Lope threw open the shutters. Cold, damp air streamed into the bedchamber. " Adios," he whispered. " Hasta la vista." He scrambled out the window, hung by his hands from the sill for a moment, and then let go and dropped to the street below.

He landed lightly and didn't get hurt, but his left foot came down with a splash in a puddle of something that stank to high heaven. A rough male voice floated out the window he'd just vacated: "What the Devil was that? And why are these shutters open, Maude? Art mad? Thou'lt catch thy death."

Much as Lope would have liked to, he didn't stay to listen to Maude's excuses. He didn't fear fighting her husband, but an adulterer had no honor, win or lose. Instead of using the rapier at his hip, he hurried round a corner.

Behind him, the Englishman said, "What's that?" again, and then, " 'Swounds, woman, play you the strumpet with me?"

"Oh, no, Ned." Maude's voice dripped honey. Oh, yes, Ned, de Vega thought. He didn't hear whatever else she said, but he would have bet she talked her way out of it. By all the signs, she had practice.

Whatever Lope had landed in, it still clung to his boot. He wrinkled his nose. Had the Englishwoman's husband chosen to come after him, the man could have tracked him by scent, as if he were a polecat.

When he stepped on a stone in the roadway, he scraped his heel and sole against it. That helped a little, but only a little.

He looked around. He'd gone only a couple of blocks from Maude's house, but in the fog and the darkness he'd got turned around. How am I supposed to find my way back to the London barracks, let alone to Westminster, when I don't think I could find my way back to the bedroom I just left?

Madrid boasted far more torches of nights.

Lope shrugged and laughed softly. He had a long, bony face that seemed ill-suited to humor, but his sparkling eyes gave those bones the lie. One way or another, I expect I'll manage.