The Cavalier in the Yellow Doublet

a slender figure that slipped quickly out, shutting the door behind it. This confused me, because the figure I had seen was that of an agile young man, with no cloak, but dressed all in black and with the unmistakable glint of a dagger at his waist. This was not what I had expected, far from it. And so I did the only sensible thing I could at that hour of night and in that place: quick as a squirrel, I grabbed my dagger and pressed the point to the new arrival’s chest.

“Another step,” I whispered, “and I’ll nail you to the door.”

Then I heard Angelica de Alquezar laugh.

4. CALLE DE LOS PELIGROS

“We’re getting close,” she said.

We were walking along in the dark, guiding ourselves by the moonlight that filled the way ahead with the cutout shapes of rooftops and projected our own shadows onto the rough ground that ran with streams of grubby water and filth. We were speaking in whispers, and our footsteps echoed in the empty streets.

“Close to what?” I asked.

“Close.”

We had left behind us the Convento de la Encarnacion and were approaching the little Plaza de Santo Domingo, presided over by the sinister bulk of the monastery occupied by the monks of the Holy Office. There was no one to be seen near the old fountain, and the fruit and vegetable stalls were, of course, bare. A guttering lamp above an image of the Virgin lit up the corner of Calle de San Bernardo beyond.

“Do you know the Tavern of the Dog?” asked Angelica.

I stopped and, after a few steps, so did she. By the light of the moon, I could see her man’s costume, the tight doublet concealing all feminine curves, her fair hair caught up beneath a felt cap, the metallic glint of the dagger at her waist.

“Why have you stopped?” she asked.

“I never imagined I would hear the name of that inn on your lips.”

“There are, I’m afraid, far too many things you have never imagined. But don’t worry, I won’t ask you to go in.”

This reassured me somewhat, but not much. The Tavern of the Dog was a place even I would tremble to enter, for it was a meeting place for whores, ruffians, louts, and other passing trade. The quarter itself, Santo Domingo and San Bernardo, was a perfectly reputable area, inhabited by respectable people; however, the narrow alleyway where the inn was to be found—between Calle de Tudescos and Calle de Silva—was a kind of pustule that none of the neighbors’ protests could burst.

“Do you know the inn or don’t you?”

I said that I did, but avoided going into further detail. I had been there once with Captain Alatriste and don Francisco de Quevedo when the poet was in search of inspiration and looking for fresh material for his lighter verse. “The Dog” was the illustrative nickname given to the owner of the tavern, who sold hippocras, an infamous and extremely expensive cordial whose consumption was forbidden by various decrees, because, in order to make the drink more cheaply, its manufacturers routinely adulterated it with alum stone, waste matter, and other substances harmful to the health. Despite this, it continued to be drunk clandestinely, and since any prohibition brings wealth to those tradesman who flouts it, the Dog sold his particular brand of rat poison at twenty-five maravedis for half a quart—which was very good business indeed.

“Is there a place where we could keep watch on the tavern?”

I tried to remember. It was a short, gloomy street which at various points—by a crumbling wall, say, or around some hidden corner—would be pitch-black at night. The only problem, I explained, was that such places might be occupied by trulls.

“Trulls?”

“Whores.”

I felt a kind of cruel pleasure in using such words, as if this gave me back a little of the initiative which she seemed determined to seize. Angelica de Alquezar did not, after all, know everything. Besides, she may have been dressed as a man, and be very brave indeed, but in Madrid, and at night, I was in my element and she was not. The sword hanging from my belt was not an ornament.

“Oh,” she said.

This restored my composure. I might be head over heels in love, but this in no way diminished me, and, I concluded, it was no bad thing to make this clear.

“Tell me what exactly you’re up to and where I fit in.”

“Later,” she said and set off with determined step.

I stayed where I was. After going only a short distance, she stopped and turned.

“Tell me,” I insisted, “or you’re on your own.”

“You wouldn’t do that.”

She was standing there defiantly, a black shape in male costume, one hand resting casually on the belt on which she wore her dagger. I counted to ten, then spun round and strode away. Six, seven, eight steps. I was cursing inside and my heart was breaking. She was letting me leave, and I could not go back.

“Wait,” she said.

I stopped, much relieved. I heard her footsteps approaching, felt her hand on my arm. When I turned, her eyes were lit by a ray of moonlight slipping between the eaves. I thought I could smell fresh bread. It was her. Yes, she smelled of fresh bread.

“I need an escort,” she said.

“But why me?”

“Because there’s no one else I can trust.”

It sounded like the truth. It sounded like a lie. It sounded probable and improbable, possible and impossible, and the fact is, I didn’t care. She was close. Very close. If I had reached out a hand, I could have touched her body, her face.

“There’s a man I have to watch,” she said.

I stared at her in astonishment. What was a maid of honor from the court doing out alone in the dangerous Madrid night, keeping watch on a man? On whose orders? The sinister figure of her uncle, the royal secretary, came into my mind. I was, I realized, getting drawn in again. Angelica was the niece of one of Captain Alatriste’s mortal enemies; she was the same girl-woman who, three years before, had led me to the Inquisition’s dungeons and, almost, to the stake.

“You must take me for a fool.”

She said nothing, and the oval of her face was like a pale stain in the darkness, although there was still that glint of moonlight in her eyes. I noticed that she was edging closer and closer. Her body was so near now that the guard of her dagger was digging into my thigh.

“Once I told you that I loved you,” she whispered.

And she kissed me on the mouth.

The only sources of light in the alleyway were a lit window and the grubby, smoky glow from a torch fixed in a ring on the wall next to the tavern door. Everything else lay in darkness, which meant that it was easy to melt into the shadow provided by a dilapidated wall that gave onto an abandoned garden. We positioned ourselves where we could see the door and window of the tavern. At the other end of the street, in the neighboring gloom of Calle de Tudescos, we could see a few ladies of the night casting their bait—with little success. Now and then, men, singly or in groups, would enter or leave the inn. Voices and laughter emerged from inside, and occasionally we caught a line from a song or the sound of a chaconne being strummed on a guitar. A drunk staggered over to where we were sitting in order to relieve himself and got the devil of a fright when I unsheathed my dagger, held it between his eyes, and told him in no uncertain terms to take himself and his bladder elsewhere. He must have assumed we were engaged in carnal business, because he said nothing, but stumbled off, weaving from one side of