At that moment, the woman—hands tied behind her, eyes wild, the gag muffling a cry of fierce desperation —stood up and hurled herself headfirst at Alatriste. He stepped lightly aside to avoid her and, just for an instant, lowered the pistol. For Gualterio Malatesta, however, that instant meant the slender difference between life and death. The woman fell at Alatriste’s feet, and in the precious moment Alatriste spent avoiding her and trying to readjust his aim, Malatesta knocked the candle off the table with one swipe of his hand—thus plunging the room into darkness—and immediately crouched down to pick up his discarded weapons. The pistol shot broke the windowpanes above his head, and the flash lit up the gleaming steel blade already in his hand. “Christ’s blood,” thought Alatriste, “he’s going to escape. Either that or kill me.”
The woman lay groaning on the floor, thrashing about like a wild thing. Alatriste leapt over her, threw down the discharged pistol, and unsheathed his sword. He would just have time to stab Malatesta before he got to his feet—if, that is, he could find him in the darkness. He lunged several times, but met only thin air. As he wheeled around, a blow came from behind, hard and fast, piercing his jerkin and only failing to pierce his flesh because it caught him sideways. The sound of a chair scraping the floor helped him to orient himself better, and he headed in that direction, blade foremost, and this time his sword found the enemy. “So there you are,” he thought, reaching with his left hand for one of the pistols. Malatesta, however, had noticed the pistols already and was in no mood to let him fire. He hurled himself violently upon the captain, lashing out and striking him with the guard of his sword. No words were spoken, no insults or threats exchanged. The two men were saving their breath for the struggle, and all that could be heard were grunts and panting. “If he’s had time to pick up his dagger,” thought the captain suddenly, “I’m done for.” He forgot about his pistol and felt for his own knife. Malatesta guessed what he was up to and reached out to try and stop him; they rolled across the floor with a great clatter of furniture and broken crockery. At such close quarters, there was no room for swords. Finally, Alatriste managed to free his left hand and take out his own dagger. He drew back and stabbed wildly twice. The first stab slashed his opponent’s clothes, the second struck nothing at all, and there was no time for a third blow. There came the sound of the door being wrenched violently open and, for a moment, he saw the fleeing figure of the Italian framed in a rectangle of light.
I was feeling very happy. It had stopped raining; over the city’s rooftops, the day was dawning, bright and sunny, with a clear blue sky; and I was going in through the palace door, at the side of don Francisco de Quevedo. We had walked across the square, pushing our way through the idlers who had been assembling there since before daybreak and were being kept in check by the uniformed lancers standing guard. The curious, talkative people of Madrid were ingenuously loyal to their monarchs, always ready to forget their own miseries and take inexplicable delight in applauding the luxury in which those who governed them lived. On that particular morning, they were happily waiting to see the king and queen, whose carriages stood outside the Alcazar. Any royal journey always brought out the crowds and, inevitably, involved legions of courtiers, gentlemen of the household, handmaids, servants, and carriages. Rafael de Cozar and his theater company, including Maria de Castro, would also be setting off for El Escorial, if, indeed, they had not done so already, for
“It still amazes me,” said don Francisco, “that you managed to convince Guadalmedina.”
“I didn’t convince him of anything,” I said. “He convinced himself. I merely told him what had happened, and he believed me.”
“Perhaps he wanted to believe you. He knows Alatriste and knows precisely what he would and wouldn’t do. The idea of a conspiracy makes much more sense. It’s one thing to dig your heels in about a woman, but quite another to kill a king.”
We were walking past the granite pillars to the main staircase. The queen’s courtyard, where a large number of courtiers were waiting for the king and queen to come down, was filled by the golden light of the rising sun that glinted on the capitals and on the two-headed eagles above the arches. Don Francisco politely doffed his hat to a few court acquaintances. He was dressed, as usual, entirely in black grosgrain, with a ribbon as hatband, a red cross on his breast, and a gold-hilted court sword at his waist. I was no less elegant in my light woolen costume and my cap, my dagger stuck crosswise in my belt at the back. A manservant had placed my traveling case, containing my day-to-day clothes and a pair of clean undergarments neatly folded by La Lebrijana, in the carriage occupied by the Marquis of Liche’s servants, with whom don Francisco had arranged transport for me. He had a seat in the marquis’s carriage, a privilege which, as usual, he justified in his own way:
“The count knows that the captain is innocent,” I said once we were alone again.
“Of course,” replied the poet, “but the captain’s insolence and that cut to the arm are hard to forgive, even more so with the king involved. Now, though, the count has an opportunity to resolve the matter honorably.”
“He hasn’t gone that far,” I objected. “He’s merely promised to arrange for the captain to meet the count- duke.”
Don Francisco looked around him and lowered his voice.
“That’s no small thing,” he said. “Although it’s only natural, of course, that, as a courtier, he’ll try to turn things to his advantage. The affair has gone beyond a simple spat over a woman, so he’s quite right to place it all in the count-duke’s hands. Alatriste is an invaluable witness if the conspiracy is to be uncovered. They know he’ll never talk under torture, or can be reasonably sure that he won’t. To do so voluntarily would be a different matter.”
I felt a pang of remorse. I had not told Guadalmedina or don Francisco about Angelica de Alquezar, only the captain. Whether my master chose to give her away or not was a matter for him, but I would not be the one to tell others the name of the young woman with whom, despite everything, and to the damnation of my soul, I was still deeply in love.
“The problem,” the poet continued, “is that, after all the commotion created by his escape, Alatriste can’t just wander about as if nothing were amiss, at least not until he’s spoken to Olivares and Guadalmedina at El Escorial. But that’s seven leagues away.”
I nodded anxiously. I myself, with don Francisco’s help, had hired a good horse so that the captain could set off the following morning for El Escorial, where he was due to present himself that night. The horse, which I had left in Bartolo Cagafuego’s care, would be waiting, saddled and ready, next to the Ermita del Angel on the other side of the Segovia bridge.
“Perhaps you should speak to the count, just in case anything unexpected should happen.”
Don Francisco placed one hand on the cross of Santiago he bore on his chest.
“Me? Absolutely not. I have so far managed to keep out of the affair without betraying my friendship with the captain. Why spoil things at the last moment? You’re doing a fine job.”
He gave another nod of greeting to passing acquaintances, then smoothed his mustache and rested the palm
