The King's Gold by Arturo Pérez-Reverte Page B

“that you bear me no malice.”
    I remembered—and it took little effort—the humiliation, the prisons of the Inquisition in Toledo, the auto-da-fé in the Plaza Mayor, and the role that Luis de Alquézar’s niece had played in my misfortune. This thought had the virtue of restoring to me the coldness I so needed.
    “What do you want from me?” I asked.
    She took just a second longer than necessary to reply. She was examining me closely, with the same smile on her lips. She seemed pleased by what she saw.
    “I don’t want anything,” she said. “I was simply curious to see you again. I recognized you in the square.”
    She fell silent for a moment. She looked at my hands and then, again, at my face.
    “You’ve grown, sir.”
    “So have you.”
    She bit her lip slightly and nodded very slowly. The ringlets gently brushed the pale skin of her cheeks, and I adored her.
    “You’ve been fighting in Flanders.”
    This was neither a statement nor a question. She appeared to be thinking out loud.
    “I believe I love you,” she said suddenly.
    I sprang to my feet. Angélica was no longer smiling. She was watching me from her chair, gazing up at me with eyes as blue as the sky, as the sea, as life itself. I swear she was lovely enough to drive a man insane.
    “Great God,” I murmured.
    I was trembling like the leaves on a tree. She remained motionless and silent for a long time. Finally, she gave a slight shrug.
    “I want you to know,” she said, “that you have some very unfortunate friends. Such as that Captain Batiste or Triste or whatever his name is. Friends who are the enemies of my friends. And I want you to know that this could perhaps cost you your life.”
    “It already nearly did,” I retorted.
    “And it will again soon.”
    Her smile had returned; it was the same smile as before, thoughtful and enigmatic.
    “This evening,” she went on, “the Duque and Duquesa de Medina Sidonia are giving a party for the king and queen. On the way back, my carriage will stop for a while in the Alameda. With its beautiful fountains and gardens, it’s a delightful place to walk in.”
    I frowned. This was all far too good and far too easy.
    “Isn’t that a little late for a walk?”
    “We’re in Seville. The nights here are warm.”
    The irony of her words did not escape me. I glanced across at the courtyard, at the duenna still pacing up and down. Angélica understood my glance.
    “She’s not the same one who was with me at the Fuente del Acero. This one turns dumb and blind whenever I want her to. And I thought you might like to be at the Alameda tonight at ten, Íñigo Balboa.”
    I stood there, perplexed, analyzing everything she had said.
    “It’s a trap,” I concluded, “another ambush.”
    “Possibly.” She held my gaze, her face inscrutable. “It’s up to you whether you’re brave enough to fall into it or not.”
    “The captain . . .” I began, but stopped at once. Angélica stared at me with terrible perspicuity. It was as if she had read my thoughts.
    “This captain fellow is your friend. You will doubtless have to tell him this little secret, and no friend would allow you to walk alone into an ambush.”
    She paused to allow the idea to penetrate.
    “They say,” she added at last, “that he, too, is a brave man.”
    “Who says so?”
    She did not reply, merely smiling more broadly. And I understood then what she had just said to me. This certainty came with such astonishing clarity that I shuddered at the calculated way in which she was throwing this challenge in my face. The black shape of Gualterio Malatesta, like a dark ghost, interposed itself between us. It was all so obvious and so terrible: the old quarrel involved not only Alatriste now. I was of an age to answer for the consequences of my own actions; I knew too much, and as far as our enemies were concerned, I was as troublesome an adversary as the captain. Since I was the pretext for the rendezvous, and since I had,