addition, as a youth he had gained prestige in his brief but brilliant military career, when at twenty-some years of age he had served on the staff of the Duque de Osuna, fighting against the Venetians and the Turks on Spanish galleys that sailed out of Naples. It was precisely from those days that his acquaintance with Diego Alatriste dated.
'A devilishly fine fix,' Guadalmedina repeated.
The captain had no response. He was hatless and without his cape, standing in a small salon decorated with
Flemish tapestries, and beside him, on a table covered with green velvet, was a glass of liquor he had not tasted. Guadalmedina, dressed in an exquisite jacket and satin slippers, was frowning and pacing back and forth before the fire, thinking about what Alatriste had just told him. It was the true story of what had happened, step by step— with only one or two omissions—from the episode with the masked men to the denouement of the ambush in the alley. The count was one of the few men the captain trusted blindly, though, as he had decided when he led the two Englishmen to the count's dwelling, that was an honor for which there was not much competition.
'Do you know these men you intended to kill?'
'No. No, I do not.' Alatriste chose his words with supreme care. 'In principle, one Thomas Smith and his companion. At least that is what they tell me. Or told me.'
'That is what I would like to know.'
Alvaro de la Marca had stopped before him and was looking at him with a mixture of admiration and reproach. The captain merely nodded slightly, and he heard the aristocrat murmur, 'All the saints above,' before he again paced the length of the room.
At that moment, the count's servants, who had been quickly mobilized, were attending the Englishmen in the best room of the house. While Alatriste was waiting, he had heard the sounds of scurrying footsteps, opening and closing doors, servants at the gate, and neighing in the stables, where, through the mansion's leaded windows, he could see the glow of torches. The house seemed to be preparing for war. The count had written urgent messages in his office before joining Alatriste. Despite his host's sangfroid and his habitual good humor, the captain had seldom seen him so agitated.
'So . . . Thomas Smith,' the count said quietly.
'That is what they said.'
'Thomas Smith. Just that, nothing more.'
'Correct.'
Guadalmedina faced him again.
'Thomas Smith, my left pinky,' he spit out impatiently. 'The one in the gray suit is named George Villiers. You have heard the name?' Brusquely he swept up the glass Alatriste had not touched, and downed it in one gulp. 'Better known throughout Europe by his English title: the Marquis of Buckingham.'
A man with a less even keel than Diego Alatriste y Tenorio, former soldier in the regiments that fought in Flanders, would have looked desperately for a chair to sit down in. Or to be more exact, to drop into. But the captain stood square, meeting Guadalmedina's eyes as if this had nothing to do with him. Much later, however, over a jar of wine and with only me as witness, the captain would acknowledge that he had had to anchor his thumbs in his waistband to keep his hands from shaking, and that his head had begun to spin like a whirligig at a fair. The Marquis of Buckingham; everyone in Spain knew who that was. The youthful favorite of King James the First of England, the cream of English nobility, famous gentleman and elegant courtier, adored by the ladies and destined for a leading role in His Britannic Majesty's affairs of state. Only a few weeks later, during his stay in Madrid, he would be made a duke.
'To sum up,' Guadalmedina concluded acidly. 'You were on the verge of murdering the favorite of the King of England. As for the other one . . .'
'John Smith?'
This time there was a note of resigned humor in Diego Alatriste's voice. Guadalmedina had clapped his hands to his head, and the captain observed that the mere mention of Mister John Smith, whoever the man was, had made the aristocrat turn pale. A moment or two later, Alvaro de la Marca ran his thumbnail through his goatee and looked the captain up and down once more, this time with admiration.
'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?'
