He limped over to the wall, looking for the best path to follow. Fighting with so many men at once had worn him down; the cut to his thigh was not that deep, but it was still bleeding. Besides, knowing the identity of the corpse lying in the cloister was enough to shake anyone’s composure and lower his spirits. Despite his wound, fear—had he felt any—might have lent wings to his feet, but he did not feel afraid, only a grim sense of desolation at the trick played on him by Fate. A black, despairing melancholy. The utter certainty that his luck had finally run out.
The lights were filling the cloister now. He could see them glinting through the trees and the undergrowth. Voices and shadows everywhere. “Tomorrow,” he thought, “the whole of Europe and the world will tremble when they learn what has happened.”
He took a run at the wall, about five cubits high. He tried twice, but failed. Christ’s blood! The pain from the wound in his leg was too much.
“Here he is!” cried a voice behind him.
He turned slowly around, resigned, his sword held firmly in his hand. Four men were coming toward him through the garden, lighting their way with torches. He had no difficulty in recognizing the Count of Guadalmedina, who had his arm in a sling. The others were Martin Saldana and a couple of constables. Behind them, he saw catchpoles moving about in the cloister.
“Give yourself up, in the name of the king.”
These words brought a wry smile to Alatriste’s lips. In the name of what king, he felt like asking. He looked at Guadalmedina, who was standing there, sword sheathed, hand on hip, regarding him, as he never had before, with utter scorn. The splint on his arm was clearly a souvenir from their encounter in Calle de los Peligros. More unfinished business.
“Only some of this is my doing,” said Alatriste.
No one seemed to believe him. Martin Saldana was grave-faced. He had his staff of office tucked in his belt, his sword in one hand and a pistol in the other.
“Give yourself up,” he warned again, “or I’ll kill you.”
The captain reflected for a moment. He knew the fate that awaited regicides: he would be tortured to death and his body quartered. Not a very pleasant prospect.
“It would be better if you killed me.”
He was looking at the bearded face of the man who, up until that night, had been his friend—he was losing friends at an alarming rate—and he saw him hesitate, just for a moment. They both knew that Alatriste had no wish to be taken prisoner. Saldana exchanged a rapid glance with Guadalmedina, and the latter almost imperceptibly shook his head. We need him alive, the gesture said, so that we can try to get him to talk.
“Disarm him,” ordered Guadalmedina.
The two catchpoles carrying the torches stepped forward, and Alatriste raised his sword. Martin Saldana’s pistol was pointing straight at his stomach. “I could force him to fire,” he thought. “I just need to meet the barrel full on and with a little luck . . . True, a bullet in the gut hurts more than one in the head, and you take longer to die, but there’s no alternative. Martin might not refuse me that.”
Saldana himself seemed to be pondering the matter deeply.
“Diego,” he said suddenly.
Alatriste looked at him, surprised. It sounded like an introduction to a longer speech, and his comrade from Flanders was not the most verbose of men, certainly not in a situation like this.
“It isn’t worth it,” added Saldana after a pause.
“What isn’t worth it?”
Saldana was still thinking. He raised his sword hand and scratched his beard with the cross-guard, then said:
“Letting yourself get killed for no good reason.”
“Leave any explanations for later,” Guadalmedina said brusquely.
Alatriste leaned against the wall, confused. There was something that didn’t quite fit. Saldana, his pistol still leveled at Alatriste, was looking at Guadalmedina now, frowning.
“Later might be too late,” Saldana said sullenly.
Guadalmedina paused to think, head to one side. Then he stood studying them both for a while. Finally, he seemed convinced. His eyes fell on Saldana’s pistol and he sighed.
“It wasn’t the king,” he said.
Through the left-hand window of the carriage, on the hills overlooking the orchards and the Manzanares River, he could just make out the dark shape of the Alcazar Real. Accompanied by half a dozen constables and catchpoles on foot, all bearing torches, they were on their way to Puente del Parque. Alongside the coachman sat another two guards, one of whom was carrying a harquebus with the match lit. Guadalmedina and Martin Saldana were in the coach, sitting opposite Captain Alatriste. The latter could hardly believe the story they had just told him.
“We’ve been using him as a double for His Majesty for eight months now; the likeness was quite astonishing,” concluded Guadalmedina. “The same age, the same blue eyes, a similar mouth . . . His name was Gines Garcia millan and he was a little-known actor from Puerto Lumbreras. He stood in for the king for a few days during the recent visit to Aragon. When we heard that something was being planned for tonight, we decided that he should play the role once more. He knew the risks, but agreed to take part anyway. He was a loyal and valiant subject.”
Alatriste pulled a face.
“A fine reward he got for his loyalty.”
Guadalmedina regarded him in silence, faintly irritated. The torches outside illuminated his aristocratic profile, his neat beard and curled mustache. Another world and another caste. He was supporting his splinted arm with his good hand to protect it from the jolting of the carriage.
“It was doubtless a personal decision,” he said lightly. After all, compared with a monarch, the late Gines Garcia millan mattered little to him. “His orders were not to appear until we arrived to protect him, but he was determined to play his role to the hilt and he didn’t wait.” He shook his head disapprovingly. “Playing a king was probably the high point of his career.”
“He played the part well, too,” said the captain. “He remained dignified throughout and fought without once uttering a word. I doubt a king would have done the same.”
Martin Saldana listened impassively, never taking his eyes off Alatriste, his pistol in his lap, cocked and ready. Guadalmedina had removed one glove and was using it to flick away the dust on his fine breeches.
“I don’t believe your story,” he said. “At least not entirely. It’s true, as you say, that there are signs of a fight and there must have been more than one assassin, but who’s to say that you weren’t in league with them?”
“My word.”
“And what else?”
“You know me well enough.”
Guadalmedina snorted, one glove hanging limp in his hand.
“Do I? You haven’t proved very trustworthy of late.”
Alatriste stared hard at the count. Up until that night, no one who said such a thing would have lived long enough to repeat it. Then he turned to Saldana.
“Don’t you believe me either?”
Saldana kept his mouth shut. It was clear that it was not his business to believe or disbelieve anything. He was simply doing his job. The actor was dead, the king was alive, and his orders were to guard the prisoner. He kept his thoughts to himself. Any debating he would leave to inquisitors, judges, and theologians.
“It will all become clear in the fullness of time,” said Guadalmedina, drawing on his glove again. “The fact is, you received orders to stay away.”
