'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.
'Here you have your man,' said Guadalmedina sarcastically, indicating the captain.
The Englishmen had cleaned up and rested from their journey. Their clothing had been brushed and was reasonably presentable, and the younger man was wearing a folded cloth around his neck, supporting the arm on the side of his injury. The other Englishman, the one in gray, whom Alvaro de la Marca had identified as Buckingham, had recovered an arrogance that Alatriste did not recall having seen during the fracas in the lane.
George Villiers, Marquis of Buckingham, was already the Lord High Admiral of the English fleet and enjoyed considerable influence in the circle around King James the First. He was ambitious, intelligent, romantic, and adventurous, and it would be only a brief time before he received the ducal title by which history and legend would know him. Now, still young, and quickly ascending toward the highest levels in the Court of Saint James's, he showed obvious annoyance as he stared at his attacker, but Alatriste bore his inspection without wincing. Marquis, archbishop, or villain, this fine-looking fellow brought neither heat nor chill to the captain, be he favorite of King James or first cousin to the pope. It was Fray Emilio Bocanegra and the two masked men who would keep Alatriste from sleeping that night and, he feared, for many more.
'You came close to killing us tonight in the lane,' the Englishman said very serenely in his heavily accented
