Captain Alatriste

V. THE TWO ENGLISHMEN

The younger man was not seriously wounded. His companion and Diego Alatriste had carried him closer to the lantern, which they lighted again. There they propped him against the Carmelites' garden wall and examined the knife wound he had received. It was a superficial cut that bled freely but was of no great consequence, the much- favored kind that allowed young dandies to strut before the ladies with an arm in a sling, at very little cost.

The man in the gray suit placed a clean handkerchief over the wound, which was beneath the left armpit, and then buttoned his friend's shirt and doublet, all the while speaking softly in their own tongue. During this procedure, which the Englishman performed with his back turned to Alatriste, as if he no longer feared anything from him, the captain had the opportunity to mull over certain

interesting details. For example: Belying the apparent calm of the youth in gray, his hands were trembling as he opened his companion's clothing to ascertain the gravity of the wound. Also, although the captain knew only a few words of English, those shouted from one ship to another or from parapet to parapet in battle—a veteran soldier's vocabulary, limited to Fockyou, sunsa beechez, and We gon eslice off yu balls—the captain could hear that the gray-clad man addressed his companion with a kind of affectionate respect. Further, though the injured man had called him Steenie, which was undoubtedly a friendly and familiar name or nickname, the latter used the formal 'Milord' when speaking to the younger man. There was a cat in the creamery, here, but not exactly an alley cat: a purebred Angora.

All these things piqued Alatriste's curiosity, enough that instead of making himself scarce, as his common sense was screaming at him to do, he stood there quietly beside the two Englishmen whom he had been on the verge of sending to a far different neighborhood, reflecting bitterly on one sure reality: cemeteries are filled with curious people. But he was no less sure that after the incident with the Italian, and with the two masked men and Fray Emilio Bocanegra awaiting results, the possibility of the cemetery was not a 'perhaps.' So staying, leaving, or dancing a chaconne was all one and the same. Sticking his head in the

sand, like that rare bird from Africa, would not solve anything, and furthermore, it was not Diego Alatriste's nature. He was aware that in blocking the Italian's sword he had taken a definitive step, and there was no turning back. Thus the only remedy was to play the hand with the cards dealt by that old joker Destiny, even though they were terrible.

He looked at the two young Englishmen. By this time, according to the agreement—the one he was carrying gold in his purse for executing—they should be cold cuts on a platter. He felt drops of sweat trickle down the back of his neck. What a whore luck was, he cursed silently. A fine moment he'd chosen to play at being a gentleman and suffer a crisis of conscience in some alleyway in Madrid—an old girl on her way down. And he with her.

The Englishman dressed in gray was on his feet and looking at the captain. Now it was his turn to be studied by Alatriste in the light of the lantern: blond, curling mustache, elegant air, circles of fatigue beneath his blue eyes. Barely thirty, and obviously well-bred. And like his friend, pale as wax. There had been no color in their faces since Alatriste and the Italian fell upon them.

'We are in your debt,' said the man in gray, and after a brief pause he added, 'In spite of everything.'

His Spanish was riddled with imperfections, with the strong accent of 'those up there,' that is, the English. His tone seemed sincere. It was evident that he and his companion had seen death face to face, with no soft lights or heroic drumrolls, but in the dark, and nearly in the back, like rats in an alleyway and several leagues from anything remotely resembling glory. An encounter that few members of the upper classes had experienced, accustomed as they were to departing this mortal coil amid fifes and drums, serene as the elegant profile on a coin. The fact is that from time to time he blinked without taking his gaze from the captain's, as if surprised to find himself alive. And the truth was that now he was going to live, heretic or no.

'In spite of everything,' the heretic repeated.

The captain did not know what to say. After all, despite the denouement of the ambush, he and his soldier-of- fortune companion had intended to murder the two Misters Smith, or whoever these bastards were. To fill the embarrassing pause, the captain glanced away, and the glint of the Englishman's sword caught his eye. He walked over, picked it up, and returned it to him. The so-called Thomas Smith, or Steenie—and what the devil kind of name was that?—weighed it pensively before putting it back in its scabbard. He kept looking at Alatriste with those frank blue eyes that made the captain feel so uneasy.

'At the beginning we thought . . the Englishman said, then waited as though expecting Alatriste to complete his sentence. The captain merely shrugged. At that moment the wounded youth made a move to get up, and 'Steenie' turned to help. Both men's swords were now sheathed, and in what little light remained they observed the captain speculatively.

'You are not a common thief,' said Steenie, who slowly was recovering his color.

Alatriste glanced toward the young man whom his companion had several times addressed as 'Milord.' Thin blond mustache, fine hands, aristocratic-looking despite the clothing stiff with the dust and filth of the road. If that individual was not from a good family, the captain would pledge himself to the faith of the Turks. By his life he would.

'Your name?' the man in gray asked.

It truly was amazing that these heretics were still alive, for they were innocent as lambs. Or perhaps that was the reason they were. All Alatriste could do was stay silent. He was not a man given to confidences, even less one to spill his feelings to two strangers he had been about to kill. So he could not, God knows, imagine what made this dandified young stranger think he was going to open his heart to him, just to be a good fellow. In any case, despite how much he wanted to find out what the fuck this was all about, the captain began to think that it might be better to put a little distance between himself and the two men. Getting into questions and answers was not something that suited him in the least. Besides, someone might appear at any moment: the watchman making his rounds or . . . Anything unexpected could complicate things. Indeed, given the worst possibility, it might occur to the Italian, whistling his ti-ri-tu, ta-ta, to return with reinforcements to get the job done. That thought made the captain take a worried look down the dark lane behind him. He had to get out of there, and quickly.

'Who sent you?' the Englishman insisted.

Without answering, Alatriste went to retrieve his cape. He threw it over one shoulder, leaving the hand that wielded his sword free, just in case. The horses were close by, dragging their reins on the ground.

'Get on your horses and go,' he said.

The one called Steenie did not move, but turned to consult with his companion, who had not spoken a word in Spanish and seemed to have only a rudimentary comprehension of it. They exchanged a few phrases in their