Captain Alatriste

Yes, if the nearly half-century reign of our good and ineffective monarch Don Philip the Fourth, mistakenly called the Great—all chivalry and hospitality, mass on holidays, parading around with splendor and sword and empty belly—had filled Spain's coffers and put pikemen in Flanders, it is also true that I, my captain Alatriste, the Spanish in general, and poor Spain in all its kingdoms had danced to a different tune. And that infamous period was called the Siglo de Oro? What Golden Age, eh? The truth is that those of us who lived and suffered through it saw little gold and barely enough silver. Sterile sacrifice, glorious defeats, corruption, rogues, misery, and shame, that we had up to the eyebrows. But then when one goes and looks at a painting by Diego Velazquez, listens to verses by Lope or Calderon, reads a sonnet by Francisco de Quevedo, one says to oneself that perhaps it was all worthwhile.

But back to my tale. I was telling you that the news of the adventure raced around the city like a trail of gunpowder, and won the heart of all Madrid, though for our lord and king and the Conde de Olivares, as we later learned, the uninvited arrival of the heir to the English crown had hit them like lead shot between the eyes. Protocol was maintained, of course, and everything was all consideration and compliments. And of the skirmish in the lane, not so much as a whisper.

Diego Alatriste learned the particulars when the Conde de Guadalmedina returned home early in the morning, happy over the success he had just scored by escorting the two young men and being the recipient of their gratitude and that of the English ambassador. After the obligatory courtesies in the House of Seven Chimneys, Guadalmedina had been urgently summoned to the Royal Palace, where he brought the king and first minister up- to-date on the happenings. Bound by his word, the count could not reveal the details of the ambush. But without incurring the displeasure of the king, on the one hand, or betraying his word as a gentleman, on the other, Alvaro de la Marca knew how to communicate enough details through gestures, hints, and silences, that the monarch and his prime minister comprehended, to their horror, how close the two imprudent travelers had come to being filleted in a dark lane in Madrid.

The full story, or at least some of the key points that were enough to give Diego. Alatriste an idea of who his shadowy employers were, came from Guadalmedina's mouth. After spending half the morning traveling back and forth between the House of Seven Chimneys and the palace, he brought fresh, though not especially calming, news for the captain.

'In truth, it is very simple,' the count summarized. 'For some time, England has been pressing for this marriage, but Olivares and the Council, which is still under his influence, are in no hurry. That an infanta of Castile should marry an Anglican prince brought the smell of sulfur to their nostrils. The king is young, and in this, as in everything else, he lets himself be guided by Olivares. Those within the close personal circle of the king believe that the prime minister has no intention of giving his stamp of approval to the wedding—unless the Prince of Wales should convert to Catholicism. That is why Olivares has been dragging his feet, and that is also why the young Charles decided to take the bull by the horns and present us with a fait accompli.'

Alvaro de la Marca was sitting at the green-velvet-covered table, wolfing down a small snack. It was mid- morning, and they were in the same room in which he had received Diego Alatriste the night before. The aristocrat was giving his devoted attention to a chicken empanada, meat pies being one of his favorite dishes, and drinking wine from a small silver jug; his diplomatic and social success the night before had clearly whetted his appetite. He had invited Alatriste to join him at table, but the captain rejected the invitation. He remained standing, leaning against the wall, watching his protector eat. Alatriste was dressed to go out; his cape, sword, and hat were on a nearby chair, and his unshaven face showed traces of his sleepless night.

'Your Mercy, who do you think is most disturbed by the idea of this marriage?'

Between bites, Guadalmedina looked up. 'Oof. Many people.' He set the empanada on the plate and began to count on fingers shiny with grease.

'In Spain, the Church and the Inquisition are soundly against it. To them you would have to add that the pope, France, Savoy, and Venice are still open to anything that would impede an alliance between England and Spain. Can you imagine what would have happened if you had succeeded in killing the prince and Buckingham?'

'War with England, I suppose.'

Again the count attacked his food. 'You suppose correctly.' He nodded somberly. 'At the moment there is general agreement that the incident should be kept quiet. The prince and Buckingham maintain that they were the object of an attack by common footpads, and the king and Olivares are acting as if they believe them. Afterward, when they were alone, the king asked the prime minister to conduct an investigation, and he promised to see to it immediately.' Guadalmedina paused to take a long swallow of wine, then dried his mustache and goatee with an enormous napkin rustling with starch. 'Knowing Olivares, I am sure that he himself was capable of setting up an ambush, although I do not think he would go that far. The truce with Holland is falling through, and it would be absurd to distract from the war effort by taking on an unnecessary conflict with England.'

The count finished off the empanada, staring distractedly at the Flemish tapestry on the wall behind the captain: horsemen attacking a castle, and hostile individuals in turbans aiming arrows and stones at them from the merlons. The tapestry had been hanging there for more than thirty years, ever since the old general, Don Fernando de la Marca, took it as booty during the last sacking of Antwerp, in the glorious days of the great King Philip. Now Don Fernando's son was slowly chewing and staring at it reflectively. He turned to look at Alatriste.

'Those masked men who hired your services could be paid agents for Venice, Savoy, France, or who knows where. . . . Are you sure they were Spanish?'

'As Spanish as you or I. And men of breeding.'

'Do not put your faith in breeding. Here everyone claims to be from an old Christian family, a gentleman, someone of stature. Yesterday I had to dismiss my barber, who had the brass to try to shave me while his sword hung at his waist. Even servants carry them. And as work degrades honor, not even Christ lifts a hand.'

'But these I speak of were gentlemen. And Spanish.'

'Very well. Spanish or not, it is all the same. As if a foreigner could not pay someone to carry out his underhanded schemes.' The aristocrat laughed a bitter little laugh. 'In this Hapsburg Spain, my dear fellow, the gold of nobleman and villain alike is equally welcome. Everything is for sale, except the nation's honor; and even that we secretly barter at the first opportunity As for the rest, what can I tell you? Our conscience ...' He looked at the captain over the silver jug. 'Our swords ...'

'And our souls,' Alatriste finished with a flourish.

Guadalmedina took another sip, never removing his eyes from the captain.

'Yes,' he said. 'Your masked men could even be in the pay of our good pontiff, Gregory. Our Holy Father cannot abide the sight of a Spaniard.'