The Spanish Exile (Islands of the Crown Book 1)

by Allen, Jewel

  When he caught her a few yards from the well, she squealed and tried to slip out of his grasp. But he was stronger. He threw her in the water and she came down in a huge splash.

  “Raúl Calderón!” she said, sputtering, her skirts billowing like a jellyfish.

  Mario sauntered to the edge of the well. “Serves you right.”

  Raúl exchanged glances with Conchita. He grabbed Mario’s arm and kept him from moving. Conchita came out of the water and took his other arm.

  “Nooo,” Mario said, landing in a giant splash and flailing around.

  A few minutes later, Raúl moved on to the next chore: chopping wood. Thwack, Raúl’s axe echoed in the Benavente Farm, scaring off a flock of blackbirds.

  “Don’t you have anything better to do than watch a filthy farm hand do chores?” he asked Conchita.

  “My time is mine,” she said. “Besides, I’m not watching you. I’m reading my book.”

  He smiled at her lie, then went back to chopping.

  “What made you want to be a soldier?” she asked.

  He picked up the split logs and stacked them. “When I was a little boy, a regiment came through town. They camped in our field for a few days. At night, after their field exercises, I snuck to a spot by their fire and listened to their stories. They spoke of faraway lands and fierce battles. And of course, you know of my ancestor.”

  “The one who stood up to the Moors? Yes. In fact, the festival play is about him. It’s called, “The Caliph’s Siege.”

  He swung the axe and split another log. He leaned the axe against the pile and went to pick up the logs. He recoiled, wincing.

  “What?” she asked.

  He stared at his hands. “Nothing.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Let’s just say I’m going to get some good calluses from all this work.”

  She stood up and came over. Lifting his hands, she gasped.

  His hands were bloodied and split. He wanted to hide them. She must think them grotesque. She sounded like she was on the verge of tears as she fussed over them. “I don’t have anything to bind them with,” she bemoaned.

  “Really, it’s all right.”

  “You poor, poor thing.”

  Suddenly, the air between them seemed to thicken. He could hardly breathe, as he became aware of her hands cradling his, her thumbs caressing the edge of his palm. He raised his face and saw that her mouth was just inches from his.

  The sound of cart wheels made them spring apart. Mario drove the cart right next to the couple. “Ready?” he asked Raúl.

  “What are you doing?” Conchita asked curiously.

  “Delivering the logs to Don Busco,” Raúl said.

  “What for?”

  “He didn’t say why. He just said to bring some over but we wouldn’t be burning them. Don’t worry, I’ll take them back.”

  As Conchita watched, they stacked the logs into the wagon. Conchita didn’t stay till the end. She got up and bid Raúl farewell before heading back into the house.

  “I saw that,” Mario said.

  Raúl paused mid-pile. “What?”

  “You and my sister.” He made a kissing noise.

  “We didn’t.”

  “You wanted to, though.”

  “Maybe.” He smiled to himself.

  Mario whipped the scrawny bay horse and it twitched into action, pulling the wagon forward.

  “Wait,” Raúl said, running alongside. “You forgot me.”

  “No, I didn’t,” Mario said. “Aren’t you wanting to get stronger? You’re running all the way back.”

  9

  In the Calderón courtyard, Don Busco sat on a stump, drinking coffee. “Go ahead,” he told Raúl, “run.”

  Was this his idea of some joke? Raúl stared at the flagstone, littered with logs. It looked like an obstacle course designed to trip and maim someone more limber than Raúl. His shirt was still soaking wet from running.

  Raúl frowned. “I thought you were going to teach me how to use a sword.”

  “I will.” The tutor nodded. “But first, we need to train you to have more spring in your step.”

  “What good will a broken leg do me?”

  Don Busco took a sip from his mug. “Did you come here to complain or to learn? If it’s the former, you ought to get someone else to teach you. On second thought, frankly, you don’t need a lot of instruction in that area.”

  Raúl’s body tightened with anger. He stared at Don Busco’s head, willing him to look up so he could flay him with his glance, but Don Busco just sat there drinking his coffee, like he had no care in the world.

  Taking a deep breath, Raúl proceeded to run over the logs. Even though he breathed hard and his legs burned, he felt pretty good he hadn’t tripped over anything. “There,” he said.

  “Good,” Don Busco said. “Now do it ten more times.”

  “Ten,” Raúl sputtered, then shut his mouth when the tutor raised an eyebrow.

  One...two... Raúl picked his way through the obstacle course, raising his leg as high as he could. He paused, catching his breath. His leg hurt. As he set his foot down, it wobbled and he lost his footing. His shin and the hip he landed on throbbed with pain.

  He didn’t need this humiliation. Never mind learning how to use a sword. He could just teach himself. He could just. . .

  Get up.

  He went at it again. Raise the right leg, left leg, weaving like a drunk among the logs. His heel caught, causing him to twist and fall. He hit his head hard and lay there, stunned.

  “Are you done, then?” Don Busco said. “Because if you are, help me clean up.”

  “No,” Raúl growled. “I’m not done.” His body protested every movement, but he got up. Moving slowly, he put one leg over a log, and the other. Sweat poured down his face and his limbs shook, but he kept moving. At about eight, he lost count.

  One leg over, another leg over.

  He fell on his hands, scraping them. Pulling himself up, he crawled. It was not pretty. But by God, he was going to show this man he could do this.

  He made it to the other side, heaving uneven breaths as he struggled to his feet. Wheeling around to take another stab at the logs which appeared to waver in front of him, he heard Don Busco’s voice.

  “That was ten.”

  “Ten,” Raúl echoed through a groggy fog.

  “You can stop now.”

  Raúl felt around for a log and sat on it, shaking uncontrollably.

  After a few minutes, Don Busco spoke. “How was it?”

  “Awful.” Raúl put his head between his knees.

  “Yes, but you did it.”

  Raúl peered up at the smiling tutor. “How’s that supposed to help me be a better swordsman?”

  “This is just the start of your training. I wanted to see what you were made of. And I’m pleased. Very pleased. You’re a fighter.” His smile widened.

  “You sure have a strange way of complimenting others.”

  The older man sat beside Raúl. “If you keep practicing this skill -- jumping over logs -- you will be quicker on your feet. You will be flying and soaring, sword in hand.”

  “I certainly hope we’ll get to the sword part.”

  “We will. Now stand up, we have more work to do.”

  Raúl stood up, his legs burning at the effort. “What’s next?”

  The fencing tutor gestured towards the courtyard. “You’ll clear this mess and put it all back in the wagon.”

  10

  In the evening, Raúl and Julio showed up to take instruction from Don Busco. In the courtyard, they circled each other like predators. Their two-year age difference gave Raúl the advantage of height and arm reach. They each held a foil with a straight French-style grip. Julio huffed and puffed, as though unable to get enough air in his lungs. He put up a hand and started to turn away. Raúl rushed him, but Don Busco said, “Not another step.”

  Julio smirked and sidled over to a table, where he pushed up his fenci
ng mask and drank from a goblet of water until he consumed every single drop. “It’s too hot.”

  Raúl loosened his jacket. The layers of fencing clothes were heavy and stiff. But they had to keep going. “Are you done drinking yet?” he asked Julio.

  “Almost.” But it was obvious Julio was taking his sweet time, swirling the water, sipping slowly.

  Don Busco said, “Julio, what would you do if someone attacked you with a sword?”

  “Run for his life,” Raúl interjected.

  Julio gave him a dirty look. “Fight back. And if it’s my brother, pin him to the wall ‘til he cries like a girl.” Finally, he set down his goblet.

  Raúl scoffed. “You wish!”

  “You are right, Julio,” Don Busco said. “You would fight back. But first, you will defend yourself. Keep yourself from getting injured. And when you are safe, you will hit back. We call that getting the ‘right of way.’ Julio, you are the attacker. Raúl is the defender. Julio, you will try to hit your brother -- ”

  Julio lunged forward with his foil.

  Raúl leaped back, bouncing lightly on his bad leg. “Ay, that was a good one.”

  “For your part, Raúl, you will either parry his thrust, or make him miss.” Don Busco demonstrated the movement with his foil. “Afterwards, the defender has the right to fight back, or ‘riposte’ with an offensive thrust or cut.” He stepped back. “Understand?”

  Julio bit his lip. “I think so.”

  “Don’t worry,” Raúl said. “I won’t hurt you. Too much.”

  Don Busco looked from one to the other. “On guard? Ready?”

  Raúl locked glances with Julio and nodded.

  “Fence!”

  The brothers circled each other once again.

  “You want to be close,” Don Busco advised, “but not too close. Stay out of range of the other's attack. And then, when you are ready, break this distance, so you can close the gap for an attack.”

  The older man taught them how to fake an attack. Julio went first. When it was Raúl’s turn to attack, he kept at it relentlessly. Julio fell on his back, an upturned turtle with extended neck and flailing arms. “I’m all right,” he muttered as he got back on his feet.

  Raúl looked at Don Busco. “Is that good?”

  “Loosen your fingers. Keep your movements subtle. And remember to lunge when you attack. The power comes from your legs.”

  As Raúl knew. His legs were beginning to cramp, but he kept on.

  Don Busco watched them a few more times, and declared they were improving. “Give or take a few years,” he predicted, “and you will be running circles around the best of them.”

  Raúl feigned and found his mark on the instructor’s vest. “Ha! You don’t need to wait a few years.”

  “Well done,” acceded the instructor. “However,” he said, half-turning and catching Raúl’s foil from his hand in a deft maneuver, “arrogance is not an accurate gauge of ability.”

  11

  At the fiesta of San Ildefonso, people crowded the large grassy knoll that tapered to a swimming beach on Esmeralda Lake. Groups clustered around street performers -- a jester, a guitar player, a couple dancing the flamenco -- near the statue of Raúl’s ancestor who defied the Moors. He was the town hero.

  The smell of meat grilling on open fires reached Raúl’s nostrils and made his mouth water. Rows of tapas and bread for sale covered tables. Cerveza flowed freely. At the edge of all this celebration stood a stage, with burning footlights showcasing the performers. Somewhere on the lake, Julio and his friends paddled around on boats. Julio loved the water.

  Raúl made his way past people sitting and picnicking on the grass, then sat beside Mario, a few rows from the stage.

  “Where have you been?” Mario said.

  “I’m here now.”

  The audience shushed them. Raúl settled into his seat, giving himself over to the pleasure of watching Conchita. Her lovely face glowed.

  Conchita moved like a dancer, her hands fluttering like butterfly wings as she gestured. Her voice carried well across the stage, husky and sensuous. She wore a red flower in her hair, which matched the rouge on her lips. Her eyes, lined black and expressive, mesmerized him.

  “Marry me!” someone shouted, breaking the spell.

  Conchita paused, then went back to her lines. The inebriated fan continued to shout praises, with his neighbors in the audience trying to shush him. He continued to shout praises, with his neighbors in the audience trying to shush him. Someone must have succeeded because he fell quiet.

  The show went on. Conchita sang, danced, and flirted with her male lead, whom she eventually embraced at the end. But at least they didn’t kiss.

  When she sang over her murdered “lover,” the emotion in her voice pulled Raúl into her imaginary world. He felt her pain, and despair. He wanted to soothe, hold, and comfort her.

  And then it was over. Someone drew the rudimentary curtains shut; the cast once again assumed their identities, young people whom Raúl had grown up with, not the least of whom was the magnificent Conchita. At the end of the play, each of the cast members took a bow.

  When it came to her turn, Conchita’s face glowed with triumph. The audience of maybe a hundred applauded wildly. She acknowledged their adulation as though she were on a grand stage in a bigger theater. Raúl joined the line that snaked to see her, women and men complimenting her, touching her arm, kissing her cheek, wanting a part of her.

  He understood. Except, in his case, he wanted the whole of her. He was in love with her and he didn’t want to share her with anyone else. Someday, the thought crystallized, we can be together in Madrid. First, he needed to make it into the army.

  “There’s the bandit fighter.”

  The words jolted Raúl out of his reverie.

  “Yes,” someone drawled. “Tell us about it.”

  Raúl stiffened and turned. Leandro Aguilar sauntered over to him. Two of his friends flanked him on either side.

  “My father says you fought off bandits on the way from Seville,” Leandro said, leaning against Raúl.

  Raúl shrugged off his hand.

  Leandro persisted, draping a noxious arm over Raúl’s shoulder. “Except he said your eyes were closed the entire time.”

  The buffoons laughed.

  “How would he know that?” Raúl asked.

  “Oh, he knows everything. Your father might be the wealthiest man in Cheverra. But my father, the Gobernador-General, has the most connections.”

  Raúl shoved his hands into his pockets and turned away.

  “Wait, you couldn’t possibly fight.” Leandro kicked at Raúl’s leg, sending him sprawling. “You’re a cripple.”

  Raúl blinked as anger washed over him in waves. By the time he got up, Leandro and his friends were walking away, laughing. Mario threw empty peanut shells their direction. They sailed in the air a pathetic distance.

  “Bully!” Conchita said, appearing beside them.

  Raúl was mortified that she’d heard and seen the exchange. His cheeks felt hot with embarrassment. He anxiously changed the subject. “You were wonderful, by the way.”

  Her expression softened and she dimpled. “You think so?”

  “You were perfect and amazing.”

  She giggled. “I’m famished, that’s what I am. Let’s go get some bonbons and take it up with us to the hill.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Quickly, before Mario notices. He’ll eat it all.”

  She tricked Mario into buying some tapas across the festival grounds. They then bought bonbons and snuck up the hill, laughing. Raúl worried about keeping up with her, but he needn’t have. Conchita just kept a reasonable pace, without making him feel inadequate.

  The night’s magic deepened. Thrust high above all else, they watched the rest of the evening unfold. On the lake, boats with candles floated in a parade, shining like constellations. Beside Raúl sat the most beautiful girl in the world.

  A gentle breeze whispered and played w
ith Conchita’s hair. She held a bonbon to the starlight, then popped it in her mouth. “You should help me eat this,” she said. “It will ruin my figure.”

  He ate one, firm inside and soft on the outside. Delicious. “You’ll still be beautiful even with a ruined figure,” Raúl assured her.

  “Not in Madrid. I’m no opera singer. A full figure will not serve me well.”

  “What made you want to become an actress?”

  “When my father died, I did a lot of make-believe. Complete with different voices and accents. I played with my dolls and dressed them. Then one day, it occurred to me that I could put both those passions together.” She hugged her knees and looked up at the stars. “That’s always been my dream. Maybe even get into the theater academy in Barcelona. I’ve already talked to a friend of a friend who says she could get me an interview.”

  He looked up at the stars. They were so beautiful yet so far. Like Conchita. “You’ll make it big someday, I just know it.”

  “You, too. Who knows, you could be in the King’s special guard unit.”

  He recalled Leandro’s insults and quailed inside. “You think?”

  She shrugged. “Why not?”

  “You know why.”

  “You mean your leg?”

  Raúl nodded. “Papa needs someone to take over his business anyway. Good thing is, I won’t have to start from scratch.”

  “Shhh.” She put a hand against his mouth. “Don’t talk like that. Of course they’ll take you.”

  Her skin felt smooth and soft. She withdrew her hand and he almost snatched it back to kiss it. Instead, he shook his head. “I heard Leandro’s going into the army soon. I’m sure there’s no room for both of us.”

  “That bully!” she erupted. “Raúl Calderón, would you listen to yourself? You haven’t even tried, yet you’ve given up on your dream. Who cares about your leg? You are good and smart and a dozen times a finer man than that lout Leandro Aguilar. I’ve watched you when you didn’t think anyone was looking. You give that little girl a ride on your back at the parish. Lobo runs to you for a pat on the head and a scratch on the belly. My brother can be annoying yet you tolerate him. Best of all, you’re kind to me. You’ve always been kind to me.”