. I’d like to go back to Italy with some ballast in my purse. I left there with far too little.”

“It’s a shame they don’t ballast your balls with an ounce of lead.”

“Patience, Captain,” said the Italian, smiling encour agingly. “All in good time.”

Alatriste leaned his head against the tree trunk. The rain was running down his back, soaking the shirt underneath his buffcoat. His breeches were already sodden with mud.

“I’d like to ask you a favor,” he said.

“Ye gods,” said Malatesta, eyeing him with genuine surprise. “ You asking a favor, Captain? I hope the prospect of meeting the Grim Reaper isn’t turning you soft. I would prefer to remember you as you were.”

“Is there some way in which Íñigo could be left out of this?”

Malatesta continued to study him impassively. Then a flicker of understanding seemed to cross his face.

“As far as I know, he’s not involved,” he said. “But that doesn’t depend on me, so I can’t promise you anything.”

The man who had made off into the bushes returned and gestured to Malatesta, pointing in a particular direction. Malatesta gave the two men some orders in a low voice. One stationed himself next to the captain, his sword and pistol at his belt, and one hand resting on the hilt of his knife. The other went over to join the third man, who was waiting farther off.