Arturo Perez-Reverte - Captain Alatriste

"You are incredible, Alatriste." He took two steps, stopped again, and looked at the captain with the same expression, "incredible."

To use the word "friendship" would be an exaggeration in defining the relationship between Guadalmedina and the former soldier, but we could speak of mutual appreciation—within the limits of both men. Alvaro de la Marca felt sincere esteem for the captain. That tale had begun when in his youth Diego Alatriste served with distinction in Flanders, fighting under the flags of the old Conde de Guadalmedina, who had more than one opportunity to demonstrate his fondness and appreciation. Later, the fortunes of war had brought the two together, in Naples, and though Alatriste was a simple soldier, he had rendered the son of his former general some services during the disastrous day of the Kerkennah Islands. Alvaro de la Marca had not forgotten, and when, after inheriting fortune and titles he had exchanged his weapons for life at court, he did not turn away from the captain. From time to time he hired his services as a swordsman: to collect debts, to escort him on romantic and dangerous adventures, or to settle accounts with cuckolded husbands, rivals in love, and annoying creditors. That, incidentally, had been the case with the young Marques de Soto at the Acero fountain, to whom, we remember, following Guadalmedina's prescription, Alatriste had administered a lethal dose of steel.

But far from taking advantage of that information, with which a good number of the arrogant sycophants who hung around at court seeking a benefice or doubloons would have made hay, Diego Alatriste kept his distance, never coming to the count except on occasions of absolute and desperate need, such as this. Something which, in addition, he would never have done had he not been sure of the nobility of the men he had attacked. And the gravity of what was about to befall him.

"Are you sure that you did not recognize either of the two masked men who charged you with this commission?"

"I have told Your Mercy. They seemed respectable men, but I was not able to identify either."

Guadalmedina again stroked his goatee. "There were only two of them that night?"

"Two that I recall."

"And one said to let them live, and the other said to kill them."

"More or less."

The count was staring hard at Alatriste. "By my oath! You are hiding something, sir!"

The captain shrugged, holding his protector's gaze. "Perhaps," he replied calmly.

Alvaro de la Marca smiled sarcastically, his scrutiny of Alatriste never lessening. They both knew that Alatriste was not going to say a word more than he already had, even if the count threatened to wash his hands of the matter and put him out on the street.

"Very well," he concluded. "After all, it is your neck."

The captain, nodded fatalistically. One of the few omissions in the tale told to the count was the role of Fray Emilio Bocanegra. Not because Alatriste had any wish to protect the Inquisitor—who was more to be feared than to be protected—but because, in spite of Alatriste's boundless faith in Guadalmedina, he was not an informer. It was one thing to tell about the masked men, but something else again to denounce the persons who had given him employ, no matter that one of them was the Dominican priest, and that the whole story, and its outcome, might cause Alatriste himself to end up in the less than friendly care of the executioner. The captain was repaying the aristocrat's kindness to him by placing the fate of those Englishmen in his hands—and his along with theirs. But although he was an old soldier and a hired sword, he too had his twisted codes. He was not prepared to break them, even if it cost him his life, and Guadalmedina knew that very well. There had been times when Alvaro de la Marca's name was the one to be given up, but with equal poise the captain had refused to reveal it to questioners. In the limited portion of the world that the two men shared despite their very different lives, those were the rules. And Guadalmedina was not prepared to infringe on them, not even with the Marquis of Buckingham and his companion sitting in his home. It was evident from his expression that Alvaro de la Marca was calculating as quickly as possible the best use he could make of the state secret that chance and Diego Alatriste had placed in his hands.

A servant was standing respectfully at the door. The count went to him, and Diego Alatriste heard them exchange a few words in low voices. When the domestic retired, Guadalmedina returned to the captain, looking thoughtful.

"I had advised the English ambassador, but those gentlemen say that it is not desirable for the meeting to take place in my home. So since they have rested, I will have several men I can trust, and me along with them, escort our two guests to the House of Seven Chimneys, to spare them further unpleasant encounters."

"May I do anything to help Your Mercy?"

The count looked at him with ironic irritation. "I fear that you have already done enough for today. The most helpful thing you can do is to stay out of it."

Alatriste nodded, and with a private sigh, resigned, slowly started to leave. Clearly, he could not return home, or take refuge with any close friend, and if Guadalmedina did not offer him lodging, he would be forced to roam the streets at the mercy of his enemies or the constables of Martin Saldana, who might already have been alerted. The count knew all that. He knew also that Diego Alatriste would never ask directly for help; he was too proud. If Guadalmedina did not acknowledge the tacit message, the captain had no choice but to face his fate in the street, with no resources but his sword. But the count was smiling, drawn from his thoughts.

"You may stay here this night," he said. "And tomorrow we shall see what life has in store. I have ordered that a room be prepared for you."

Imperceptibly, Alatriste relaxed. Through the half-open door he saw the aristocrat's servants laying out clothing. He watched as two of them brought an old buffcoat and several loaded pistols. Alvaro de la Marca did not seem inclined to expose his unexpected guests to further risk.

"Within a few hours the news of these gentlemen's arrival will have spread, and all Madrid will be abuzz." The count sighed. "They ask me as a gentleman to keep secret the news of the ambush that you and your companion prepared for them, and also ask that no one know that you helped them find refuge here. All this is very delicate, Alatriste. And more than your neck is involved. Officially, their trip ended without incident at the home of the English ambassador. And that is where we are going to attempt to go right now."

The count was moving toward the room where his clothing awaited, when suddenly he appeared to remember something.

"Oh," he added, pausing, "they wish to see you before they go. I do not know how in the devil you came to a peaceful resolution, but after I told them who you are, and how the thing came about, they did not seem to hold too much rancor. Those English and their damned British phlegm! I swear by God and all that is holy that if you had given me the fright you gave them, I would be yelling for your head. I would not have lost a minute in having you murdered."

The interview was brief, and took place in the enormous vestibule beneath a canvas by Titian that showed Danae on the verge of being impregnated by Zeus in the form of a shower of gold. Alvaro de la Marca, now dressed and equipped as if he planned to assault a Turkish galley, with several pistol grips showing above his waist sash, along with his sword and dagger, led the captain to the place where the Englishmen were waiting to leave, wrapped in their capes and surrounded by the count's servants, they, too, armed to the teeth. Only the drums were lacking to complete their resemblance to a night patrol of soldiers on the eve of a skirmish.