were tied in front of him, a precaution his captors had taken before setting out, so that he could hold himself upright on the mule.
“How do you intend carrying out your orders?”
Malatesta had taken from his leather belt a pair of black gloves, which he was now carefully drawing on. Alatriste noticed that, as well as sword, dagger, and pistol, he also had a knife in the leg of his boot.
“As I’m sure you know, the man in question has a taste for going out hunting early with just two beaters as escort. There are plenty of deer and rabbit here, and he’s an experienced, intrepid hunter, a great marksman. All of Spain knows his liking for plunging into the undergrowth alone when he’s hot on the trail of something. It’s odd, isn’t it, that someone so self-possessed, a man who never even blinks in public or looks at anyone directly, should be so utterly transformed when in pursuit of his prey.”
He flexed his fingers to make sure his gloves fitted properly, then unsheathed his sword a few inches and put it back again.
“Hunting and women,” he added with a sigh.
He remained like this for a moment, apparently absorbed in thought. Finally, he beckoned to the two ruffians, who hoisted the captain—one holding him by the legs and the other under the armpits—and carried him over to an oak tree, where they leaned him against the trunk. He was hidden there by the bushes.
“It wasn’t easy, but we managed,” the Italian went on. “We were told that he would be here tonight, taking his ease with . . . well, you know with who. Certain people arranged for him to be accompanied this morning by two trusted beaters. Trusted by us, that is. They have just informed us, by sounding the hunting horn, that everything is going to plan and that the prey is near at hand.”
“A difficult task very delicately handled,” remarked the captain.
Malatesta thanked him for the compliment by touching the dripping brim of his hat.
“I hope that after such a wanton night, the illustrious personage made his confession before setting out,” said Malatesta, and his pockmarked face again twisted into a grimace. “Not that I care, but they do say he is a pious man. I doubt very much he would want to die in mortal sin.”
He seemed to find this thought vastly amusing. He gazed off into the distance, as if trying to spot his prey amongst the trees, then burst out laughing, his hand still resting on the hilt of his sword. In a tone that was at once jocular and sinister, he said:
“I like the idea that today we’ll be providing two new recruits for hell.”
He continued to smile, savoring the thought. Then he again looked at the captain.
“By the way,” he added courteously, “I think you were quite right last night to refuse the sacrament of penitence. If either you or I ever recounted our lives to a priest, he’d immediately hang up his habit, write a highly unexem plary novel, and make more money than Lope does each time he puts on a new play.”
Despite the situation, Alatriste could not help but agree.
“Fray Emilio Bocanegra,” he said, “isn’t much of an incentive to unburden one’s conscience.”
The Italian gave another brief laugh.
“Oh, I’m with you there. If I had to choose between two devils, I’d prefer the one with the tail and the horns to the one with the tonsure and the crucifix.”
“You haven’t yet told me what my part is in all this?”
“Your part?” Malatesta looked at him for a moment, uncertain how to reply, then he understood. “Oh, of course. The hunter and the prey. I thought you would have guessed what would happen next: a rabbit, say, or a deer rushes into the woods with the royal personage after him. The beaters hang back, and the spurned lover, namely you, appears out of nowhere and promptly runs him through. A simple case of jealousy avenged.”
“Will you run him through yourself?”
“Of course. Both him and you. A double pleasure. Then we’ll untie you, leaving your sword, dagger, and everything else nearby. Those faithful beaters, arriving at the tragic scene too late, will at least have the official honor of avenging the king.”
“I see.” Alatriste was studying his own bound hands and feet. “A shut mouth catches no flies.”
“You have a reputation, Captain, as a brave man. No one would be surprised to learn that you fought like a tiger to the death, and many would be disappointed if they thought you had surrendered your life without a struggle.”
“And what about you?”
“Oh, I know that isn’t how it was. You can depart this life with an easy mind. After all, you killed one of my men yesterday and another in Camino de las Minillas.”
“No, I meant what will you do afterward?”
Malatesta smugly stroked his mustache.
“Ah, that’s the best part. I will disappear for a while. I’d like to go back to Italy with some ballast in my purse. I left there with far too little.”
“It’s a shame they don’t ballast your balls with an ounce of lead.”
“Patience, Captain,” said the Italian, smiling encour agingly. “All in good time.”
Alatriste leaned his head against the tree trunk. The rain was running down his back, soaking the shirt underneath his buffcoat. His breeches were already sodden with mud.
“I’d like to ask you a favor,” he said.
“Ye gods,” said Malatesta, eyeing him with genuine surprise. “
“Is there some way in which Inigo could be left out of this?”
Malatesta continued to study him impassively. Then a flicker of understanding seemed to cross his face.
“As far as I know, he’s not involved,” he said. “But that doesn’t depend on me, so I can’t promise you anything.”
The man who had made off into the bushes returned and gestured to Malatesta, pointing in a particular direction. Malatesta gave the two men some orders in a low voice. One stationed himself next to the captain, his sword and pistol at his belt, and one hand resting on the hilt of his knife. The other went over to join the third man, who was waiting farther off.
“He’s a very brave lad, Captain. You should be proud of him, and I can assure you that I, too, hope he gets out of this all right.”
“So do I. Then, one day, he can kill you.”
Malatesta was about to go over and join his men, leaving one to guard Alatriste.
“Yes, perhaps,” he said. Then he turned around and once more fixed Alatriste with his dark eyes. “As with you, someone will have to kill me sometime.”
It was drizzling harder now, drenching our faces. With the two mules almost at a gallop, the carriage was clattering along toward La Fresneda beneath the gray sky and past the dark poplars flanking the road. We had found the driver lying on one of the seats inside the carriage, sleeping off the effects of the wine he had drunk, which was why Rafael de Cozar, his sword tucked in his belt, was the one now holding the reins and urging on the mules. Cozar was not entirely sober himself, but the activity, the cooling rain, and a kind of obscure determination that seemed lately to have taken hold of him, were all helping to dissipate the vinous vapors. He was racing along in the carriage, urging the mules on with shouts and lashes of the whip, and I could not help but ask myself uneasily if this speed was a tribute to his skill as a driver or merely the irresponsible behavior of a drunkard. Whatever the truth of the matter, the carriage seemed positively to fly. I was sitting beside Cozar, wrapped in the coachman’s cloak, hanging on as best I could, ready to throw myself off if we overturned. I closed my eyes each time the actor took a bend in the road, or when the mules or the lurchings of the carriage spattered us with mud.
I was just pondering what I was going to say or do in La Fresneda, when we left behind us the lead-gray smudge of the lake—glimpsed through the branches of the trees—and I saw, still far off, the stepped Flemish roof of the royal hunting lodge. At that point, the road forked, and the left fork led into the leafy wood; when I looked down that path, I saw a mule and four horses half hidden round a bend. I pointed this out to Cozar, who pulled so
