The Spanish Exile (Islands of the Crown Book 1)

by Allen, Jewel

  Raúl got down on one knee to pet the Benavente’s old black dog, Lobo, who rolled onto his back for a belly rub. It was still cool, and the rising sun felt warm and welcome.

  “Feels good, does it, Lobo?” he said, chuckling.

  At the sound of footsteps crunching the gravel, Raúl looked up. Down the lane, coming towards him, was Mario’s older sister, Conchita.

  He gaped for a good minute before straightening up. She was two years older than him. He’d always thought Conchita lovely, but now, she was stunning.

  She glided down the lane in a light blue summer gown, with brimming energy and good health. Her head was bare, dark ringlets cascading down the sides of her face. A dusting of freckles kissed her arms, but her face and neck were exquisitely flawless. She had tucked a red flower behind her ear.

  “Hola, Raúl,” she said, revealing a sparkling smile.

  Her low, melodious voice made his stomach all jumbled up. “Hola, Conchita.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “You’re staring at me like you’ve never seen a girl.”

  He blushed and glanced away. “Sorry, you just look different.”

  She dimpled. “In a good way, I hope?”

  “Of course!”

  “Oh? How?”

  “More grown-up.” Beautiful, he wanted to add, but he just said, “Madrid is treating you well, I take it?”

  “I am the toast of the town.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it.”

  She sighed. “Well, you should. I am getting really good at sewing dresses for actresses. The only time I’ve seen the stage is from the cheap seats.” Then her face brightened. “But I am in Madrid and it’s magical.”

  “I can imagine.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “You are far too agreeable. You were never this nice to me.”

  “I wasn’t?”

  “No.” She shook her head and floated down onto a bench under a bower. “You used to pull my hair, put bugs in my drink, and tripped me. All the time.”

  “Mario made me do it.”

  “As I recall, Raúl Calderón, you masterminded those pranks.”

  “Just some of them.” He smiled. “Sounds like I need to make it up to you.”

  She considered him. “I’ll have to think of something.” She got up and headed to the door, then paused, turning. She looked like she was delivering lines in a play. “By the way.” She looked him over from head to toe, slowly, making him feel self-conscious. “You’ve grown taller since I last saw you.” Her glance lit upon his face, his eyes, his jaw. “And more handsome.”

  He touched the scruff on his face. Of all days for her to see him, the week when he’d not shaved for a while. “I’m a mess.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re perfect.”

  Perfect? Did she just call him perfect? And was she really looking at him like that? He didn’t say anything. Couldn’t say anything. It was as though he had forgotten how to talk.

  She smiled. “I’ll see you around, Raúl Calderón.”

  “Yes,” he stammered, “yes, of course.”

  “You look funny,” Mario said when he came out to join Raúl.

  Still in a daze, Raúl just grinned. He wanted to blurt out that he was in love with Conchita, but it wouldn’t do. So he just kept his happiness to himself and turned down his smile.

  “What do you want?” Mario asked.

  “I need to help you with your farm chores.”

  “The chores?” Mario said. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I’m serious. I need to get stronger, so that my leg would get stronger.”

  Mario grinned. “I’ll gladly let you.”

  “Great.”

  Mario squinted. “Why do you need to get stronger?”

  “So I can fence, and be a soldier someday. What should I start with?”

  “Wait, wait.” Mario held up a hand. “A soldier, you say? What does your father say about that?”

  “You know what he says.” Raúl shrugged. “And frankly, I don’t care anymore.”

  “Huh.” Mario scratched his belly. “You want to start when?”

  “Right now.”

  “All right then. Come, I’ll show you what needs to be done.”

  6

  Raúl stacked a grain crate and was about to lift the next when he realized that someone was watching him. He turned and saw Conchita, framed by the barn doorway.

  At his sudden movement, pigeons scattered from the rafters. Back-lit by the afternoon sun, Conchita’s hair glowed like a halo around her face. The outline of her legs showed past the thin fabric of her skirt. He averted his eyes, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his arm.

  “Mario told me you were doing our farm chores,” she said. “I had to see it for myself.”

  “He wasn’t supposed to tell anyone,” Raúl said.

  “I’m not just anyone, am I?” she teased.

  “No, you’re not. But I didn’t want you or anyone else to think I’m crazy.”

  “Well, you’re that, and amazing.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “The other day, you called me perfect. Now I’m amazing. You’ll run out of hyperboles soon.”

  “I doubt it.” She glanced at the stack of crates, forming steps and reaching the halfway to the ceiling. “Why are you doing this?”

  “I need the exercise.” He looked at the rest of the crates. “If you don’t mind, I’ll keep stacking.”

  “Go right ahead. Don’t let me interrupt what you’re doing.”

  He glanced at her, at how she leaned against the door frame, prepared to watch him, indeed. He didn’t understand how she could find stacking grain crates interesting, but what did he know about girls?

  After a few minutes, she said, “You put actors to shame.”

  He turned. “Pardon me?”

  She sat on a crate, chewing on a piece of straw. “All these actors in the theater, they pretend to be rogues, pirates, soldiers. A hero, you name it! But they wouldn’t last a day out on a mountain. They live softly. The only thing I imagine them lifting is a glass of wine.”

  “If they really did the work of the laborer,” Raúl said, “they wouldn’t look as beautiful.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that.” Again, she eyed him in a way that made his breath catch. “They should do some crate-stacking, in my opinion. Develop some muscles.” She lifted her book. “Like the hero in this book.”

  “What are you reading?” he asked.

  “The Maid of Madrid. It is a memoir thinly disguised as a novel. Very interesting.”

  He went back to his chore. “I imagine there aren’t very many barns in Madrid where actors could develop these so-called muscles.”

  “No, you’re right. But there are stairs and hills. They could row boats in the lake and hold parasols over their lady-loves all day. Really, no one has an excuse to just sit around eating bonbons.”

  “You make me crave Madrid living.”

  “Do I, really?” She chuckled.

  “I’m joking. Not really. I would only move there for one thing.”

  “And what would that be?”

  He hefted a crate and eyed the stack, which was now nearing the ceiling. He turned slowly and weighed whether or not to tell her. What if she laughed? “To enter the army.”

  “I had no idea.” She gaped.

  “Well, now you do.”

  “I think that’s wonderful.” She looked wistful. “My father was a soldier. He died at battle.”

  “I know,” he said, softly.

  “I still miss him sometimes.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She shrugged. “I almost miss him for my mother’s sake. It’s hard for a woman to raise a family all by herself.”

  “Your mother can take on a regiment. She’s amazing.”

  She laughed. “Isn’t that the truth?”

  He shielded his eyes from the sun and looked out the door. “¡Cáspita!” he muttered. He jumped off the platform leading up to the crates in a hurry, stoppin
g a step away from Conchita. “I need to head home.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “To catch my brother’s fencing lesson.”

  She looked so adorable, with her confused expression.

  Little specks of barn dust floated between them. The creaking of the building in the wind, the pigeons settling back in the rafters, a cat drinking from a pan -- all those sounds faded away. Her bosom rose and fell, mirroring the breathlessness he felt. Shafts of light passing through her hair dazzled his eyes. Her full lips were so close.

  And then he remembered how dirty he was. “I apologize,” he said, looking down at his clothes. “I’m a mess.”

  Her gaze roamed over his shirt, and returned to his mouth. She licked her lips and murmured, “Just sweaty.”

  He swallowed, then stepped back, his voice unsteady. “I really must go.”

  “I’m performing at the San Ildefonso Festival this weekend,” she said. “Will you watch me?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

  Her face glowed. He wanted so badly to kiss her. But instead, he stepped around her and trotted on home. He mostly ran, sometimes limped, with energy to spare. He felt like he could have kept stacking crates until nightfall.

  He couldn’t wait to see her again.

  7

  Raúl sat on a chair in his bedroom balcony, clenching his fists tightly. He wanted to be down there, in the courtyard, with Julio and Don Busco. Instead, here he was, watching the sun dip in the horizon.

  His muscles ached from stacking grain crates. But he felt good, satisfied that his body was getting stronger. Papa had never expected him nor Julio to do the hard work at the orchards. They were gentlemen, and as such, they only rode horses and learned from the books.

  Not anymore.

  The servants came out to light the lamps, illuminating one corner, the middle, and the end corner. Don Busco and Julio entered Raúl’s view. For someone who claimed he didn’t want to be there, Julio looked excited, smiling and bouncing on his feet. The tutor stood in the arc of the light.

  Raúl leaned forward to catch Don Busco’s words.

  “Without looking around,” the fencing tutor said, “tell me who else is in this courtyard. Either standing around, nearby, or watching us.”

  Julio didn’t answer for a long moment. “I have no idea.”

  Don Busco paced. “Rule number one. When you enter a space, pay attention to details. Who’s there, what’s there? Are there any objects you can hide behind? Any furniture you can jump off of or hide behind as you fight your opponent? By now, you could have had several people attack you from behind.”

  “But you didn’t warn me,” Julio said.

  “I am telling you now. You also would have noticed that your brother is watching us from the balcony above.”

  They both looked up at Raúl. Raúl kept his expression neutral and said nothing.

  “All right, next,” Don Busco said. “Draw your sword and have it ready. Let me see your grip. Loosen it just a little.” The sword clattered on the stone. “But not so loose.”

  Julio picked up the sword.

  “Tell me, Julio,” Don Busco said. “When you see a potential attacker, how fast do you think should you swing your sword?”

  “As fast as possible?” Julio said.

  “Why?”

  “So they would be intimidated.”

  “Wrong.” Don Busco held up a sword. “Stay calm. Take a deep breath. If you do flail your sword -- pretend you’re doing that -- all I need to do is to thrust my sword right here,” he pointed at Julio’s chest, “and you’re done for.”

  “Madre mia.”

  “Right.” Don Busco held the sword in front of him. “Now I want you to practice holding the sword close to your body. Spread your feet. Do you feel how much more balanced your body is? Now (without striking me with your sword) come at me with just your regular running stride.”

  Julio ran towards the tutor and bounced off Don Busco’s hand which he stretched out at the last minute. Julio fell over and scrambled back to his feet.

  “What happened there?” Don Busco asked.

  “I was about to ask the same question,” came Julio’s indignant response.

  “You lost your balance. Try to not lift your feet. Instead, slide along, so that you can maintain your balance at all times. Stand straight, like so, that way, if I am trying to attack you from this side, you will be ready for me.” Don Busco tried to swing his sword, but Julio was ready for him. “Good.”

  Don Busco tried a few other angles, not very intensely, Raúl suspected. If it were a real fight, Julio would have been dead by now.

  Suddenly, Raúl got restless. What was he doing, just watching them? He scanned the other balconies. His parents could be watching.

  And if they were? Papa’s restrictions could go to Portugal for all he cared.

  Raúl went to his bedroom, searched in his closet, and took out the sword he had inherited from his grandfather. He slid it out of its sheath. It was beautiful, its blade glinting in lamplight. He marched out of his bedroom, his jaw set, until he came face to face with Papa, who was climbing the stares. He stared, agog, at the sword in Raúl’s hand.

  “What are you doing?” Papa asked, his face darkening like a thunder cloud.

  Raúl stammered, “I...I was just --”

  “You’re not fencing, are you?”

  That derisive stare busted something loose inside Raúl. He drew himself up and said, “Yes, I am!”

  “But --”

  “No more, Papa,” Raúl said. “I don’t want to hear about my leg, or my neck or any part of my body that you seem to think will be my downfall. I’m going to learn how to fence.”

  Papa’s mouth fell open. Then he said, sputtering, “Are you paying for the lesson, too?”

  “Yes,” Raúl said, hoping Don Busco wouldn’t really charge him. And if he did, he would work his tail off. He would do anything.

  “I want you at the ledgers tomorrow at first light,” Papa insisted.

  Raúl gazed at him steadily. “I’ll be there.”

  He left his father stupefied, rounding the stairwell to the main floor. When he entered the courtyard, Julio wheeled around and stared in surprise. Then he smiled. “Good,” he said. “This will be more fun.”

  “Welcome, young master,” Don Busco said. “I hope you were paying attention to my instruction.”

  “Only one way to find out,” Raúl said. “I must tell you something, though. My father isn’t willing to pay for my lessons. So if you just want to give me a basic lesson --”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “What?”

  “You don’t need to pay me.”

  “Why?”

  Don Busco shrugged. “Let’s just say I see my young self in you. If someone had taken a chance on me, how different my life might be today.” He glanced at Raúl’s weapon. “Let’s see this sword.”

  Don Busco ran a finger down the hilt, then drew the blade out of the sheath. “What a beauty.”

  “It was my grandfather’s,” Raúl said, “handed down to him by his grandfather. That ancestor was a fine soldier. He fought the Moors and never gave an inch. Legend has it that his son had been captured by the enemy. They told him that if he would open his gates to the Moors, the son would be released in exchange. He refused.”

  The gray eyes studied Raúl. “Sounds like ice flowed through his veins.”

  “Papa says he was just doing the right thing.”

  “A rare breed nowadays.” Don Busco handed the sword back and smiled. “Let’s fence.”

  8

  At first light, as agreed upon, Raúl showed up at Papa’s office to work on the ledgers. Neither mentioned the fencing. Papa didn’t ask how it went, and Raúl didn’t volunteer any information.

  But Raúl’s mind filled with memories of last night’s fencing class. He pictured himself once again in the courtyard, parrying attacks from Julio, tripping once, and getting up, then f
orcing Julio into a large planter next to the house.

  Papa’s droning voice brought him back to the present. For the next several minutes, they just sat there, across the desk from each other, Papa dictating a series of numbers for Raúl to check.

  Time crawled. Finally, at noon, Papa released Raúl from his prison. Raúl ate a quick lunch of fish and onions, then headed out to Mario’s house. By the time he got there, he shed his coat and rolled up his sleeves, it was so warm. A beautiful spring day. His heart leaped at the sight of Conchita coming out of the house. She wore her hair down, over a faded pink gown that didn’t diminish her beauty. She held that book, The Maid of Madrid, in her hand.

  “What scandal are you reading about now?” he asked.

  Conchita hugged the book to her chest. “She’s falling in love with her employer.” She glanced at him curiously. “And what are you going to do today?”

  “He’ll deliver water to the troughs,” Mario chimed in as he came out of the house.

  Raúl followed Mario to a well in the middle of all that pasture land. The blue of the sky hurt Raúl’s eyes for its brightness. Wisps of clouds scuttled lazily, softening the sun’s rays. Conchita sat under the shade of a tree on a wood bench, reading her book, casting furtive glances at Raúl while he dipped buckets. He carried the heavy buckets onto a pole which he balanced on his shoulder to the nearest trough. He made four trips, his back aching at the weight. But he kept on going until he was done, flinging the buckets to the ground at the well and washing his face in the cool water.

  While he was thus bent over, someone pushed him in. Someone with dimples and a faded blue yellow that got splashed as he came sputtering to the surface in the cool water. She laughed, the prankster.

  “Thanks,” he said, trying to get back at her. But she moved away barely out of his reach.

  “You’re welcome,” she said. “You looked like you were sweltering.”

  “I did, did I?” He waded out.

  Her eyes widened. “Oh no, you’re not.”