Purity of Blood

Guadalmedina turned to the poet with a faint frown. “His Majesty’s favorite has other matters to attend to.”

He said it rather tartly. Alvaro de la Marca admired the poet’s talent, and respected him as the captain’s friend. They also had friends in common—both had been in Naples with the Duque de Osuna. But the aristocrat was a poet himself in moments of leisure, and it smarted when he thought that this Senor de la Torre de Juan Abad did not appreciate his verses. And still more that Quevedo had been unimpressed when in hopes of winning his approval, Guadalmedina had dedicated a poem to him that was one of the best to come from his quill, the well-known lines that begin,

Behind good Roch, lame supplicant…

The captain was paying no attention to them, intent on unwrapping the packet the aristocrat had brought. Alvaro de la Marca, puffing his pipe, watched closely.

“Use them with caution, Alatriste,” he said finally.

The captain did not reply. He was examining the objects Guadalmedina had brought. On the wrinkled blanket lay a map and two keys.

The cauldron of the Prado gardens was boiling. It was the evening rua, the time of the stylized social parade. Carriages driving from the Guadalajara gate and the Calle Mayor tarried between the fountains and beneath the poplar groves as the setting sun painted the roof tiles of Madrid. The area from the corner of Calle Alcala to San Jeronimo road was a mass of covered and open coaches, cavaliers who had checked their horses to chat with the ladies, duennas in their nunlike white headgear, aproned servant girls, pages, hawkers selling Cano Dorado water and mead, and women peddling fruit, small pots of custard, jars of conserves, and sweets.

As a grandee of Spain with the right to wear his hat in the presence of our lord and king, the Conde de Guadalmedina was also entitled to drive a coach with four mules; the team of six was reserved for His Majesty. However, on this occasion, which required discretion, he had chosen from his coach house a modest carriage without visible insignia, drawn by two modest gray mules and driven by a servant without livery. It was large enough, however, that the count, don Francisco de Quevedo, and Captain Alatriste could fit comfortably as they drove up and down the Prado, awaiting the arranged meeting. They passed unnoticed among the dozens of coaches moving slowly at that twilight hour when all Madrid paraded in the proximity of the convent of the Hieronymites: grave canons taking their constitutionals to whet an appetite for dinner; students as rich in wit as poor in maravedis; merchants and artisans with swords at their belts, proclaiming themselves to be grand hidalgos; and especially, swarms of young swains strumming guitars as if caressing feminine curves; pale hands fastening and unfastening carriage curtains; and many a lady, veiled or not, revealing outside the footboard of her coach, as if accidentally, a froth of seductive petticoat.

As the day languished, the Prado filled with shadows; and as reputable people left, they were replaced by hussies, caballeros in search of adventure, and rogues in general, the park becoming a stage for quarrels, amorous rendezvous, and furtive consultations beneath the trees. This scene was permeated with stealth and good manners: notes exchanged from coach to coach, accompanied by torrid glances, fluttering fans, insinuations, and promises. Some of the more respectable caballeros and damas who met there with the pretense of not knowing one another were plotting an assignation as soon as the sun set, using the intimacy of a coach, or the shelter of one of the stone fountains that adorned the walk, to claim a prize. And there were the usual altercations, stabbings involving jealous lovers or husbands who had found new spices in the pot. It was upon the latter theme that the deceased Conde de Villamediana—dead, it was said, because his tongue was too loose, his innards strung across the Calle Mayor right in the middle of the rua—had written these celebrated verses:

In Madrid I do not go to the Prado,for as much as it is praisedI know that its welcoming meadowsare already overgrazed.

Alvaro de la Marca, a wealthy bachelor and habitue of the Prado and Calle Mayor, and therefore one of those who in Madrid produced cuckolds in riatas of a dozen, was singing in a different register that evening. Dressed in a discreet woolen as gray as his coach and mules, he was trying not to attract attention. As he peered through the coach’s drawn curtains, he would quickly draw back at the glimpse of an open coach bearing ladies copiously adorned with silver passementerie, silk, and ruffles from Naples, women he did not wish to greet and to whom he was better known than was convenient. At the other window, don Francisco de Quevedo was also observing from behind a half-closed curtain. Diego Alatriste sat between them, legs in long leather boots stretched out before him, rocked by the soft swaying of the coach, and silent, as was his custom. All three rested their swords between their knees and were wearing their hats.

“There he is,” said Guadalmedina.

Quevedo and Alatriste leaned toward the count to take a look. A black carriage similar to theirs, with no coat- of-arms on the door and with drawn curtains, had just passed the Torrecilla and was proceeding along the paseo. The coachman was dressed in brown, with one white and one green plume in his hat.

Guadalmedina opened the window behind the coach-box and gave instructions to the driver, who slapped the reins to catch up with the other carriage. They drove on for a short distance, until the first carriage stopped at a discreet nook beneath the branches of an old chestnut standing near a fountain topped with a stone dolphin. The second coach pulled up beside the first. Guadalmedina opened the door, and stepped down into the narrow space between them. Alatriste and Quevedo, removing their hats, did the same. And when the curtain of the black carriage was pulled back, they saw a strong, ruddy face hardened by dark, intelligent eyes; a ferocious beard and mustache; a large head set on powerful shoulders; and the crimson design of the cross of Calatrava. Those shoulders bore the weight of the largest monarchy on the earth, and they belonged to don Gaspar de Guzman, Conde de Olivares, favorite of our lord and sovereign, Philip IV, King of All the Spains.

“I did not expect to see you again so soon, Captain Alatriste,” said Olivares. “You were on your way to Flanders.”

“That was my intention, Excellency. But something came up.”

“So I see. Have you been told that you possess a rare ability for complicating your life?”

It was an uncommon dialogue, especially given that it was taking place between the favorite of the King of Spain and an obscure swordsman. In the narrow space between the two coaches, Guadalmedina and Quevedo listened in silence. The Conde de Olivares had exchanged conventional greetings with them, and was now addressing his remarks to Captain Alatriste with a nearly courtly attention that softened the hauteur of his severe countenance. Such deference from a favorite was not usual, a fact that escaped no one.

“An astounding ability,” Olivares repeated, as if to himself.

The captain refrained from comment and waited quietly, hat doffed, with a respect not lacking aplomb. After a last look at the captain, Olivares directed himself to Guadalmedina.

“About the issue that concerns us,” he said, “you must know that there is nothing to be done. I appreciate your information, but I can offer nothing in exchange. No one can intervene in the affairs of the Holy Office, not even our lord and king.” He gestured with a broad, strong hand knotted with prominent veins. “Regardless, this is not something we can bother His Majesty with.”

Alvaro de la Marca looked at Alatriste, whose expression had not changed, and then turned to Olivares. “No