I went over to where don Francisco kept his wine—a sideboard decorated with a frieze made of squares of green glass, beneath a painting depicting Troy ablaze—and poured a large glass of wine. Don Francisco took a pinch of the snuff. He was not a great smoker, but he was fond of that powder made from leaves brought from the Indies.
“I’ve known your master for a long time, my boy,” he went on. “He may be stubborn, he may sometimes go too far, but I know he would never raise his hand against the king.”
“The count knows him too,” I said, handing him the glass.
He nodded, having first sneezed twice.
“True. And I would bet my gold spurs that he knows the captain had nothing to do with it. However, there are only so many insults a nobleman can take: Alatriste’s impertinence, the wound he dealt him in Calle de los Peligros, the beating he received the other night . . . Guadalmedina’s pretty face still bears the marks left by your master before he escaped. Such things are hard to accept when you’re a grandee of Spain. It’s not so much the blow as not being able to make a fuss about it.”
He took a sip of his wine and sat looking at me, meanwhile still fiddling with the canister of tobacco.
“It’s lucky the captain got you out of there in time.”
He continued to regard me thoughtfully. Then he put down the canister and took a longer drink of wine.
“Whatever made you go after him?”
I muttered something about a boy’s curiosity, a liking for intrigues, et cetera. I knew that anyone trying to justify his actions tends to talk too much, and that too many explanations are always worse than a prudent silence. On the one hand, I was ashamed to admit that I had let myself be led into a trap by the poisonous young woman with whom, despite all, I was deeply in love. On the other hand, I considered Angelica de Alquezar to be my affair alone. I wanted to be the one to resolve that particular situation, but as long as my master was safely hidden away—we had received a discreet message from him through a safe channel—all explanations could wait. What mattered now was keeping him out of the hands of the torturers.
“I’m going to tell him what you’ve told me,” I said.
I buttoned up my doublet and picked up my hat. Rain had started speckling the windows, and so I put on my serge cloak as well. Don Francisco watched as I concealed my dagger amongst my clothes.
“Be careful no one follows you.”
There was every likelihood that someone would. The constables had questioned me at the Inn of the Turk, until I managed to convince them, by lying shamelessly, that I knew nothing about what had happened in Camino de las Minillas. La Lebrijana had been of no use to them either, even though they threatened and abused her, albeit only verbally. No one told her the real reason for the captain’s disappearance. It was attributed to a sword fight in which someone had died, but no further details were offered.
“Don’t worry. The rain will help to disguise me.”
I was less concerned about the officers of the law than I was about the people behind the conspiracy, because they, I imagined, would certainly be watching me. I was about to take my leave when the poet raised one finger, as if an idea had just occurred to him. Getting up, he went over to a small desk by the window and removed what looked like a jewelry box.
“Tell the captain that I’ll do whatever I can. It’s a shame poor don Andres Pacheco passed away so recently, and that Medinaceli is in exile and the Admiral of Castile has fallen from grace. All three were very fond of me and they would have been perfect as intermediaries.”
It grieved me to hear this. Monsignor Pacheco had been the highest authority in the Spanish Inquisition, higher even than the Court of the Inquisition, which was presided over by our old enemy, the fearsome Dominican friar Emilio Bocanegra. As for Antonio de la Cerda, Duke of Medinaceli—who in time would become a close friend of don Francisco’s and my protector—his impulsive young man’s blood meant that he was now exiled from the court after using force to try to free a servant of his from prison. And the fall of the Admiral of Castile was public knowledge. His arrogance had caused unease in Catalonia during the recent visit to Aragon, after he had squabbled with the Duke of Cardona over who should sit next to the king when the latter was received in Barcelona. (His Majesty, by the way, returned without having extracted a single doubloon from the Catalans, for when he asked them for money for Flanders, they replied that they would uncom plainingly lay down life and honor for the king, as long as it involved no other expense, and declared that the treasury was the patrimony of the soul, and the soul belonged only to God.) The Admiral of Castile’s misfortunes were compounded at the public washing of feet on Maundy Thursday, when Philip IV stripped him of the privilege he normally enjoyed of handing the king a towel on which to dry his hands, asking the Marquis of Liche to do so instead. Humiliated, the admiral had protested to the king, asking his permission to withdraw. “I am the first knight of the kingdom,” he said, forgetting that he was standing before the first monarch of the world. And the king, annoyed, not only gave him permission to withdraw, he went even further. The admiral was to stay away from court, he said, until he received orders to the contrary.
“Do we have no one else?”
Don Francisco accepted that “we” as perfectly natural.
“Not of the stature of an Inquisitor General, a grandee of Spain, or a friend of the king, no, but I’ve asked for an audience with the count-duke. At least he doesn’t allow himself to be taken in by appearances. He’s intelligent and pragmatic.”
We exchanged a none too hopeful look. Then don Francisco opened the small box and took out a purse. He counted eight
“The captain might well have need of that powerful gentleman, Sir Money,” he said.
How fortunate my master was, I thought, to have a man like don Francisco de Quevedo show him such loyalty. In our wretched Spain, even one’s closest friends tended to be freer with words or sword-thrusts than with money. Those five hundred and twenty-eight
“Tell him I’m only sorry I can’t give him double the amount,” added the poet, returning the box to the desk, “but I’m still eaten up by debts. There’s the rent on this house—which I was fool enough to buy simply in order to evict that vile sodomite, Gongora—and that alone drains forty ducats and my life’s blood from me, and even the paper I write on has just had a new tax slapped on it. Oh well. Tell him to be very careful and not to go out into the street. Madrid has become an extremely dangerous place as far as he’s concerned. Of course, he might console himself by meditating on the thought that he is the sole author of his woes:
Those lines made me smile. Madrid was a dangerous place for the captain and for others as well, I thought proudly. It was all a question of who drew his sword first, and hunting a hare was not at all the same thing as hunting a wolf. I saw that don Francisco was smiling too.
“Then again, the most dangerous thing about Madrid is perhaps Alatriste himself,” he said drily, as if he had guessed what I was thinking. “Don’t you agree? Guadalmedina and Saldana soundly beaten, a couple of catchpoles dead, another well on the way, and all in less time than it takes to say ‘knife.’ ” He picked up his glass of wine and looked at the rain falling outside. “That’s what I call killing.”
He sat for a moment, staring thoughtfully into his glass, then raised it to the window as if drinking a toast to the captain.
“Your master,” he concluded, “doesn’t carry a sword in his hand but a scythe.”
