Captain Alatriste

The fire in the great stone-and-marble hearth had burned down, and the sun shining through the windows was barely warm, but that mention of the Church was enough to make Diego Alatriste feel uncomfortably flushed. The sinister image of Fray Emilio Bocanegra floated through his mind like a specter. He had spent the night seeing him materialize on the dark ceiling of the room, in the shadows of the trees outside the window, in the dark corridor, and the light of day was not bright enough to make him fade completely. Guadalmedina's words brought him back again, like a bad omen.

'Whoever they may be,' the count continued, 'their objective is clear: to avert the marriage, to teach a terrible lesson to England, and to see war explode between the two nations. And you, by changing your mind, poleaxed everything. You earned your degree in the art of making enemies, so, were I you, I would take good care to guard my back. The problem is that I cannot protect you any longer. With you here, I myself could become implicated. Again, if I were in your shoes, I would take a long journey ... a very long journey. . . . And whatever it is you know, do not tell anyone, even in confession. If a priest learned anything of this, he would hang up his habit, sell the secret, and live life as a wealthy man.'

'And what about the Englishman? Is he safe now?'

Guadalmedina assured Alatriste that he was. With all Europe knowing where he was, the Englishman could consider himself as safe as if he were in his foul Tower of London. It was one thing for Olivares and the king to keep dragging their feet, to lionize the prince and make promise after promise, until he got bored and followed a fair wind home. It was altogether different to claim that they could not guarantee his safety.

'Besides,' the count went on, 'Olivares is wily, and he knows how to improvise. He can easily change his plan, and the king with him. Do you know what he told the prince this morning in my presence? That if they did not obtain dispensation from Rome and could not give him the infanta as a wife, they would give her to him as a lover. A fine one, that Olivares! A whoreson to end all whoresons— clever and dangerous, and sharper than the pangs of hunger. And Charles, completely content now, is sure that he will hold dona Maria in his arms.'

'Does anyone know how she feels about the matter?'

'She is young, so use your imagination. She is not averse to love. That a young, handsome heretic of royal blood would do what he did for her both repels and fascinates her. But she is an infanta of Castile, so protocol is to be observed. I doubt that they will let them anywhere near each other, even to pray an Ave Maria. And by the way, just as I was coming home, I composed the first lines of a little sonnet.

'Wales came to seek his infanta fair

And a bridal bed, but if truth be told,

The coveted prize, the Lion learned,

Goes to the patient, not the bold.'

'What do you think?' Alvaro de la Marca looked at Alatriste, who was smiling lightly, amused but prudently abstaining from comment.

'I am not Lope, forsooth! And I imagine that your friend Quevedo would make some serious objections, but for something of mine, it is not at all bad. If you come across it on one of those anonymous broadsheets, you will know whose it is.... Well, then.'

The count downed the rest of his wine and stood, tossing his napkin on the table. 'Getting back to serious questions, one thing is true: An alliance with England would put us in a better position regarding France. After the Protestants—I would say even more than those dissenters— that is our principal threat in Europe. We must hope that over time Olivares and the king will change their minds and the wedding will take place, although from the comments I heard from them in private, that would surprise me greatly.'

The count walked aimlessly around the room, again examined the tapestry his father had stolen in Antwerp, and stopped, thoughtful, at the window.

'It might somehow have been understandable,' he went on, 'if an anonymous traveler, one who officially was not even here, had been the victim of an unknown swordsman last night. But now ... If an attempt were made now on the life of the grandson of Mary Stuart, a guest of the King of Spain, and the future monarch of England . . . 'Sblood! That could not be as easily explained. The moment has passed. And for that reason I imagine that your masked men must be enraged, clamoring for vengeance. Furthermore, it is not in their best interest that there be witnesses who might speak out, and the best way to silence a witness is to fit him for a coffin.'

Again his eyes bored into Alatriste's. 'Do you understand your situation? Yes? I am happy to hear that. And now, Captain Alatriste, I have devoted too much time to you. I have things to do, among them completing my sonnet. You must look to your safety, and may God help you.'

All Madrid was one great fiesta. The people's curiosity had converted the House of Seven Chimneys into a colorful place of pilgrimage. Large numbers of curious Madrilefios followed Calle de Alcala to the church of the Discalced Carmelites, passed it, and congregated before the residence of the English ambassador, where mild- mannered constables kept pushing back the spectators, who cheered every time one of the carriages going to or coming from the house passed. There were constant calls for the Prince of Wales to come out to greet them, and when at mid-morning a young blond appeared for a moment at one of the windows, he received a thunderous ovation, to which he replied with a wave of the hand so genteel that he immediately won the approval of the crowd gathered in the street.

Generous, sympathetic, welcoming to anyone who knew how to reach their hearts, the people of Madrid would show to the heir of the English throne the same evidence of their appreciation and goodwill during all the months he was to spend at court. The history of our benighted Spain would have been very different had the generous impulses of the people won out more frequently over the arid doctrine of the state and the self-interest, venality, and ineptitude of our politicians, nobles, and monarchs. The anonymous chronicler who composed the ballad of El

Cid says the same of the ordinary people of that day. His words come to mind when one considers the sad history of our people, who always have given the best of themselves— their innocence, their money, their labors, and their blood— only to find themselves ill repaid in return: 'What a fine vassal would he have made, had he but served a good lord.'

The case is that the Madrilefios came that morning to celebrate the Prince of Wales, and I myself was there accompanying Caridad la Lebrijana, who did not want to miss the spectacle. I do not know whether I have told you, but at that time La Lebrijana was about thirty or thirty-five years old, a common but beautiful Andalusian, still spirited and well formed; she had olive skin, large black shining eyes, and a generous bosom. For five or six years she had been an actress, and about that many more a whore in a house on Calle de las Huertas. Weary of that life, at the first sign of crow's-feet she had used her savings to buy the Tavern of the Turk, and with that asset she was