The Spanish Exile (Islands of the Crown Book 1)

by Allen, Jewel

Gargoyle rushed forward with his sword, needling the stranger like a desperate bug. The stranger calmly parried the ineffectual thrusts for a minute, alternated with parries against Samonte on the other side, then kicked Gargoyle to the ground.

  “Turn around,” the stranger commanded Raúl.

  When Raúl did, he felt the air move where the stranger slashed at the rope binding his hands. He turned back to see a sword being thrown at his feet, skittering to a stop against his boot. “Take him on, will you?” the stranger said, pointing at Gargoyle.

  Raúl stared at the weapon, then picked it up. It was heavy and tipped him slightly off balance. Gargoyle wheeled around. He studied Raúl for a long moment, then growled. He lunged and slashed at Raúl’s stomach. His feet still bound together, Raúl hopped back just in time, jarring his bad leg and shooting pain up his shin. He swung his sword at Gargoyle, grunting with the effort.

  “Open your eyes, young man!” the stranger coached Raúl. “You’ll find your mark easier that way.”

  The well-meaning words embarrassed Raúl. He realized he had been shielding his face with his free hand. He lunged at Gargoyle, who got out of the way and tripped Raúl, sending him headlong onto the dirt. He felt the sharp point of a sword against his back. Moments later, the pressure was gone, as the stranger beat back Gargoyle and Samonte until he had them cornered with their panic-stricken horses against the carriage. Their swords clattered to the ground as they raised their hands in surrender.

  “Let’s get out of here!” Samonte shouted. Gargoyle jumped like a scared cricket, pell-mell onto his saddle, as his horse pranced around. The other riders, with the exception of Gargoyle, ran off. Samonte barked, “With me, idiots!”

  Gargoyle, trying to keep his prancing horse in check, gasped when the stranger nicked his sleeve with a sword. He spurred his horse and wheeled around, back through the orchards he’d come from. That left the lone bandit, Samonte, who couldn’t get in his saddle, his stubby legs too short for him to reach the stirrups. He tried a time or two, and then gave up altogether when his horse took off at a trot. He chased after his horse until he disappeared into the trees.

  “Good riddance!” Raúl said.

  The stranger barely moved his legs, yet his horse walked forward. His gray eyes glinted as he stared down at Raúl, reached up and took the scarf off.

  Raúl recoiled.

  The stranger had two slits for nostrils and a shriveled purple-black deformity where his nose should have been. A boy from Raúl’s village, whose father burned him accidentally with frying grease, had similar scarring of the skin. Raúl’s glance slid over the exposed nostrils and intense gray stare. Another image came to Raúl’s mind, a snake he’d seen at the carnival at the midsummer night’s festival.

  The man dismounted and slinked closer. He watched Raúl, as though preparing to strike. Raúl almost expected a forked tongue to dart between his thin lips. Instead, the stranger smiled, and everything changed. He had no fangs, and certainly no long tongue. Just eyes that danced and a straight set of teeth.

  Raúl struggled to his knees, ready to run. Was this man friend or foe?

  In a nasal voice, the man said, “Wait.” In his hand, he held a dagger. Its silver blade glinted in the setting sun. In two huge, black-booted steps, he towered over Raúl, the dagger poised above him, like a priest over a sacrificial lamb.

  Raúl stiffened, then collapsed with relief when the dagger cut into the bindings at his ankles.

  The man sheathed his dagger and bowed. “Alfonso Busco, at your service.”

  “Raúl Calderón.” He gestured at the sword. “Some mad sword skills you have there.”

  “You didn’t do too bad, with your feet tied.”

  Raúl smiled wryly. “Clumsy, awkward. That was me.”

  “Yes, but I was glad to see you were willing to fight. I could have taken care of both of them.” He shrugged. “But I wanted to see what you could do. Don’t be too hard on yourself. Swordfighting skills take time.” He glanced at Raúl’s knee. “What happened to your leg?”

  Raúl hesitated. No one had asked him about his leg in a long time. Everyone in his hamlet knew he was the Calderón cripple son and why. “I broke it as a boy, falling from a tree. It healed wrong, so one leg’s shorter than the other. My parents discouraged me from running, doing physical things. I wanted to, but after a while, I just stopped asking. I never learned to use weapons. We had a fencing instructor once, in our village, but then he moved away. I could never convince Papa to send for someone else.” With a start, he remembered Papa. “My father...”

  Limping towards the carriage, Raúl poked his head in. Papa was a total mess – his little wisps of hair slumped like a field wasted by drought, his stout face glowed bright red, and popped-off coat buttons littered the floor. But he was alive.

  Papa blinked at Don Busco, his lips trembling. “Raúl, behind you!”

  “Papa, he’s a friend.” Raúl put up a reassuring hand. “He helped me fight them off.”

  Looking skeptical, Papa stopped struggling. Don Busco gave Raúl a questioning glance. Raúl nodded and stepped back. Papa gasped as the newcomer cut his bindings in one clean slice.

  Papa rubbed his wrists and expelled a relieved breath. “Thank you, whoever you are.”

  Raúl introduced them. Papa stared once again at the stranger’s face, but this time with less revulsion. He got to his knees, picked up his wig and placed it on his head. It looked like a lopsided bird’s nest.

  “What do you say we go on home?” Papa suggested, lifting himself with difficulty onto the bench.

  Don Busco spoke. “With your leave, I can ride alongside you. To make sure you reach your home in safety.”

  Papa nodded. “We would appreciate that, very much.”

  As Don Busco mounted his horse, Raúl limped over to check on Fernando, their driver. He cowered with his hands over his head when Raúl touched his shoulder.

  “It’s all right,” Raúl assured him. “The bandits are gone. This gentleman,” he said, pointing at Don Busco, “saved us.”

  After Fernando calmed down, the father and son took their seats in the carriage. Fernando plied the horses with the whip and they moved on past the orchard of orange trees. The setting sun intensified the colors of their glossy boughs and fruit.

  Raúl soaked in its beauty, grateful to live another day.

  He glanced at Don Busco, a dozen questions in his mind. But he stayed silent, not wanting to distract him. Above that hideous deformity, the man scoured the countryside with those gray eyes.

  4

  The doors to the two-story mansion opened. Mama stood in the foyer, her gleaming blue eyes, shining blonde hair and radiant expression a comforting vision. And then her smile faltered.

  Beside her, Raúl’s 15-year-old brother Julio stood, his shirt half-untucked and hair rumpled. His gaze aimed straight for Papa’s hands. Papa had promised him a set of books, but there had been no time to shop. Julio’s mouth drooped, then his gaze transferred to Raúl’s face. Curious and open-mouthed, as though Raúl had changed.

  Nothing had changed, of course. He still felt like Raúl. And yet Mama rushed forward, concern written plainly on her face. “What happened?”

  Papa held her at arm’s length. “We are hardly fit to be in your presence, Esperanza. Let us wash up and change for dinner. Would it be too much to ask of you to visit with our guest?” He turned and gestured to Don Busco. “He saved our lives.”

  “Saved your lives!” Mama swayed and leaned on Papa’s arm. “But yes. Of course.”

  Julio tried to follow Raúl upstairs, but Raúl shook his head.

  “Why can’t I come up with you?” Julio asked.

  “Because I don’t want to have to tell our story twice.”

  Several minutes later, washed and dressed in new clothes, Raúl came down to the tableau of Mama and Don Busco conversing like old friends while Julio gazed at their guest with undisguised admiration. Their family confessor, Father Zamora, sat at the ta
ble, too. Mama usually invited the Jesuit priest to dinner after the Angelus. Raúl sat between Don Busco and the priest.

  Raúl presented Mama with her sandalwood fan. “A little gift from the orient seas, Mama. From the galleon.”

  She opened it and breathed in. “What a heavenly scent,” she exclaimed. “Thank you.”

  Julio turned the coconut shells in his hands and knocked them together, his brows coming together in puzzlement. “What are these?”

  Father Zamora, who served for several years in the Philippine islands, chuckled. “If you were a native of the Philippines, you would use them in a dance. Young men strap a pair on their chest, then hit them in a pattern with another pair.”

  “Like castanets?” Julio said.

  “Not quite.” Father Zamora smiled. “But similar.”

  “What did you get for yourself?” Julio asked Raúl.

  “Aspyglass.”

  Julio’s eyes widened. “Can I see it?”

  “Maybe later.”

  “So you are one for adventure?” Don Busco said.

  Raúl cast his eyes about, as though trapped. “I wish to join the army,” he murmured.

  Papa blustered into the room and settled his girth into his chair at the head of the table. “What is this talk about joining the army?”

  “Nothing, Papa.” Raúl cast his eyes down on his lap. He could sense Don Busco watching him.

  “He has this notion of being a soldier,” Papa said, spearing a mouthful of potato. “The boy doesn’t even know how to use a gun nor the sword.”

  “Not for lack of interest.” Raúl’s face felt hot.

  Papa’s jowls sagged. “I thought we’d settled this long ago. You will take over the business. What young man wouldn’t jump at the chance?”

  Raúl stared at his closed fist and blinked. An awkward silence accompanied the clinking of plates and utensils as servants brought the plates around.

  “Raúl,” Mama said gently, “why don’t you dish up your food?”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  “What a pleasure to discover that your wife is also from Segovia,” Don Busco told Papa.

  “Ah yes, Segovia.” Papa motioned for the servant to refill his wine. “Did she also tell you about the impoverished duke whom she would have married, had I not stopped there for the night? And how her parents considered me noxious, but my money changed their minds?”

  Mama’s smile faltered as she touched her pearl necklace. “He was not a duke, Pedro, he was a marquis.” She lowered her voice. “Why must you speak of such things with a guest?”

  Papa stared morosely at his goblet. Raúl watched his father’s cultivated façade slowly dissemble before his eyes. Drinking did that to him. That day, at least he was relatively pleasant. Other times, he acted like an old bull they owned, El Jefe, who went into periodic rages, attacking fences, pawing the ground, and causing trouble just because.

  “I’m just making small talk, Esperanza. Don’t badger me.”

  “Why don’t you tell us what happened on the road?” Mama suggested.

  Papa returned to jovial form, starting with his rude awakening at the bandits’ arrival. When he relayed the part about Mama’s portrait, and how Raúl snatched it away, Mama cried out, “Raúl, you didn’t!”

  “I had to, Mama.” Raúl stiffened at the memory of the brute’s crudeness. “I wasn’t about to let someone disrespect you.”

  “I appreciate that,” Mama said, “but the thought of you risking death over a trinket!”

  “It turned out all right.” Raúl shrugged.

  “Luckily.” Mama shook her head.

  “Shall I continue the story?” Papa said.

  Mama nodded. “Yes, please!”

  When Papa finished with his story, Mama dabbed tears from her eyes with her napkin as she murmured, “Muchas gracias, muchas gracias,” at Don Busco.

  Don Busco’s eyes glittered. “I was simply at the right place, at the right time.”

  “Or the wrong place at the right time.” Papa chuckled. “In any case, he saved the day. He fought off the idiots and chased them away.” He raised his glass in a toast. “Best of all, I got the valise back.”

  “Your son helped, too,” Don Busco said.

  “Thank goodness he didn’t botch it, then.”

  An embarrassed silence descended upon the table.

  “I prayed,” Raúl told Father Zamora. “And it worked.”

  “Of course it would.” The priest smiled.

  “What do you think works better,” Papa asked Don Busco, “prayer or prowess?”

  “No offense, Father,” Don Busco said, “but I’ve only survived on prowess.”

  “No offense taken,” the priest said. “But I beg to differ.”

  “What about Mama’s portrait?” Julio asked. “What happened to it?”

  Papa patted Raúl on the back. “In your brother’s safekeeping.”

  “Best of all, you both are safe,” Mama said. She turned to their guest. “Again, I cannot thank you enough.”

  Don Busco gestured towards the table. “This wonderful meal is repayment in itself.”

  Papa asked, “And where do you head to now?”

  “I’m actually between jobs. Normally, I teach fencing in households.”

  Raúl stared. Fencing!

  “Papa,” Raúl said. “Can he stay and teach me and Julio?”

  Papa scowled. “Why would I spend my good, hard-earned money on fencing lessons?”

  Raúl’s fork clattered to his plate.

  Don Busco glanced at Raúl. “Your son would make a fine swordsman. He just needs some training.”

  “That would just be putting ideas in his head, about entering the military,” Papa said.

  “And if it does?” Raúl countered.

  Papa drank from his goblet, then set down his drink with a thud. “Raúl, must we re-hash this yet again? You are working with me on my business. That will give you a more secure future that fits your...abilities.” He turned to Julio, his voice more jovial. “What do you say, Julio, some fencing lessons?”

  Julio shrugged. “All right.”

  Raúl stood up and pushed back violently from the table.

  “Raúl!” Mama said.

  “Excuse me,” Raúl said. He nodded towards their guests. “Don Busco. Father Zamora.”

  The walk from the table to the dining room doors seemed to take forever. He was aware of everyone watching him limp and prove his father right. Raúl climbed the stairs and paused at the landing from the ache in his bad leg. But more than that, his heart hurt from Papa’s dismissal, his favoring Julio, and from the humiliation of Don Busco witnessing it all. He entered his room and threw himself on the bed.

  “Why, God?” he whispered. “Why did you send me to this earth if I’m to live in this imperfect body?”

  There was a knock on the door. Raúl looked up to see Julio peering in like a scared mouse.

  “Raúl?”

  Raúl lay his head back down. “What?”

  “You can take my spot at the fencing lessons. I really don’t care if I do it.”

  “Thanks,” Raúl said, touched by his brother’s gesture. “Maybe I’ll at least watch. If Papa will let me.”

  “We just won’t tell.” Julio moved away then back. “Thanks for the coconut shells. I like them a lot.”

  Raúl managed a smile. “You’re welcome.”

  Outside his window, the full moon rose. It was beautiful and imperfect, with its surface crags and valleys. Maybe there was hope for imperfect people like Raúl. He could be whole, like the moon.

  Someone walked out to the courtyard, to his horse. Don Busco.

  Raúl hesitated, then he left his room and went outside. Their guest was leading his horse to the stables and stopped.

  “Thank you for trying to convince my father,” Raúl said.

  Don Busco’s horse nickered. Don Busco offered it a piece of carrot. “I can still teach you.”

  Raúl shook his head. “P
apa gets into these rages. I wouldn’t want you to get in trouble. Besides, he’s right. I...I can’t run to save my life.”

  “So?”

  “How could I dodge a parry?”

  “Swordfighting is more than just intricate steps or brute strength. You seem like an intelligent young man. Do you really want to learn how to use the sword?”

  “Yes.” Raúl nodded. “Yes, I do.”

  “Then you must train and make yourself stronger.”

  “How?” he snorted. “Heft books for my father?”

  “This is a big estate. Can you do chores?”

  “We have workers who do that.” Raúl pondered for a moment. “But I know a place where I can do farm chores.”

  “Do it for a days, make your entire body stronger, then come see me.”

  Back upstairs, laying in bed, Raúl felt an excitement he hadn’t felt in a long time. He would watch the lessons and train. So he was imperfect in body. He would prove Papa and everyone else wrong.

  5

  After breakfast the next day, Raúl walked down the lane to his friend Mario’s house. The Benaventes lived in a small cottage surrounded by fields of grain and pastures of farm animals. He and Mario became friends after they discovered that neither ran during games, one out of limitations, and the other by choice, and so they sat together a lot.

  He found Mario, as he expected, still at the breakfast table, finishing off a plate of bacon. His massive cheeks quivered as he chewed. Downing a gulp of cow’s milk, he hailed Raúl cheerfully. “Good morning.”

  “Care to join us?” Señora Benavente said. Where her son’s features were stout, hers were lean. Furrows formed on her forehead and lanky strands escaped her messy bun. But kindness glowed from her eyes.

  Raúl glanced at her meager portion of the meal, and Mario’s piled up plate. “No, thank you. I just need to talk to Mario. I’ll wait outside.”

  “I’m almost done,” Mario said. “Why don’t you go amuse yourself by talking to the cows?”

  “Hurry,” Raúl said, then went out to their front porch to wait.

  The main front door hung precariously on one hinge. Raúl lifted and situated it as it should, but it stayed crooked. Bluebells, lilies, and other flowers grew in profusion in the garden beds, obscuring the rotting foundation around the house. A wreath of fresh flowers that were starting to wilt cheered the front door.