The Cavalier in the Yellow Doublet

the dead beast and was thrown off onto the stony bank. Dazed, he tried to get up, but his strength failed him and he lay motionless, his face pressed into the mud. Shit. His back hurt as badly as if he had broken his spine. He glanced wildly around for his sword, but saw only a pair of boots and spurs in front of him. One of the boots kicked him in the face, and he lost consciousness.

My anxiety began to grow at the hour of the angelus, when don Francisco de Quevedo, looking very somber, came to tell me that my master had still not presented himself to the Count of Guadalmedina, and that the latter was growing impatient. Gripped by dark thoughts, I went outside and sat on the parapet along the east-facing esplanade, known as La Lonja, from where I could see the road from Madrid. I remained there until the sun, veiled at the last moment by ugly gray clouds, finally sank behind the mountains. Then, feeling uneasy, I went in search of don Francisco but failed to find him. I wanted to go into the main courtyard, but the archers on guard barred my way, saying that the king and queen and their guests were attending a musical evening in the little temple. I asked them to tell don Alvaro de la Marca that I wished to speak to him, but the sergeant told me that this was not an opportune moment and that I should wait until the gathering was over or else go and bother someone else. Finally, an acquaintance of don Francisco’s whom I met at the foot of the main staircase told me that don Francisco had gone to dine at the Canada Real, through the archway opposite the palace, which was where he usually ate. And so I set off again, once more crossing the esplanade and going up the slight hill to the archway, where I turned left and made my way to the inn.

It was a small, pleasant place, lit by tallow candles set in lanterns. The walls, made of the same granite as the palace, were adorned with hams, sausages, and strings of garlic. There was a large stove tended by the mistress of the house, and the innkeeper himself waited at table. I found don Francisco de Quevedo, Maria de Castro, and her husband all seated there. The poet shot me a questioning glance, frowned when I shook my head, then invited me to join them.

“I believe you know my young friend,” he said.

They did indeed know me, especially La Castro. The lovely actress welcomed me with a smile, and her husband with an ironic and exaggeratedly friendly gesture, for he knew who my master was. They had just finished eating a dish of braised trout, it being Friday, and offered me what was left. My stomach, alas, was too troubled, and I dined instead on a little bread dipped in wine. It was no ordinary wine, either, and that night Rafael de Cozar had clearly drunk his fair share, for he had the red eyes and thick tongue of someone who has paid generous tribute to the jug. The innkeeper brought more wine, this time a sweet Pedro Ximenez. Maria de Castro—whose outfit, a close-fitting bodice and long riding skirt, was adorned with at least fifty escudos’ worth of Flemish lace at neck, wrist, and hem—was drinking prettily and only a little at a time; don Francisco was drinking equally moderately, while Cozar drank on like a man dying of thirst. Between sips of wine, the three continued discussing things theatrical—what gestures to make at a particular moment, or how to say this or that line—while I awaited the right moment to speak to don Francisco alone. Despite my great unease, I was nonetheless able to admire once more the beauty of the woman for whose sake the captain had set himself against the king’s will. What shook me was the nonchalance with which Maria de Castro threw back her head to laugh, sipped her wine, played with the round coral earrings that hung from her lovely ears, or looked at her husband, at don Francisco, and at me in the particular way she had of looking at men, making each of us feel that she had singled us out as the only man on earth. I could not help thinking of Angelica de Alquezar, and that made me wonder if La Castro cared a jot about what happened to the captain, or even to the king himself, or if, on the contrary, in the game of chess played by women like her—and perhaps by all women—kings and pawns were all the same: temporary and dispensable. And I found myself toying with the idea that Maria de Castro, Angelica, and other such women were like soldiers in hostile territory, who saw themselves as foragers prowling a world of men and forced to use their beauty as ammunition and the vices and passions of the enemy as their weapons. It was a war in which only the bravest and cruelest could survive and one in which, almost always, the passage of time would finally vanquish them. Seeing Maria de Castro in all the perfect beauty of her youth, no one would have thought that, a few years later, for reasons that have no bearing on this story, my master would visit her for the last time in the hostel for sick women opposite Atocha Hospital, and find her aged and disfigured by syphilis, covering her face with her cloak, ashamed to be seen in that state. Or that I, standing unseen by the door, would see Captain Alatriste, when the time came to say good-bye, lean toward her and, despite her resistance, draw aside the cloak and place a final kiss on her withered lips.

Just then, the innkeeper came over and whispered something to Maria de Castro. She nodded, stroked her husband’s hand, and stood up with a rustle of skirts.

“Good night,” she said.

“Shall I come with you?” asked Cozar distractedly.

“There’s no need. Some friends are expecting me, the queen’s ladies.”

She was looking at herself in a small mirror and touching up her rouge. At that hour, I thought, the only ladies who weren’t safe in bed were whores and the queens in a deck of cards. Don Francisco and I exchanged a meaningful glance, which Cozar caught. His face was an impassive mask.

“I’ll have them bring the coach around for you,” he said to his wife.

“There’s no need,” she said confidently. “My friends have sent theirs.”

Her husband nodded indifferently, as if he didn’t care one way or the other. He was bent over his wine and seemed entirely unmoved.

“May I know where you’ll be?”

She gave a charming smile and put away the mirror in her little silver mesh bag.

“Oh, somewhere or other. In La Fresneda, I think. But don’t sit up for me.”

With another smile and with great aplomb, she said good-bye, arranged her cloak to cover head and shoulders, gathered up her skirt, and departed, gently shaking her head at don Francisco, who had gallantly stood up in order to accompany her to the door. I noticed that her husband did not stir from his seat, but sat with doublet unfastened and mug in hand, staring into his wine with an absorbed expression on his face and a strange grimace of distaste beneath that long mustache of his. If that remarkable woman is leaving alone, I thought, while her drunkard husband stays here with don Pedro Ximenez and with that look on his face, she’s clearly not simply going off to say her prayers before bed. Don Francisco shot me a grave glance, eyebrows raised, which only confirmed me in my view. La Fresneda was a hunting lodge on the royal estate, just over half a league from El Escorial, at the far end of a long avenue of poplars. Neither the queen nor her ladies had ever been known to set foot there.

“It’s time we all went to bed,” said don Francisco.

Cozar still did not move, his eyes fixed on his mug of wine. The ironic, scoundrelly smirk had grown more marked.

“Why the rush?” he murmured.

He seemed quite different from the man whom I had previously only seen from afar; it was as if the wine were revealing shadowy corners that normally went unperceived in the glare of the stage lights. Then, abruptly raising his glass, he said:

“Let’s drink to young Philip’s health!”

I eyed him uneasily. Even famous actors had to watch what they said. In truth he was not the sparkling, witty character we had seen on stage, always with a sharp riposte on his lips and always in a buoyant mood, with that peculiarly mocking air about him, as if he were saying: “I’m enjoying myself, the worms can wait.” Don Francisco again looked at me, then poured himself some more wine and raised it to his lips. I was fidgeting in my seat, shooting him impatient glances. He, however, shrugged his shoulders, as if to say: “There’s not much we can do. Your master holds all the cards, but where is he? As for this other man, sometimes a few glasses of wine reveal things that sobriety keeps at bay.”

“How does that wonderful sonnet of yours go, Senor de Quevedo?” Cozar had placed one hand on don Francisco’s arm. “Something about a ruddy-faced silversmith pursuing the nymph Diana . . . Do you know the one I mean?”

Don Francisco observed him intently, as if trying to see what was going on behind the other man’s eyes. The light from the candles was reflected in the lenses of his spectacles.