The Cavalier in the Yellow Doublet

of his left hand on the hilt of his sword.

“You have, I must say, behaved like a proper man,” he concluded fondly. “Approaching Guadalmedina really was tantamount to stepping into the lion’s den. You showed real courage.”

I did not respond. I was looking around me, for I had made a rendezvous of my own before traveling to El Escorial. We were near the broad staircase that stood between the respective courtyards of the queen and the king, beneath the large allegorical tapestry that presided over the main landing where four German guards, armed with halberds, stood motionless. The most noble members of the court, with the count-duke and his wife at their head, were waiting for the king and queen to descend in order to greet them. They provided a spectacular display of fine fabrics and jewels, of perfumed ladies and gentlemen with waxed mustaches and curled hair. I heard don Francisco murmur:

“See them all decked out in purple,

Hands beringed with glittering gems?

Inside, they’re naught but putrefaction,

Made of mud and earth and worms.”

I turned to him. I knew something of the world and of the court. I remembered what he had said about the king and the louse, too.

“And yet you, Senor Poet,” I said smiling, “will be traveling in the Marquis of Liche’s carriage.”

Don Francisco imperturbably returned my gaze, looked to left and right, then gave me a discreet nudge.

“Hush, you insolent boy. To everything its season. I had hoped you might give the lie to that magnificent line—penned by myself—which says: “Young ears are no fit recipient for the truth.” And in the same quiet voice, he continued:

“Evil and evil doers? Leave them well alone.

Let us live as witnesses not accomplices,

So the Old World to the New makes moan.”

However, the New World, namely me, had ceased listening to the Old World. The jester Gastoncillo had just appeared amongst the throng and was gesturing toward the servants’ stairs behind me. When I looked up, I caught a glimpse, above the carved granite balustrade, of Angelica de Alquezar’s fair ringlets. A letter I had written the previous afternoon had clearly reached the person to whom it was addressed.

“I believe you have some explaining to do,” I said.

“Not at all. And I have very little time. The queen is about to go down to the courtyard.”

She was resting her hands on the balustrade, watching the comings and goings below. That morning, her eyes were as cold as her words. She was no longer the affectionate young woman, dressed as a man, whom I had held in my arms.

“This time you’ve gone too far,” I said. “You, your uncle, and whoever else is mixed up in all this.”

She was playing distractedly with the ribbons adorning the bodice of her silk-embroidered dress.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir. Nor what my uncle has to do with your ravings.”

“I’m talking about the ambush in Camino de las Minillas,” I replied angrily. “About the man in the yellow doublet. About the attempt to kill the—”

She placed a hand on my lips, just as she had placed a kiss on them a few nights before. I shivered, and again she noticed. She smiled.

“Don’t talk nonsense.”

“If all is revealed,” I said, “you’ll be in great danger.”

She regarded me with interest, almost as if she found my disquiet intriguing.

“I can’t imagine you ever taking a lady’s name in vain.”

I felt as if she had guessed what I was thinking. I drew myself up, embarrassed.

“No, I might not, but there are other people involved.”

She looked at me as if she could not believe the implication behind my words.

“Have you told your friend Batatriste?”

I said nothing and averted my gaze. She read my reply on my face.

“I thought you were a gentleman,” she said disdainfully.

“I am,” I protested.

“I also thought that you loved me.”

“I do love you.”

She bit her lower lip as she pondered my words. Her eyes were like very hard blue polished stone. Finally, she asked bitterly:

“Have you betrayed me to anyone else?”

There was such scorn in that word “betrayed” that I could not speak for shame. Eventually, I composed myself and opened my mouth to utter a new protest. “You surely don’t think I could keep all this secret from the captain,” I began to say, but the sound of trumpets echoing through the courtyard drowned out my words. Their Majesties had appeared on the other side of the balustrade, at the top of the main staircase. Angelica glanced around, catching up her skirt.

“I have to go.” She seemed to be thinking as fast as she could. “I will see you again perhaps.”

“Where?”

She hesitated, then gave me a strange look, so penetrating that I felt quite naked before it.

“Are you going to El Escorial with don Francisco de Quevedo?”

“I am.”

“I’ll see you there.”

“How will I find you?”

“Don’t be silly. I’ll find you.”

This sounded more threat than promise, or both things at once. I watched as she walked away and as she turned once to smile at me. I thought again, “By God, she’s beautiful. And frightening, too.” Then she disappeared behind the columns and went down to join the king and queen, who were already at the foot of the stairs, where they were greeted by the Count-Duke of Olivares and the other courtiers. Then they all went out into the street. I followed behind, plunged in dark thoughts. I recalled with some unease the lines of poetry that Master Perez had once made me copy out:

Averting one’s gaze from evident deceit,

When poison foul gives off a honey’d smell

And pain is loved and pleasures all retreat,

Then, one believes that heaven’s found in hell

And body and soul are at illusion’s behest,

Such is love—as he who tastes it can attest.

Outside, the sun was shining, and the scene it lit up was splendid indeed. The king was bowing to the queen and offering her his arm, and both were wearing sumptuous traveling clothes. The king had on a riding outfit sewn with silver thread, a crimson silk taffeta sash, as well as sword and spurs, a sign that, being the bold, young rider he was, he would make part of the journey on horseback, escort ing the queen’s carriage, which was drawn by six