Purity of Blood

Elvira de la Cruz had never once looked at me. Neither did she now look at Angélica’s charm, which Fray Emilio was holding before her eyes. She merely repeated the same “Yes,” her eyes to the ground, so broken that she did not even seem shamed. Weary, uncaring, as if all she wished for was to have everything over with, so she could throw herself into a corner and sleep the sleep of which she had been deprived half her life.

As for me, I was so terrified I could not even protest. The rack no longer worried me. Now my urgent preoccupation was to learn whether or not they burned boys younger than fourteen at the stake.

“Confirmed. It has Alquézar’s signature.”

Álvaro de la Marca, Conde de Guadalmedina, was wearing a suit of fine green wool trimmed with silver, suede boots, and an elaborate Flemish lace collar. He had fair skin, fine hands, and was quite handsome, and he did not lose a whit of his elegance—it was said that he cut the finest figure at court—even though he was straddling a taboret in the small, dingy room in Juan Vicuña’s gaming house. On the other side of the lattice, the main room was crowded with gamblers. The count had played for a bit, with little luck, for his mind was not on the cards, then, using the excuse of a call of nature, he left and came to the back room. There he had met Captain Alatriste and don Francisco de Quevedo, who, unrecognizable in their capes, had come by way of the secret door in the Plaza Mayor.

“And Your Mercies hit the mark,” Guadalmedina continued. “The objective was, in fact, to effect a bloodless coup against Olivares by discrediting the convent. And, in passing, seize the opportunity to settle accounts with Alatriste. They have fabricated a tale of a Jewish conspiracy, and intend to use the stake.”

“The boy, too?” asked don Francisco.

The poet’s somber black clothing—the one note of color, as always, the cross of Santiago on his breast—contrasted with the aristocrat’s affected elegance. The poet was sitting beside the captain, cape doubled across his shoulder, sword at his waist, hat upon his knees. When Álvaro de la Marca heard his question, he busied himself filling a glass with the muscatel from the jug on a second taboret, which also held a clay pipe and a pouch of shredded tobacco. The muscatel was from Málaga, and the jar was already half empty because Quevedo had given it his attention the minute he came in the door, sour as always, cursing the night, the street, and his thirst.

“Him, as well,” the aristocrat confirmed. “The novice and the boy are all they have, because the other surviving member of the family, the elder son, cannot be found.” He shrugged his shoulders and paused, his expression grave. “According to what I’ve been told, they are preparing an auto-da-fé for the highest-level prisoners.”

“You are sure of that, Your Mercy?”

“Absolutely. I have pushed everywhere possible, paying good coin. As our friend Alatriste here would say, to score a counterstrike, it takes a lot of gunpowder. There is money enough, but in dealing with the Inquisition, even venality has its limits.”

The captain was mute. He was sitting on the cot, doublet unfastened, slowly rubbing a whetstone along the edge of his dagger. The light from the oil lamp left his eyes in shadow.

“I am amazed that Alquézar is reaching so high,” offered don Francisco, cleaning his eyeglasses on the tail of his doublet. “It is extremely bold of a royal secretary to take on the king’s favorite, even if there is another hand in the works.”

Guadalmedina took a few sips of muscatel and clicked his tongue, frowning. Then he dabbed at his curly mustache with a perfumed handkerchief he pulled from his sleeve.

“You should not be surprised. In recent months, Alquézar has gained great influence among those close to the king. He is the creature of the Council of Aragon, for whose members he performs important services, and only lately he has bought several councilors from Castile. Furthermore, through the influence of Fray Emilio Bocanegra, he enjoys support among fanatical members of the Holy Office. Around Olivares, he continues to be submissive, but it is obvious that he is playing his own game. With every day that passes, he grows stronger, and adds to his fortune.”

“Where is he getting his money?” the poet asked.

Álvaro de la Marca shrugged again. He had filled his pipe and was lighting it from a candle. Pipe and tobacco also entertained Juan Vicuña, who liked to smoke when he was passing time with Diego Alatriste. But despite its well-known curative properties—it had the apothecary Fadrique’s strong recommendation—the captain was not taken with the aromatic leaf brought on the galleons from the Indies. As for Quevedo, he preferred snuff.