The Spanish Exile (Islands of the Crown Book 1)

by Allen, Jewel

  He felt Father Zamora’s hand patting him on the shoulder. “No one can blame you. You’re only human.”

  He glanced up with tortured eyes. “How do I purge these feelings?”

  “By giving yourself some time.”

  Raúl nodded and bowed his head. “I feel like I don’t belong anywhere. Like no one cares if I live or die.”

  “That is simply not true.” Father Zamora said. “I care. And He cares.” He pointed to the sky.

  Raúl’s mouth trembled as he smiled. “I knew I could count on you to lift my spirits. Thank you, Father.”

  “You are very welcome. I will move to Madrid within a day or two.” Father Zamora gave Raúl the address for his parish. “See me anytime. May God be with you.”

  Raúl nodded with a lump in his throat, clasped the priest in a tight embrace, and walked down the lane to catch the stagecoach to Madrid.

  26

  Raúl stood on the road where the coach dropped him off. Lamp posts lined the avenue, leading the eye to the closed gates of Madrid’s Army barracks. Beyond the gate, soldiers marched in formation in a cobblestone plaza. Regiments in white uniforms executed drills, their footfalls echoing in the afternoon. Their precise movements made Raúl think of toy soldiers on his windowsill. Except these men were real.

  His dream felt as real as the cold, weathered iron bars he grasped in his hands. Soldiers of all ranks had passed here before, from the lowly plebe to generals.

  A sentry walked over to where Raúl stood. “What do you want, citizen?”

  Raúl stood straighter. “I’ve come to be a soldier,” he said.

  “Are you of noble lineage?”

  “No.”

  “What does your father do?”

  “He’s a merchant.”

  “He can purchase you a commission.”

  Raúl hesitated. “Unfortunately, that’s not an option.”

  The sentry made a face. “Then you will have to wait until the next conscription.”

  “And when is that?”

  “In a month. Maybe more.” The sentry turned away.

  “Wait. I’m here now.”

  “Do you think I’m blind?” the soldier said over his shoulder. “I can see that. Check back in a few months. This is their slow time, with winter approaching. They’re bringing home the troops.”

  “But –”

  “Take yourself off!” The sentry harrumphed and clambered back to his post, where Raúl would have had to shout to get his attention.

  Raúl gripped the gate’s iron bars, frustrated to no end. As he contemplated what to do next, three soldiers on horseback inside the barracks made their way towards the gate where Raúl stood. Raúl straightened up. He recognized the lead rider.

  Leandro Aguilar, Cheverra’s bully.

  The sentry jumped from his post and went to open the gate. Leandro’s horse pranced. It was a black, long-limbed devil of at least sixteen hands, raring to go. Like its rider. But Raúl stood in the way.

  The impatience in Leandro’s eye turned into recognition, then malice. Leandro spurred his horse full-bore down on Raúl. Raúl, realizing his intent, turned from the advancing hooves and tripped, hitting his head on a lamp post as he came down.

  Everything went black.

  27

  Raúl woke to a scream in a darkly lit room.

  He was on his back, on a lumpy and sweat-soaked mattress which smelled sour. He had no pillow, his head cradled by a huge indentation in the filling. A grimy oil lamp cast a sickly yellow light around him, revealing a row of beds.

  There was a small, open window on the wall opposite the beds, but no breeze brought relief from the sweltering heat. Other beds, in a row, contained people in contorted poses, chests heaving with labored breath. The smell of antiseptic and putrid flesh assailed his nostrils, nauseating him.

  Where was he? A hospital? There were beds, and people, but no nurses or doctors.

  His next-bed neighbor to the left groaned and shifted, unspooling a narrow bandage splotched with dried blood. It fell to the floor, joining others in a pile.

  The fabric moved.

  For a moment, Raúl wondered if he was hallucinating. Suddenly, he realized the movement had disturbed dozens of flies. They flew around languidly in a mass, then settled again in dark clumps.

  Footsteps sounded in the room. A stout woman with sleeves folded up to her biceps and a stained blue dress lumbered down and clucked at the man with the fly-infested bandages. “You kick it off again, and I won’t be changing it.”

  She cast a surprised glance at Raúl. “Well, it’s about time you woke up. Better get the doctor, I guess.”

  Off she lumbered the direction she had come from.

  Someone screamed again -- from the bed closest to the door. The nurse just kept on walking and left the room.

  I have to get out of here, Raúl thought. I need to join the Army.

  He tried to sit up but a sharp pain on his temple made him suck in his breath and fall on his back. He took several breaths until the pain subsided.

  “Now, now,” the woman said, bustling over and looking at him. “Just lie down quietly and don’t be the cause of no trouble. Doctor is here. And your visitors.”

  At the mention of visitors, Raúl looked the direction she was gesturing towards. A man came forward, the doctor probably, in an ill-fitting smock that mirrored the shabbiness of the room. But the other persons, the “visitors,” he could not see clearly. The doctor pressed around Raúl’s temple, making him wince.

  “Bring the lamp over,” the doctor said in an indifferent voice. The woman did so, holding a ghostly light over Raúl. The doctor’s fingers touched and prodded. Poked. Raúl flinched and gritted his teeth to keep himself from crying out.

  “He’s looking better,” the doctor told the visitors over his shoulder.

  One of them came forward, just barely into the arc of light. He was not a very tall man, yet everything about him exuded power, from the set of his chin and his purposeful stride. An officer in uniform. He had dark skin that contrasted with his white hair, pulled back low behind his neck. His white coat was made of a fine velvety material, with vivid blue trim and gold buttons.

  “What is your name, young man?” His low, commanding voice boomed.

  “Raúl.”

  “Last name?”

  “His name is Calderón.” A second man detached himself from the shadows. Leandro folded his arms across his chest and looked down his nose at Raúl with distaste. “We’re from the same town.”

  Raúl’s eyes narrowed. “Do you make a habit of running former neighbors down with your horse?”

  Leandro shrugged. “It was an accident. My horse misbehaved. You ran into the lamp post.”

  Raúl looked away in disgust. The gall of the man!

  “Yes,” the older man said. “I saw it happen.”

  “Pardon me,” Raúl said, “but who are you?”

  Leandro’s lip curled. “This is Count Diego Saldana, Count of Murillo.”

  Raúl stared, Leandro momentarily forgotten. “The Count Diego Saldana? You led the troops at the Battle of Gavidon and beat the enemy resoundingly! I have heard stories about you.”

  “Indeed, that is me.” The count’s stern face relaxed. He considered Raúl. “I would like to arrange for Ensign Aguilar to take you home. Where is that?”

  “I don’t have a home in Cheverra now.” Raúl hesitated. “I’ve cut ties with my family.”

  Leandro’s eyes glimmered speculatively.

  “I’ll let you work out details of where you’d like to be brought then,” the Count said.

  “Wait,” Raúl said. “I...I was on my way to” -- here he glanced nervously at Leandro -- “join the army.”

  Count Saldana raised his eyebrow. “Indeed?”

  Leandro laughed. “Count Saldana, he has a permanent leg condition that makes him entirely unsuitable for military service.”

  “Is that true?” Count Saldana asked Raúl.

 
Raúl felt his face get warm. “I broke my leg as a boy and it healed wrong. But I have gotten stronger since. I’ve been doing farm chores and working on my sword skills.” He would have continued but something in the count’s eyes stopped him.

  “Even if you passed our rigorous training,” the count said, “all our regiments are back for the winter months. I have no open slots currently.”

  “Yes,” Raúl said, his shoulders sagging with disappointment. “I was told that I would have to wait until conscription.”

  “That is correct.”

  “Would you not consider making an exception, Count? I have nowhere else to go, nowhere else to turn.”

  Leandro tapped his foot impatiently. “The count is a busy man. Badgering him is disrespectful of his time.”

  Count Saldana held up a silencing hand. “What skills do you have, Calderón?”

  “I can read and write. And fence.”

  “How well can you handle a sword?”

  “I trained with an instructor.”

  “For just a few weeks,” Leandro interjected.

  Raúl pointed at Leandro. “I beat him.”

  “Good,” the count murmured. “I need more skilled swordsmen. Ensign Aguilar. Arrange for him to report at the barracks for a screening.”

  Leandro’s mouth dropped open. Then it shut. “Yes, sir.”

  Count Saldana shook Raúl’s hand. “I shall see you at the barracks soon.”

  “Thank you, Count,” Raúl said, his chest expanding with happiness. “I promise to work hard.”

  The count nodded. “First, let’s get you into the army.”

  “What,” Leandro said, after the count left, “your family finally got tired of their cripple son?”

  Raúl’s arm shot out and grabbed Leandro by the throat. “I could challenge you to another sword fight. Don’t make me beat you once again.”

  Raúl released Leandro, sending him staggering a step back. Leandro moved to rush Raúl, but the nurse planted herself between them.

  “I will have no fighting in my ward, you hear?” she said.

  Leandro glowered at Raúl. “Get yourself to the barracks. In an hour. After that, the offer expires.” Then he stalked off.

  “Well,” the nurse said, watching him leave. “He’s a joy to be around.”

  “Yes, he is,” Raúl muttered.

  “Oye,” the nurse said, spying two men entering the room with a stretcher. “We need your bed, young man. Someone in a sorrier state has come. If you need to catch your breath, why, you can sit against the wall. Just stay out of my way.”

  Raúl was happy to comply. Attacking Leandro took a lot out of him. But lying on his back, made him feel vulnerable and weak. He stood up and steadied himself against the wall.

  Somehow, he had to get himself to the barracks. Crawl, walk or fly, he would get himself there. And Leandro’s vicious face wasn’t going to stop him.

  He had an hour. Raúl’s head hurt and his stomach growled. He was in no condition to train with the army. All he wanted to do was to crawl back in bed, but the other patient had already been laid on the mattress, drenching it with blood.

  He pushed himself off the wall, paused until the dizziness subsided, then walked on.

  28

  Despite chills racking his body and a pounding headache, Raúl showed up at the appointed time at the gate and asked for Count Saldana’s regiment. He’d washed the grime off his face and body as best as he could in a ditch, but he still felt dirty. Ah, but it would have to do.

  A different, less crotchety guard waved for him to proceed to a courtyard where Leandro stood. At Raúl’s approach, the bully’s eyes flashed with surprise. And once again, malice. “You’re late. I’m sorry. There is no opening.”

  A hot flash of anger engulfed Raúl. He wanted to rush the man and punch him in the nose. Just as his legs began to move, he came to his senses.

  “Well?” Leandro taunted. “Go ahead and attack me. There are only a few hundred witnesses with weapons here. And let me tell you something else. The count was just being charitable. You and I know you’re not qualified to go into the army, however much exercising you do. You won’t get in. Not on my watch, at any rate. If you want a job, try the hangman. He needs someone to clean up after him.”

  Raúl felt the world shatter, the insults hitting him like shrapnel. Troops eyed him coldly. He clenched his fist several times before mustering what little dignity he had left and walked away. He nibbled on a bitter crust of humiliation all the way to the gate.

  With his hands in his pockets, he walked and walked until he reached the streets of Madrid. People hustled about, hurrying to their destinations. The narrow streets pressed in on him. Piles of horse dung littered the ground and human sewage spilled out of ditches. Beggars in filthy rags sprawled in the way. Men, women and children with gaunt frames followed his progress with their hollowed eyes.

  His head began to throb, his eyes losing their focus. As his legs tired, his limp felt more pronounced. He sat on the street, propping himself against the wall of a house.

  Maybe they were right that he wasn’t cut out to be a soldier. Look at him, sitting on the streets like a beggar. He pulled up his knees to his chest and stayed that way until he fell asleep.

  The next day, he roamed the streets again, trying to find odd jobs, here and there. He stopped at the grand theater, looking up at the facade of the building that Conchita aspired to perform in. He wondered about Conchita and wished he could see her. But not in the state he was in, dirty and unkempt.

  At dusk, carriages of theater-goers began to crowd the avenue. Raúl conducted a brisk business of finding spots for the carriages to park, earning him some money.

  A man with a mean expression collared him. “What are you doing stealing my business?” He shoved Raúl to the ground, sending his money scattering. Within a matter of moments, people converged upon the change, picking up every single coin before Raúl could.

  By then, it was too late to get any more carriage business, even if he dared. He walked down the street once again, following the delicious smell of potato soup at a vendor stall. Lining up, he prayed for a miracle so he could eat that night.

  “I can pay you back,” Raúl told the vendor. “I just need a little bit of soup.”

  The man frowned. “Step aside so I can help paying customers.”

  As darkness blanketed Madrid, workers lit the lamps, but the light didn’t dispel the gloom he felt inside. Raúl stepped over freshly thrown garbage from someone’s window and leaned against a house. His stomach clenched with hunger pains. Worse, his spirit starved. A woman came out with a bucket under her arm.

  “Please,” Raúl said. “May I have that?”

  “What?” The woman’s mouth gaped open. “This slop?”

  He eyed the unappetizing mess. “Yes.”

  She set down the bucket with a clatter. “Whatever you don’t eat, throw it over that fence yonder, for the pigs.”

  Raúl sat himself next to the bucket and scooped up the bile-like stew into his mouth, sputtering at the rancid taste. He took a deep breath and attempted it again, managing two mouthfuls before retching.

  Sobs racked his body. He was done. It was too hard. He couldn’t go on. He should just go back to Cheverra and abandon his dream. His body had no ounce of strength left. He just wanted to lie there.

  People stepped around him. Someone threw down a coin, which rolled and stopped in front of Raúl, as did a pair of boots under what looked like a priest cassock.

  “Raúl?”

  Raúl raised his head, trying to focus his eyes in the darkness. That voice, kind and comforting, sounded familiar.

  “Raúl Calderón?” A priest crouched down.

  “Father Zamora?” A fresh round of tears racked Raúl as he looked into his friend’s eyes.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “The army didn’t want me,” came his muffled reply. “They said to come back after the winter when they are doing conscriptio
ns. I’ve been trying to earn my keep, here and there, and lost my money.”

  “You should have come to me.”

  “I didn’t think I’d need to, so I threw away your directions.”

  “Well, I’m here now. Would you like to return to your family?”

  Raúl shook his head. “I can’t.”

  “Then come with me. My villa is near here.”

  Father Zamora called for someone to come and help get him into a carriage. Raúl slumped gratefully against the soft cushions. The ride was short, then it was up some stairs and into the kitchen. It was a small room, equipped with a table, chairs, a washbasin, and an iron rack of pans.

  The priest built a fire in the stove. While it crackled merrily, he unwrapped a partial leg of ham and tossed it in a frying pan. Soon, the delicious smell of meat filled the air. Father Zamora put half loaf of bread and a chunk of cheese on the table. To Raúl, the meal was a feast. He leaned forward eagerly, then winced. His head, where he hit the lamp post, throbbed, and his vision swam. Father Zamora was saying, “Raúl, Raúl.”

  Raúl was vaguely aware of him being helped away from the table, down a hall, and into a bed.

  “That’s right,” Father Zamora said. “Sleep, young man.”

  For the next few days, Father Zamora woke him to eat and drink. But the rest of the time, Raúl slept a dreamless sleep.

  One morning, he woke to the drapes parted and letting in the warm sun. The rays bounced and glinted off a curious set of bronze discs with elaborate engravings on the wall.

  Father Zamora sat on a chair reading. “How are you feeling today?” the priest asked, closing his book.

  “Better.” Raúl smiled weakly. He glanced back at the discs. “What are those?”

  The priest followed his glance. “They are gongs that a royal family gave me when I ministered in the Philippines. Gifts.”

  “Gifts,” Raúl echoed. “I’d have thought they would have run you out of town. I’ve heard stories about these islands. How savage the natives can be.”