“Do you know if he observes any Jewish practices?”
The second “Yes” from Elvira de la Cruz made me jump up with a cry of protest, silenced by a hard thump on the nape of my neck. It came courtesy of the redheaded man who had become the one in charge of anything having to do with me; they may have feared that the larger man would silence me with one blow of his fist. Indifferent to my protest, Fray Emilio pointed toward me, though he never took his eyes from the girl.
“Do you reiterate before this Holy Tribunal that the one called Inigo Balboa has manifest Hebraic beliefs in word and deed, and that he, along with your father, brother, and other accomplices, participated in the conspiracy to take you from your convent?”
The third “Yes” was more than I could take. I pulled away from the redheaded guard and shouted that the poor girl was lying and that I had never had anything to do with the Jewish religion. Then to my surprise, instead of ignoring me as he had previously, Fray Emilio turned to me with a smile. It was a smile of triumphant loathing, so frightening and vicious that it nailed me to the spot, mute, immobilized, breathless. Delighting in every moment, the Dominican went to the table where the others were seated and picked up the chain and amulet Angelica de Alquezar had given me at the Acero fountain. He showed it to me, then to the members of the tribunal, and last to the novice.
“And have you seen this magic seal before? This amulet is tied to the horrendous superstition of Hebraic cabala, and was taken from the aforesaid Inigo Balboa at the time of his arrest by
Elvira de la Cruz had never once looked at me. Neither did she now look at Angelica’s charm, which Fray Emilio was holding before her eyes. She merely repeated the same “Yes,” her eyes to the ground, so broken that she did not even seem shamed. Weary, uncaring, as if all she wished for was to have everything over with, so she could throw herself into a corner and sleep the sleep of which she had been deprived half her life.
As for me, I was so terrified I could not even protest. The rack no longer worried me. Now my urgent preoccupation was to learn whether or not they burned boys younger than fourteen at the stake.
“Confirmed. It has Alquezar’s signature.”
Alvaro de la Marca, Conde de Guadalmedina, was wearing a suit of fine green wool trimmed with silver, suede boots, and an elaborate Flemish lace collar. He had fair skin, fine hands, and was quite handsome, and he did not lose a whit of his elegance—it was said that he cut the finest figure at court—even though he was straddling a taboret in the small, dingy room in Juan Vicuna’s gaming house. On the other side of the lattice, the main room was crowded with gamblers. The count had played for a bit, with little luck, for his mind was not on the cards, then, using the excuse of a call of nature, he left and came to the back room. There he had met Captain Alatriste and don Francisco de Quevedo, who, unrecognizable in their capes, had come by way of the secret door in the Plaza Mayor.
“And Your Mercies hit the mark,” Guadalmedina continued. “The objective was, in fact, to effect a bloodless coup against Olivares by discrediting the convent. And, in passing, seize the opportunity to settle accounts with Alatriste. They have fabricated a tale of a Jewish conspiracy, and intend to use the stake.”
“The boy, too?” asked don Francisco.
The poet’s somber black clothing—the one note of color, as always, the cross of Santiago on his breast— contrasted with the aristocrat’s affected elegance. The poet was sitting beside the captain, cape doubled across his shoulder, sword at his waist, hat upon his knees. When Alvaro de la Marca heard his question, he busied himself filling a glass with the muscatel from the jug on a second taboret, which also held a clay pipe and a pouch of shredded tobacco. The muscatel was from Malaga, and the jar was already half empty because Quevedo had given it his attention the minute he came in the door, sour as always, cursing the night, the street, and his thirst.
“Him, as well,” the aristocrat confirmed. “The novice and the boy are all they have, because the other surviving member of the family, the elder son, cannot be found.” He shrugged his shoulders and paused, his expression grave. “According to what I’ve been told, they are preparing an
“You are sure of that, Your Mercy?”
“Absolutely. I have pushed everywhere possible, paying good coin. As our friend Alatriste here would say, to score a counterstrike, it takes a lot of gunpowder. There is money enough, but in dealing with the Inquisition, even venality has its limits.”
The captain was mute. He was sitting on the cot, doublet unfastened, slowly rubbing a whetstone along the edge of his dagger. The light from the oil lamp left his eyes in shadow.
“I am amazed that Alquezar is reaching so high,” offered don Francisco, cleaning his eyeglasses on the tail of his doublet. “It is extremely bold of a royal secretary to take on the king’s favorite, even if there is another hand in the works.”
Guadalmedina took a few sips of muscatel and clicked his tongue, frowning. Then he dabbed at his curly mustache with a perfumed handkerchief he pulled from his sleeve.
“You should not be surprised. In recent months, Alquezar has gained great influence among those close to the king. He is the creature of the Council of Aragon, for whose members he performs important services, and only lately he has bought several councilors from Castile. Furthermore, through the influence of Fray Emilio Bocanegra, he enjoys support among fanatical members of the Holy Office. Around Olivares, he continues to be submissive, but it is obvious that he is playing his own game. With every day that passes, he grows stronger, and adds to his fortune.”
“Where is he getting his money?” the poet asked.
Alvaro de la Marca shrugged again. He had filled his pipe and was lighting it from a candle. Pipe and tobacco also entertained Juan Vicuna, who liked to smoke when he was passing time with Diego Alatriste. But despite its well-known curative properties—it had the apothecary Fadrique’s strong recommendation—the captain was not taken with the aromatic leaf brought on the galleons from the Indies. As for Quevedo, he preferred snuff.
“No one knows,” said the count, blowing smoke through his nostrils. “Perhaps Alquezar works for someone other than himself. What we do know is that he manages gold like a magician, and he is corrupting everything he touches. Including Olivares, who could have sent him packing back to Huesca months ago, but who now treats him rather gingerly. They say that the royal secretary aspires to be protonotary of Aragon, even minister of foreign relations. If he achieves that, he will be untouchable.”
Diego Alatriste appeared not to be listening. He set his whetstone on the straw mattress and ran one finger along the edge of the blade. Then, very slowly, he reached for the sheath and put the
