Arturo Perez-Reverte - The Cavalier in the Yellow Doublet

Alatriste removed his cape. Then, ignoring the pistol he had at his waist because he could not be sure that it would fire in all that rain, he rested one hand on his sword and the other on his knife, while he studied the terrain with an expert eye, calculating the distance and how long it would take to cross it. The fair-haired man, he thought grimly, did not look as if he would be much help. He stood there, motionless and aloof, his gun in his hand, regarding the murderers surrounding him as indifferently as if the whole affair had nothing whatever to do with him. Alatriste noticed that, like any wise hunter, the young man kept one tail of his tabard over the hammer of his gun to protect it from the rain. Were it not for the rain, the mud, and the five threatening men, he might have been posing for a court portrait by Diego Velázquez. A smile appeared on the captain’s face, half admiring, half scornful. Was it courage, he wondered, or was it, above all, stupidity and an absurd example of the Burgundian sangfroid that Charles V had introduced into the Hapsburg court a century before? At least he had one bitter consolation: the king for whom he was risking his life would not lose his composure even when under threat of death. And that was good. Although perhaps that palace peacock simply could not comprehend what was happening, or was about to happen.

More to the point, thought Alatriste, what was he doing involved in all this? Why was he risking his life for a man who could not even be bothered to lift a finger in his own defense, as if he were expecting the angels to descend from the heavens, or for his own archers to emerge from the undergrowth, invoking God and Spain? A palace upbringing created bad habits. Absurdly, the only “palace guards” here were himself, Íñigo, and Cózar—with the shade of María de Castro hanging in the rain. There was always some idiot willing to get himself killed. The memory of what had happened in Camino de las Minillas made him tremble with rage. By Christ and his father, it would serve that fair-haired fool right—accustomed as he was to risk-free adventures with the wives of other men—if just this once he saw the boar’s tusks close-up. There was no Guadalmedina to get him out of trouble. Damn it, let him pay the price that all men pay sooner or later; and with Gualterio Malatesta on hand, he would have to pay it in cash.

“Hand over the gun, Your Majesty.”

Alatriste heard the Italian’s words quite clearly from his position behind the tree, where he was watching the scene with a kind of morbid curiosity. The king had little opportunity to defend himself: the hunting knife did not count, and he had no sword; at best, he might manage one shot with his gun, assuming it was loaded and the powder dry.

“Hand it over,” said one of the ruffians impatiently, walking up to the king, sword at the ready.

Philip IV did something very strange then. His face remained utterly impassive, but he inclined his head a little to look at his gun, as if, up until then, he had quite forgotten about it. He did this with the indifference of a man observing an object of no importance to him. After that brief moment of immobility, he cocked the hammer and raised the gun to eye level. Then, coolly taking aim at the ruffian, he felled him with a shot to the head.

That explosion was like a signal. I was with Cózar on the opposite side of the clearing, in accordance with the captain’s latest instructions to position ourselves so that we could attack Malatesta and his men from there. When I saw my master leave his hiding place and run toward them, sword in one hand and knife in the other, I immediately unsheathed my sword and went ahead too, not bothering to see whether Cózar would follow me.

“God save the king!” I heard Cózar bawl out behind me. “Stop at once, I order you.”

Holy Mother of God, I thought, that’s all we need. When the Italian and the ruffians heard these shouts and the sound of our footsteps splashing through the mud and puddles, they spun round, surprised. That is my last clear memory: Malatesta wheeling about to face us, then furiously barking out orders, meanwhile whipping out his sword with lightning speed, while, in the pouring rain, his men stood, with raised swords, ready to fight us. And, behind them, motionless, his gun still smoking, stood the king, watching us.

“God save the king!” Cózar kept shouting, fierce as a tiger now.

There were two of us against four, for I assumed the actor would be of little, or negligible, help. We had to be quick and careful. As soon as I found myself face-to-face with one of the beaters, I delivered such a hard thrust that I made him drop his sword. Then, slipping past, nimble as a squirrel, I confronted the man behind him. He attacked, blade foremost. I steadied myself as best I could and took my dagger in my left hand, praying to God that I did not slip in the mud. I parried well with my dagger, changed position, and then, crouching down, drove my sword upward, sticking at least three spans of steel into the soft part of his belly. When I drew back my elbow to remove the blade, he fell forward, a look of astonishment on his face, as if to say, “How could such a thing happen to this mother’s son?” However, I was no longer concerned with him, but with the first man, who now had no sword, only a dagger. I whirled around, expecting to find him already on top of me, but then I saw that he was embroiled with Cózar, defending himself as best he could, with one arm injured and his dagger in his left hand, from the fearsome, double-handed blows the actor was dealing out.

Things were not turning out so badly after all. As for me, the wound Angélica had inflicted on me hurt abominably, and I just prayed that with all this activity it did not open up again, leaving me to bleed to death like a stuck pig. I turned to help the captain, and at that instant, as my master was withdrawing his sword from the entrails of a ruffian—who was bent double, blood gushing from his mouth like a bull in a bullring—I noticed that Gualterio Malatesta, a large black figure in the rain, had shifted his sword to his left hand, taken his pistol from his belt, and, after looking first at my master and then at the king, was now pointing it at the latter from a distance of only a few paces. I was too far away to do anything and had to watch, helpless, as the captain, having recovered his sword, rushed to interpose himself between the bullet and its target. Malatesta straightened his arm and took careful aim. I saw how the king, looking his killer in the face, threw down his own gun, stood very erect, and folded his arms, determined that the pistol shot would find him suitably composed.

“Turn your fire on me!” cried the captain.

The Italian took no notice. He held his aim on the king. He squeezed the trigger and flint struck steel.

Nothing happened.

The powder was wet.

Sword in hand, Diego Alatriste placed himself between Malatesta and the king. I had never seen such an expression on Malatesta’s face. He was almost beside himself. He kept shaking his head incredulously and staring at the pistol that lay useless in his hand.

“So close,” he said.

Then he seemed to recover himself. He looked at the captain as if seeing him for the first time, or as if he had forgotten he was there, and then, from beneath the dripping brim of his hat, he gave a faint, sinister smile.

“I was so close,” he repeated bitterly.

Then he shrugged and threw down the weapon, taking his sword in his right hand.

“You’ve ruined everything.”

He took off his cloak, which was hampering his movements. He indicated the king with a lift of his chin, but continued staring at Alatriste.

“Do you really think such a master is worth it?”