now living in relative decency and comfort. I will add, and this is no secret, that La Lebrijana was painfully in love with my master Alatriste. Under that binding indenture she guaranteed him bread and drink, and also—because of the situation of the captain's lodgings, which communicated via the same courtyard with the back door of the tavern and the dwelling of La Lebrijana—a certain frequency in sharing of beds. I must make it clear that the captain was always very discreet in my presence, but when you live with another person, some things cannot be hidden. And though I may still have been a little wet behind the ears, I was not a ninny.
That day, as I was telling Your Mercies, I accompanied Caridad la Lebrijana up Mayor, Montera, and Alcala to the residence of the English ambassador, where we joined the throng cheering the prince, along with all the other idlers and assorted humanity drawn there by curiosity. The street was buzzing louder than the steps of San Felipe, and vendors were offering water and mead, meat pies and conserves. Street stalls had been hastily set up where a morning's hunger could be satisfied for a few coins; beggars were busy, servants, pages, and squires were scurrying about, creating an uproar, and tit and tittle and fabulous invention swirled through the crowd like the wind. Events and rumors from the palace were parroted in group after group, and the aplomb and chivalric daring of the young prince were praised to the heavens. Tongues—especially those of the women—were wagging over his elegance and bearing, as well as other virtues of the prince and his friend Buckingham. And so the morning raced by in a very lively, very Spanish manner.
'How well he carries himself!' said La Lebrijana, after someone presumed to be the prince was seen at a window.
'A fine figure of a man, and such grace. He would make a great match for our infanta!'
She dried her tears with the tail of her shawl like most of the female spectators, she was on the side of the suitor. The audacity of his gesture had won hearts, and everyone considered the matter signed and sealed.
'What a shame that such a handsome fellow is a heretic. But a good confessor will remedy that, and in time, a baptism.' In her ignorance, the woman believed that Anglicans were like the Turks, and were never baptized. 'A bosom like a pouter pigeon will win out over any religion.'
And she laughed, and the opulent bosom that so enthralled
So there we were, enthusiastically cheering any figure that appeared at a window, when Captain Alatriste came along. It was not the first night he had not come home, not by any stretch of the imagination, and I had slept the sleep of the dead, without a worry. But the minute I saw him at the House of Seven Chimneys, I sensed that something was wrong. His hat was pulled low over his face, his cape wrapped high around his neck, and his cheeks were not shaved despite the lateness of the hour, even though with his discipline as an old soldier he was always particular about how he looked. His gray-green eyes seemed tired and suspicious at the same time, and I watched him thread his way through the crowd with the wary attitude of someone who is expecting something bad to befall him at any moment.
Once I had assured him that no one had asked for him, neither during the night nor this morning, he seemed a bit more at ease. La Lebrijana said the same in regard to the tavern: no strangers, no inquiries. Later, when I moved a little apart, I heard her ask in a low voice what trouble he had gotten himself into this time. I took care to watch them, without appearing to, and kept my ears cocked, but Diego Alatriste said nothing more, only stared at the windows of the English ambassador's mansion, his expression unreadable.
Mixed in among the curious were people of quality: sedan chairs and coaches, including two or three carriages with ladies and their duennas peering between the curtains. I glanced at them through the itinerant vendors hurrying to offer them their wares, and thought I recognized one of the carriages. It was dark, with no coat of arms on the door, and had two good mules in the harness. The coachman was chatting with a group of bystanders, so I was able to approach the carriage without being run off. And there, at the little window, I needed only to see blue eyes and blond curls to confirm that my heart, which was pounding so madly I thought it might leap from my chest, had not erred.
'At your service,' I said, controlling my voice with great effort.
I vow I do not know how, as young as Angelica de Alquezar was at the time, she—or anyone else—could learn to smile the way she smiled that morning in front of the House of Seven Chimneys. All I know is that she did. A slow smile, very slow, conveying both disdain and infinite wisdom. One of those smiles that no young girl has had time to learn in her brief life but that is born of the lucidity and penetrating gaze that is a female's exclusive territory, the fruit of centuries and centuries of silently observing men commit every manner of stupidity. I was too young to have learned how foolish we males can be, or how much can be learned from a woman's eyes and smile. No few misadventures in my adult life would have had a happier outcome had I devoted more time to that lesson. But no one is born wise, and often, just when a man is beginning to profit from such teachings, it is too late to benefit either health or fortunes.
The fact is that the girl with the blond curls and eyes like the cold, clear skies of a Madrid winter smiled when she recognized me; she even leaned slightly toward me, accompanied by the sound of rustling silk, and placed a small, delicate white hand on the window frame. I was right by the footboard of my lady's coach, and the euphoria of the morning and the atmosphere of chivalry surrounding us spurred my audacity. My self-confidence was reinforced by the fact that I had dressed that day with a certain decorum, thanks to a dark brown doublet and a pair of old hose that had belonged to Captain Alatriste but looked like new after I had fitted them to my size with Caridad la Lebrijana's needle and thread.
'Today there is no mud in the street,' she said, and her voice shook me from my toes to the tip of my noggin. She spoke in a quiet, seductive tone; there was nothing childlike about it. Almost too serious for her age. Some ladies used that tone when addressing their gallants in the shows that strolling players presented in the plazas, and in the comedies in the theaters. But Angelica de Alquezar— whose name I did not yet know—was a young girl, not an actress. No one had taught her to feign that low throb in her voice, to enunciate her words in a way that made me feel like a grown man, and more . . . the only man for a thousand leagues around.
'No, there is no mud,' I repeated, unaware of what I was saying. 'And I regret that, for it prevents me from being of service again.'
With those last words I placed my hand over my heart. You may conclude that I behaved rather well, and that the gallant reply and gesture were worthy of the lady and the circumstances. And it must have been so, because instead of turning away, she smiled again. And I was the happiest, the most gallant, the most hidalgo lad in the world.
'This is the page I spoke of,' she said then, turning to someone beside her in the coach, whom I could not see. 'His name is Inigo, and he lives on Calle Arcabuz.' Once more she turned toward me. I was staring at her open- mouthed, stunned that she had remembered my name. 'With some captain, is that not true? A Captain Batiste, was
