were often used as cool summer retreats. The one that interested Alatriste had been built against the wall of a ruined convent, whose cloister served as a small garden, its roofless pillars holding up the starry vault of the sky.
A dog barked in the distance and another answered. Then the barking stopped and silence was restored. Alatriste stroked his mustache as he again looked about him before proceeding. When he reached the house, he pushed back his cloak and folded it over his left shoulder so as to leave his sword free. He knew what might happen. He had thought about it all evening as he sat on his bed, staring at his weapons where they hung from a nail on the wall. Then he made his decision and set off. Oddly, this decision had nothing to do with desire. Or rather, if he was honest with himself, he did still desire Maria de Castro, but this wasn’t why he was standing now in the dark, listening intently, his hand hovering over the hilt of his sword, as he sniffed out possible perils like a boar scenting the presence of the huntsman and his pack of hounds. There was another reason, too. “The royal domain,” Guadalmedina and Martin Saldana had said, but he had a perfect right to be there if he chose. He had spent his life defending the royal domain, as his scarred body bore witness. Like all good men, he had done his duty a hundred times, but king and pawn were equal when naked and in a woman’s bed.
The door stood ajar. He slowly pushed it open; beyond lay a dark hallway. “You might die here,” he said to himself. “Tonight.” He took out his dagger, smiled a crooked, dangerous, wolfish smile, then advanced into the darkness, the point of his blade foremost. With his free hand he groped his way along the bare walls of a corridor. An oil lamp was burning at the far end, lighting up the rectangle of a door that led to the cloister. A bad place for a fight, he thought—narrow and with no escape route. Nevertheless, placing one’s head in the lion’s mouth had its fascination, its own dark, distorted pleasure. In that unhappy Spain, which he had loved and which he now despised with a lucidity acquired through time and experience, one could buy honors and beauty as easily as one might buy plenary indulgences, but even in Spain, there were still some things that could not be bought. And he knew what those things were. There came a point when the gift of a gold chain, presented to him, in passing, in a palace in Seville, was not enough to bind Diego Alatriste y Tenorio, old soldier and paid swordsman. “After all,” he concluded, “if worst comes to worst, the only thing anyone can take from me is my life.”
“We’ve arrived,” said Angelica.
We had walked through the orchards along a narrow path that snaked between the trees, and before us lay a small garden that formed part of the ruined cloister of a convent. On the other side, among the stone pillars and fallen capitals, hung an oil lamp. I did not like the look of this at all; prudently, I stopped.
“
Angelica did not reply. She was standing motionless at my side, looking in the direction of the light. She was breathing fast. After a moment of indecision, I made as if to go on, but she grabbed my arm to hold me back. I turned to look at her. Her face was a shadowy shape outlined by the tenuous light in the cloister.
“Wait,” she whispered.
She sounded less assured now. After a while, she moved forward, still gripping my arm and guiding me across the neglected garden; our feet swished through the grass and weeds.
“Don’t make so much noise,” she said.
When we reached the first of the cloister pillars, we stopped again and took shelter there. We were closer to the lamp now and I could see my companion more clearly; her face was utterly impassive, her eyes intent on what was going on around. She was obviously agitated, though, for her breast rose and fell beneath her doublet.
“Do you still love me?” she asked suddenly.
I looked at her, bewildered, openmouthed.
“Of course I do,” I answered.
Angelica was looking at me with such intensity that I trembled. The light from the oil lamp was reflected in her blue eyes, and it was Beauty itself that kept me nailed to the spot, incapable of thought.
“Whatever happens, remember that I love you, too.”
And she kissed me, not a light kiss or a peck, but pressing her lips slowly and firmly to mine. Then, still looking into my eyes, she drew back and indicated the lamp at the far end of the cloister.
“May God go with you,” she said.
I looked at her, confused.
“God?”
“Or the devil, if you prefer.”
She stepped backward into the shadows. And then, in the lamplight, I saw another figure appear in the cloister—Captain Alatriste.
I confess that I felt afraid, more afraid than Sardanapalus himself. I didn’t know the purpose of this ambush, but whatever it was, I, and my master, too, were clearly up to our necks in it. I went anxiously over to him, with all these new events buzzing in my head. I shouted a warning to him, although without knowing quite what I was warning him against.
“Captain! It’s a trap!”
He was standing next to the lamp, dagger in hand, and staring at me in stupefaction. I reached his side, unsheathed my sword, and looked around for hidden enemies.
“What the devil . . .” the captain began.
At this point, as if at a prearranged signal and just as happens on stage, a door opened and a well-dressed young man, startled by our voices, appeared in the cloister. Beneath his hat we could see his fair hair; he wore his cape folded over his arm, his sword in its sheath, and a yellow doublet that seemed strangely familiar. The most remarkable thing, however, was that I knew his face, and so did my master. We had seen it at public ceremonies, in the streets of Calle Mayor and El Prado, and at much closer quarters, too, only a short time before, in Seville. His Hapsburg profile appeared on gold and silver coins.
“The king!” I exclaimed.
Terrified, I took off my hat, about to kneel down, not knowing what to do with my unsheathed sword. At first, the king seemed as confused as us, but quickly became his usual erect, solemn self again and regarded us without saying a word. The captain had doffed his hat and sheathed his dagger, and the look on his face could only be described as thunderstruck.
I was about to put away my sword as well, then I heard someone in the shadows whistle a tune.
“How very pleasant!” said Gualterio Malatesta.
Dressed in black from head to toe, his eyes as hard and bright as jet, he had appeared out of the night as if he and it were one and the same. I noticed that his face had changed since the adventure aboard the
“Three pigeons,” he went on in the same smug tone, “caught in the same net.”
I heard a metallic hiss at my side. Captain Alatriste had taken out his sword and was pointing it at the Italian’s chest. Still bewildered, I raised my blade too. Malatesta had said three pigeons, not two. Philip IV had turned to look at him. He remained august and imperturbable, but I realized that this new arrival was not on his side.
“It’s the king,” my master said slowly.
“Of course it’s the king,” replied the Italian coolly. “And this is no hour for monarchs to be out sniffing around women.”
I must say that, to his credit, our young king was dealing with the situation with due majesty. He kept his
