"It might somehow have been understandable," he went on, "if an anonymous traveler, one who officially was not even here, had been the victim of an unknown swordsman last night. But now ... If an attempt were made now on the life of the grandson of Mary Stuart, a guest of the King of Spain, and the future monarch of England . . . 'Sblood! That could not be as easily explained. The moment has passed. And for that reason I imagine that your masked men must be enraged, clamoring for vengeance. Furthermore, it is not in their best interest that there be witnesses who might speak out, and the best way to silence a witness is to fit him for a coffin."
Again his eyes bored into Alatriste's. "Do you understand your situation? Yes? I am happy to hear that. And now, Captain Alatriste, I have devoted too much time to you. I have things to do, among them completing my sonnet. You must look to your safety, and may God help you."
All Madrid was one great fiesta. The people's curiosity had converted the House of Seven Chimneys into a colorful place of pilgrimage. Large numbers of curious Madrilefios followed Calle de Alcala to the church of the Discalced Carmelites, passed it, and congregated before the residence of the English ambassador, where mild-mannered constables kept pushing back the spectators, who cheered every time one of the carriages going to or coming from the house passed. There were constant calls for the Prince of Wales to come out to greet them, and when at mid-morning a young blond appeared for a moment at one of the windows, he received a thunderous ovation, to which he replied with a wave of the hand so genteel that he immediately won the approval of the crowd gathered in the street.
Generous, sympathetic, welcoming to anyone who knew how to reach their hearts, the people of Madrid would show to the heir of the English throne the same evidence of their appreciation and goodwill during all the months he was to spend at court. The history of our benighted Spain would have been very different had the generous impulses of the people won out more frequently over the arid doctrine of the state and the self-interest, venality, and ineptitude of our politicians, nobles, and monarchs. The anonymous chronicler who composed the ballad of El
Cid says the same of the ordinary people of that day. His words come to mind when one considers the sad history of our people, who always have given the best of themselves— their innocence, their money, their labors, and their blood— only to find themselves ill repaid in return: "What a fine vassal would he have made, had he but served a good lord."
The case is that the Madrilefios came that morning to celebrate the Prince of Wales, and I myself was there accompanying Caridad la Lebrijana, who did not want to miss the spectacle. I do not know whether I have told you, but at that time La Lebrijana was about thirty or thirty-five years old, a common but beautiful Andalusian, still spirited and well formed; she had olive skin, large black shining eyes, and a generous bosom. For five or six years she had been an actress, and about that many more a whore in a house on Calle de las Huertas. Weary of that life, at the first sign of crow's-feet she had used her savings to buy the Tavern of the Turk, and with that asset she was now living in relative decency and comfort. I will add, and this is no secret, that La Lebrijana was painfully in love with my master Alatriste. Under that binding indenture she guaranteed him bread and drink, and also—because of the situation of the captain's lodgings, which communicated via the same courtyard with the back door of the tavern and the dwelling of La Lebrijana—a certain frequency in sharing of beds. I must make it clear that the captain was always very discreet in my presence, but when you live with another person, some things cannot be hidden. And though I may still have been a little wet behind the ears, I was not a ninny.
That day, as I was telling Your Mercies, I accompanied Caridad la Lebrijana up Mayor, Montera, and Alcala to the residence of the English ambassador, where we joined the throng cheering the prince, along with all the other idlers and assorted humanity drawn there by curiosity. The street was buzzing louder than the steps of San Felipe, and vendors were offering water and mead, meat pies and conserves. Street stalls had been hastily set up where a morning's hunger could be satisfied for a few coins; beggars were busy, servants, pages, and squires were scurrying about, creating an uproar, and tit and tittle and fabulous invention swirled through the crowd like the wind. Events and rumors from the palace were parroted in group after group, and the aplomb and chivalric daring of the young prince were praised to the heavens. Tongues—especially those of the women—were wagging over his elegance and bearing, as well as other virtues of the prince and his friend Buckingham. And so the morning raced by in a very lively, very Spanish manner.
"How well he carries himself!" said La Lebrijana, after someone presumed to be the prince was seen at a window.
"A fine figure of a man, and such grace. He would make a great match for our infanta!"
She dried her tears with the tail of her shawl like most of the female spectators, she was on the side of the suitor. The audacity of his gesture had won hearts, and everyone considered the matter signed and sealed.
"What a shame that such a handsome fellow is a heretic. But a good confessor will remedy that, and in time, a baptism." In her ignorance, the woman believed that Anglicans were like the Turks, and were never baptized. "A bosom like a pouter pigeon will win out over any religion."
And she laughed, and the opulent bosom that so enthralled me quivered delectably, and in a certain way that I have great difficulty explaining, reminded me of my mother's. I can recall in every detail the sensation I felt every time Caridad la Lebrijana bent down to serve at table, and her blouse hinted of those great, mysterious, olive-skinned orbs, modeled by their own weight. Often I wondered what the captain might be doing with them those times that he sent me out to make a purchase, or to find something to do outside, leaving La Lebrijana and him alone in the house. As I ran down the steps two at a time, I would hear her laughing upstairs, very loud and very happy.
So there we were, enthusiastically cheering any figure that appeared at a window, when Captain Alatriste came along. It was not the first night he had not come home, not by any stretch of the imagination, and I had slept the sleep of the dead, without a worry. But the minute I saw him at the House of Seven Chimneys, I sensed that something was wrong. His hat was pulled low over his face, his cape wrapped high around his neck, and his cheeks were not shaved despite the lateness of the hour, even though with his discipline as an old soldier he was always particular about how he looked. His gray-green eyes seemed tired and suspicious at the same time, and I watched him thread his way through the crowd with the wary attitude of someone who is expecting something bad to befall him at any moment.
Once I had assured him that no one had asked for him, neither during the night nor this morning, he seemed a bit more at ease. La Lebrijana said the same in regard to the tavern: no strangers, no inquiries. Later, when I moved a little apart, I heard her ask in a low voice what trouble he had gotten himself into this time. I took care to watch them, without appearing to, and kept my ears cocked, but Diego Alatriste said nothing more, only stared at the windows of the English ambassador's mansion, his expression unreadable.
Mixed in among the curious were people of quality: sedan chairs and coaches, including two or three carriages with ladies and their duennas peering between the curtains. I glanced at them through the itinerant vendors hurrying to offer them their wares, and thought I recognized one of the carriages. It was dark, with no coat of arms on the door, and had two good mules in the harness. The coachman was chatting with a group of bystanders, so I was able to approach the carriage without being run off. And there, at the little window, I needed only to see blue eyes and blond curls to confirm that my heart, which was pounding so madly I thought it might leap from my chest, had not erred.