The Spanish Exile (Islands of the Crown Book 1)

by Allen, Jewel

  “I was just trying to help you. Let me go. Please.”

  Don Busco clenched his jaw, then looked away. When he looked back, the cold mask returned. “I will, once your family ransoms you.”

  Raúl’s body tensed. He had to get away from this two-faced monster.

  He dumped his nearly-empty bowl onto the ground and made a run for the gray horse. He mounted him, uncaring of the stirrups and kicked him forward.

  Two short whistles pierced the air.

  Raúl’s mount pranced and reared up. Raúl tried to hold on to the reins, and instead slid and fell to the ground. He scrambled to his knees but only got so far before Don Busco tackled him to the ground. He fought as the older man grabbed him in a headlock.

  Raúl kicked and punched but the older man was stronger. They fell to the ground, grunting. When Samonte’s wife ran out of the house, Don Busco ordered her to go back in.

  “Let me go!” Raúl shouted. “Let me --”

  Don Busco jammed his knee on Raúl’s back. Raúl couldn’t breathe. He twisted but couldn’t shake loose. Don Busco tied his wrists in a tangle of rope, tight and painful, and did the same with his ankles.

  “Get off me, you monster!” Raúl said before a gag muffled his words.

  Don Busco tossed him onto the back of the horse and tied him to the saddle horn. “I don’t know why I bothered,” he said, panting.

  Raúl’s shoulder burst with pain where the saddle horn hit it. Dust rose from the ground as his horse moved over the dry terrain. He slipped on the saddle but the rope held. Don Busco’s horse flicked its tail and flayed Raúl across the face. Soon, the terrain looked more familiar. There was an outcropping where the bandits had set up camp.

  “Where have you been?” Samonte asked Don Busco.

  “Visiting my family.”

  Samonte pointed at Raúl. “Why’d you bring him with you?”

  Don Busco shrugged. “I wondered the same thing.” He cut Raúl’s rope and pushed him off the saddle to the ground, hurting Raúl’s shoulder as he landed. The horse danced around close to his face. Raúl squirmed until Don Busco dragged him to the side.

  The ground shook and Raúl raised his head. A rider appeared around the bend of the outcropping, bearing down on them.

  Who could it be?

  It was just one of their men. Don Busco left Raúl’s side and spoke with the rider. Don Busco turned his head, flashing a dark glance Raúl’s direction.

  “What is it?” Samonte asked.

  Don Busco said something that Raúl couldn’t hear. Samonte drew back, glared at Raúl, then marched over. He slapped Raúl’s head.

  “Worthless worm,” he said. “Your family doesn’t care if you live or die. They don’t want to pay up.”

  22

  Raúl lay there digesting this news. His brain couldn’t make sense of it. His family didn’t want to ransom him.

  Samonte pulled a knife from a waist scabbard.

  Don Busco pushed Samonte’s hand away. “What are you doing?”

  “Killing him, what else?” Samonte said. “Like a pig. He’s already trussed up.”

  Don Busco glanced at Raúl. “Maybe he can be useful to us, like I have been.”

  “Join us?” Samonte asked, wide-eyed.

  Don Busco knelt next to Raúl. “What do you say?”

  Raúl shook his head. Never.

  “But your family obviously doesn’t want you.” Don Busco ungagged him. “We can be family now.”

  “Never!”

  “Even if you did it with me?” Don Busco asked softly.

  “Especially with you.”

  Don Busco expression darkened. He straightened up. “I’ll take care of this.”

  “What do you mean?” Samonte asked.

  The cold eyes assessed Raúl. “It means, I’ll kill him. We have to now. He’s just an albatross otherwise. A mouth to feed. And he’s too much trouble.” He gagged Raúl, dragging him from camp towards the forest.

  There was no path. Raúl’s body scraped roots, leaves, and dirt, burning his flesh like a trail on fire.

  Death. Death was on Raúl’s mind.

  He wasn’t ready to die. Was anyone ever? His grandfather died a year before, and Raúl’s parents said it was a blessing. The old man had been sick for a long time.

  But not Raúl. Not at seventeen. And not at the hands of Don Busco.

  Don Busco carried an unsheathed dagger in his free hand. He stopped and pushed Raúl down, causing him to hit his face on the ground and eat dirt. Raúl spat out a mouthful and rested on his side.

  Don Busco’s eyes bore into Raúl’s. “Kneel and face down.”

  Raúl pushed up on his elbows and rolled to his knees, shaking at the effort. He kept his head down, his body trembling with a mix of rage and fear. When nothing happened for a good minute, he turned his head and looked up.

  Don Busco stared down at him, then looked off in the distance towards camp.

  Just make my death quick and painless.

  Don Busco raised the dagger and lowered it. When Raúl fell to the ground, he marveled at how alive he still felt.

  Alive. He was alive?

  His hands were loose. Another quick motion from Don Busco and Raúl’s ankles came loose.

  Don Busco bent over him. “Run! Run away from here. Do not stop until nightfall.”

  Raúl undid his gag. “You mean...”

  Again, that furious whisper. “Quickly. Go!”

  And so Raúl did.

  23

  Raúl slept fitfully, his mind rife with dreams.

  Sword in hand, he was walking towards his home, which looked deserted. The double doors slowly opened and his father stood there, looking at him askance.

  “What do you want?” Papa demanded.

  “I’m home,” Raúl replied.

  “I thought I was rid of you.” His father went inside and Raúl followed him in. Papa opened a little chest on the desk, where he customarily worked on bills, and began to count coins.

  Raúl gripped the desk’s edge. “Is that all you ever think about, money?”

  Papa frowned. “You made me lose count. Now I must start all over again.”

  With his sword, Raúl cut the chest in half, scattering all the coins. His father pushed away from the desk and cowered under it.

  Raúl raised the sword again, but dropped it when he felt a searing pain on his shoulder. He looked back to see the hilt of a knife, the blade sunk into his flesh and his mother’s face, twisted into a vicious expression. As he fell to the ground, clutching his wound, she ran to her husband.

  Raúl woke from the dream, soaked with sweat. It had been hours since he had eaten the oats from Don Busco’s wife and his stomach rumbled.

  Alfonso. His name was Alfonso. And he had a wife and children.

  Raúl couldn’t get himself to think of the traitor that way. Neither could he get himself to hate him. It was as though he had no energy left. Any strength he could muster, he needed to put into getting home.

  Home.

  Raúl wanted to spit out the word. Wanted to crush and break it. He was loathe to go back, loathe to confront his parents, but he needed to do so before leaving home for good. He was going to be a soldier and no one could stop him now.

  He looked around. The night before, he finally just had to stop and settle in a little alcove. The wind couldn’t reach him, and now he could see why. Rocks protected the little pocket. He dragged himself out and stood up. The thought of walking several more miles defeated him, and his knees nearly buckled under.

  He took a few steps and looked past the rocks. A strangled sound rose from his throat.

  There, in the foothills, were the Calderón orchards. And beyond a field of poppies, jaunty red in the dawning day, stood his house.

  24

  Leaves scattered across the Calderón courtyard, tumbling and scuttling at Raúl’s feet. Clouds obscured the sun, and a cool wind blew from the north. The air smelled of rain. He imagined the parched earth w
elcoming water. His own parched throat would welcome a cool drink.

  The front door blew open. He walked in, the space feeling small, all of a sudden, as though he no longer belonged. He walked through the foyer and sitting room, trying to memorize it all before leaving forever.

  The sound of his parents’ voices stopped him in his tracks. Somewhere in a nearby room, they were talking.

  “What’s wrong, my love?” Papa asked.

  “Don’t touch me,” Mama replied.

  “Please talk to me.”

  “I will never forgive you.”

  “We talked about it.”

  “You mean you told me what you were doing. I had no choice in the matter.”

  “Of course you did.”

  “Not the way you were acting. You wanted your way, and you got it.”

  Raúl crept closer, then peeked around the wall. Mama sat on a dining chair. Papa stood beside her.

  Mama shrank from Papa. “Don’t touch me. You never loved him. How could you, when he was not your flesh and blood?”

  Raúl’s mind raced. What was Mama talking about?

  Papa countered, “I raised him like my own.”

  “He was never good enough for you. You could never look past his leg!”

  “I suppose you wanted him to follow in the footsteps of his duke father, so he could be killed in battle.”

  “He was a marquis, Pedro. Will you never get that right?”

  The world whirled in a dizzy circle. Raúl took a step back.

  “Raúl!” Mama exclaimed. She ran up to him, then stopped just short of an arm’s length. “Is it really you?”

  He nodded. Sobs racked her body as she clung to him. She felt small and frail.

  Then Papa came up, too. Pretending his concern and relief, the lying old man. “Raúl!” he said. “Thank heavens you got away. How?”

  Mama continued to cling to Raúl. He loosened her fingers gently. “Don Busco let me go.”

  “Don Busco?” Papa said. “He was in on it?”

  “He is one of their leaders.”

  Papa grew red in the face. “That fraud!”

  “Yes, he is a horrible fraud.” Raúl’s nostrils flared. “Like you.”

  Papa’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “What did you say?”

  “I heard you. You’re not my real father. That explains a lot.”

  Papa’s eyes shifted between Mama and Raúl. “You and your mother aren’t being fair. I clothed you, and took you in as my own...”

  Raúl growled, “And refused to ransom me!”

  Papa blinked, then backed away a step or two, steadying himself against a chair. “I did it on principle.”

  “On principle.” Raúl’s lip curled.

  “Our town hero didn’t ransom his son from the Moors.”

  Raúl stared at him, speechless. “Who cares that he didn’t?”

  Papa rubbed at the middle of his forehead. “The bandits asked for a lot of money. It would have ruined our family. Your mother.”

  “I didn’t care about the money,” Mama said, crumpling into tears. “I told you so, Pedro.”

  Papa took out a handkerchief and dabbed at his mouth, his chin trembling.

  “But you did?” Raúl asked. When Papa didn’t answer, Raúl persisted. “But you did?”

  “Yes!” Papa exploded. “I did!”

  Nobody spoke for several heartbeats. Mama sobbed anew.

  Papa looked off in the distance. “When my father left my family destitute, I swore I would never do that to my own.”

  Raúl hunched over, feeling broken inside. “Would you have ransomed Julio?”

  “I don’t know.” Papa passed a hand over his face. “I don’t know.” He spoke, as though to himself, “One thing I do know. Julio wouldn’t have left like you did. He isn’t as impulsive.”

  “Or loyal to a fault,” Mama whispered.

  Raúl surveyed Papa and Mama with dull eyes. “If friendship and family don’t matter, then what is there to live for?”

  25

  Raúl packed clothes and money. He looked around his room one last time, at the blue coverlet that Mama made for him once upon a time; the toy soldiers on the window sill; the desk he hardly used, just getting dusty; the view out his window, of fields of poppies surrounding the house. The flowers made him think of a gaping, open wound.

  As his heart felt.

  With leaden feet, he left the room and shut the door after him. It clicked shut with a sad finality.

  Mama waited at the bottom of the stairs. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “Where are you going?”

  Raúl shrugged. “Does it matter?”

  “Of course it matters to me.”

  “I’m going to Madrid to be a soldier.”

  She touched his sleeve. “You don’t need to leave. Just give Papa a few days --”

  He pulled away from her. “Since there’s not enough room for Papa and me under the same roof, I need to go. Besides, Mama, you must not know me after all.”

  Mama sobbed into her hands.

  Raúl just looked at her indifferently. Who was this woman who would choose her husband over her child?

  “I need to know,” Raúl said, “who is my real father?”

  Mama wiped away her tears and took a couple of deep breaths. “He was a marquis who has since passed on.”

  “Was he so very old?”

  “He died in battle while I carried you as a child.”

  Raúl sagged with disappointment.

  “Pedro knew I was pregnant and married me anyway. Over the years, the knowledge of your real parentage ate at him, especially when you started to resemble your father.”

  “What was his name? Will you tell me that much?”

  Mama hesitated. “Marquis Julien Solangerie.”

  Raúl’s eyes widened in surprise. “A Frenchman?”

  She nodded. “Blonde, like you. He served in the Spanish Army as a mercenary.” Mama’s eyes held a faraway look. “He’d be proud of you, were he to see you now.”

  “Unlike Papa.”

  Tears welled in her eyes. “Papa loved you the best he could.”

  “Too bad he didn’t love me enough to ransom me.”

  The front door opened, and Julio ran full force into him, nearly knocking him down. He hugged Raúl tightly. “You’re back! Did you rescue Don Busco?”

  Raúl exchanged glances with Mama over Julio’s head. “He was one of them.”

  Julio blinked. “What do you mean?”

  “He was part of the bandit’s group, but he tricked us with his friendship. He stayed with us so they would know when and what to steal.”

  Julio’s mouth made a round O.

  “Anyway,” Raúl said brusquely. “I’m glad you’re here, because I needed to say goodbye. I’m going away.”

  Julio frowned. “Going away?”

  “I’m going to join the king’s army.”

  Papa joined them, his expression grim. “You’d have found some excuse or another to leave for the army,” he said.

  “Can you blame me?” Raúl said. “Good riddance to those boring ledgers.”

  Papa’s lip curled. “Those boring ledgers feed and clothe this family.”

  Julio looked from one to the other.

  “If you leave this house,” Papa said, “don’t you come crawling back here.”

  Mama put a hand to his shoulder. “Pedro!”

  “Don’t ‘Pedro’ me, Esperanza.” He shook Mama’s hand off. “We need to teach him a lesson. He thinks ledgers are boring. Just you wait until you get a taste of army life. It’s not as exciting as it looks. It’s just a group of men doing as their supervisor demands, not a lot of independent thinking, and long, monotonous hours of patrol.”

  “I know what it’s about,” Raúl said. “It’s also honor and duty, and valor on the field. It’s helping people in trouble, and fighting for the king.”

  “A chivalrous dream,” Papa scoffed.

  Raúl gazed at him as though h
e were a stranger. “You know what, once upon a time, I cared what you think. But now, I’m free. Free from your put-downs and lack of confidence in my abilities.”

  Papa flinched as though he’d been slapped. Raúl gazed at Julio and Mama, turned on his heel and walked out of the door.

  Julio chased after him and grabbed his sleeve. “I don’t understand.”

  “Go back inside,” Raúl said, shrugging out of Julio’s grasp.

  “Why are you quarreling with Papa?”

  Raúl stopped. “It’s a long story.”

  “Why don’t you patch it up with him?”

  Raúl turned and shook his head. “It’s too late. Help him and Mama. Especially Mama. All right?”

  Julio’s lip trembled as he slowly nodded. “All right. Will I ever see you again?”

  “You heard Papa. If I leave, I can’t return.”

  Julio gazed at him wordlessly, then wiped tears from his eyes.

  Raúl’s chest tightened, but he forced himself to walk away without looking back.

  At first, his steps felt sluggish, but he kept walking on. After a little while, as he exited the property, he raised his face to the warmth of the sun. Birds flit about olive tree boughs. His heart tentatively expanded with hope.

  Raúl crossed town and stopped at the parish. Father Zamora was hitching a cart to a horse. “Thank God you are safe,” the priest said, making the sign of the cross. “How did you get away?”

  Raúl gave the priest a brief version of the events, until the end. His voice faltered as he recalled Don Busco letting him go.

  “That’s why I came to see you,” Raúl said. He sat on the low wall surrounding the church courtyard and bowed his head. “I liked Don Busco a lot. He is someone who helped me think that I can do more, even with my bad leg. Then he did what he did. I hated him so much I wanted to hurt him. On the way here, I imagined stabbing him with a sword.” He angled away so Father Zamora wouldn’t be able to see his shame. “But part of me forgives him because in the end, he let me go.” He bowed his head.

  “And then there’s my father,” he whispered. “He refused to ransom me. I don’t know if I will ever be able to forgive him. I have such dark emotions right now in my heart.”