The Spanish Exile (Islands of the Crown Book 1)

by Allen, Jewel

  Leandro stood at attention. “Training this soldier, sir.”

  “The boy looks near death. What are you having him do?”

  “Twenty laps, sir.”

  “And how many have you done, Calderón?”

  ”Nineteen, Count.”

  Count Saldana studied him. “I say nineteen is enough.”

  “With due respect, sir,” Raúl croaked. “I would like to go on.”

  “Go on?”

  “To do the twenty that Lieutenant Aguilar wanted me to do.”

  “I’m saying you don’t have to.”

  Raúl nodded. “I know. And I appreciate that. But I have to.”

  “Why?”

  Raúl glanced at Leandro. “Because I want to prove that I can.”

  Silence descended on the trio. “It’s bitter cold,” Count Saldana said. “Get it done, young man.”

  The wind whistled above Raúl’s head. He raised his chin and stood up, then ran.

  He ran for the times Leandro taunted him, for his mother’s choice, for the father who abandoned him. He ran for his heartaches, his disappointments, the constant gnawing of hunger, his longing for home and the tears he shed last night because of the sheer exhaustion and pain. And lastly, he ran because he would not be known as the one to quit.

  He reached the end point and slumped over. He raised his head and searched for Leandro. His eyes focused on his face. A begrudging respect glittered in Leandro’s eyes. The word came out in a whisper that sounded strong to his ears: “Twenty.”

  Count Saldana broke the stunned silence. “Lieutenant Aguilar.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How many laps can you do in a reasonable time?”

  Leandro squinted. “Reasonable time, sir?”

  “Probably nowhere near as many as Calderón did.”

  “I wouldn’t know, sir.”

  Count Saldana strode off, then called back, “Good work, Calderón.”

  Raúl raised himself to his knees. “Thank you, sir.” The count’s footsteps echoed and faded. Snow swirled around Raúl, and his teeth chattered noisily.

  Leandro clenched and unclenched his gloved fists. “Get out of my sight.”

  Raúl staggered to his feet, swaying unsteadily. Through his frozen lips, he said, “Gladly,” before limping back inside.

  33

  Eighteen months later, May 1762

  Raúl couldn’t walk through a crowd of fellow soldiers without somebody calling out to him. He acknowledged a few greetings, but anyone that tried to stop him to talk, he waved off with a curt apology.

  “What’s the rush, Calderón?” someone asked.

  “I’ve been summoned by Count Saldana,” he said over his shoulder.

  “What did you do now?”

  He grinned. “Nothing I’ll admit to.”

  Raúl wondered why he had been called – in the middle of drills – to see the count. Since that time when Leandro made him run the laps, he had seen the count a handful of times, interviews that meandered from one topic to another. The conversations puzzled Raúl, but he enjoyed them. Most of the time, Count Saldana shared his philosophy on warfare, or politics. Or, a little more mundanely, cuisine, like how his mother painstakingly cooks her paella, “the recipe for how we want to prepare our regiment.”

  In the hallway, Leandro detached himself from a group of men and met Raúl head-on. Raúl was used to it; Leandro made it his business to make Raúl’s life difficult. But since the day of the winter laps, Leandro simply ran his machinations stealthily: starting rumors, instructing the mess hall crew to cut back on Raúl’s portions, taking Raúl’s weapons and hiding them. But never again did Leandro single Raúl out for drills.

  “What are you doing out of formation, Calderón?” Leandro asked.

  “Count Saldana sent for me.” He kept on walking.

  “I’m still talking to you.” Leandro grabbed Raúl’s arm.

  Raúl looked at the detaining hand like it was diseased. “I would hate to keep the count waiting.”

  Leandro’s expression tightened, but he released Raúl.

  An open doorway framed Count Saldana, seated at his desk and writing. The man’s silver white hair glinted in the light diffused by wood shades. Raúl stood at the threshold and knocked.

  Count Saldana looked up and smiled. “Come in. Have a seat.”

  Raúl obeyed and sat down. His chair creaked as he made himself comfortable. A rolled-up map, a dog-eared book and a pipe sat on the edge of the desk.

  Count Saldana stopped writing and leaned back in his chair.

  “How long have you been training, Ensign Calderón?” Count Saldana asked.

  “Two years, sir.”

  “I’ve watched you all this time. And you have impressed me.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Count Saldana pinned Raúl with his gaze. “Can I count on you for an important task?”

  Raúl nodded. “Certainly, Count.”

  “That is why I selected you. You never seem to hesitate in the face of a daunting situation.”

  Raúl’s mind raced with possibilities. Guarding King Carlos the Third? A clandestine assignment abroad?

  Count Saldana continued. “You will supervise the training of new recruits for the king’s upcoming review.”

  Raúl stared in surprise. Usually, that distinction was given to someone older, like Leandro. But he was not one to quibble. “I would be honored.”

  “You have a healthy confidence,” the count said. “What if I were to tell you that you have two weeks to mold into shape a sorry group of recruits?” He looked out the window. “You’ve heard, of course about the winds of war, blowing towards Portugal?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We need all the men we could have, and don’t have the luxury of training, as we did with you.”

  Raúl said, “May I respectfully ask, why use lesser-trained men in this war?”

  “We simply need more men. As you know, our troops have been sent to a Portuguese border town to join in the fight. After this training, you and the new recruits will head out to battle.”

  “It will be a race against time,” Raúl said, “but is certainly not impossible. I’m curious, Count Saldana. Why me?”

  “You are up to the task. You have been bossing around your contemporaries these last few months.”

  “Bossing around?” Raúl echoed.

  “I jest.” Count Saldana smiled. He stood up and walked to the window, opening the shades further. Outside, the regiment marched in symmetry, a beautiful sight.

  He glanced back. “I’ve been watching you from that time when you started here. I’ve never seen more nerve nor will in another soldier. What you lack for in physical ability is never obvious. You simply work your tail off. I want the men to be more like you. Thus, the invitation for you to lead them.”

  Raúl felt his chest expand with pride.“I am honored, sir.”

  “You will have all resources at your disposal, naturally. A barracks will be provided for the men. In a week and a half’s time, I shall inspect the troops personally. A lot is riding on this. You will not disappoint me, I trust?”

  Raúl rose and shook Count Saldana’s hand. “You can count on me.”

  34

  Raúl braced himself for the task ahead. The recruits were an embarrassment to the profession, not to mention the rest of mankind. And that was just based on the information presented to him by their Guardia Civil supervisor, Second Lieutenant Garcia.

  “Some of these men have committed petty crimes, by their own admission,” noted Raúl.

  “Reformed, of course,” Garcia said.

  “Literate?”

  “A few.”

  “Trained in combat?”

  “None.”

  A name caught his eye. “Second Lieutenant, before I meet your crew, I would like you to call this recruit into my office.”

  The officer peered at the name, glanced curiously at Raúl, then left. He returned moments later wit
h a stout man who breathed noisily from the exertion of simply walking into the office.

  “You may leave us,” Raúl told Garcia.

  The recruit stood half-cocked at attention, like a plant wilting at the side of the road. Since entering the room, he had not once looked at Raúl.

  Raúl leaned against the desk. “Is that your idea of standing at attention?”

  The recruit stood straighter.

  “Do you pledge to follow all my instructions as your superior?” Raúl asked.

  “Yes, sir!”

  “All of them?”

  The recruit bit his lip before answering, “I think so.”

  “You think so?” Raúl turned to the basket of fruit sitting on the desk and picked up an apple. “Suppose I order you to eat this?”

  The recruit looked at the apple in Raúl’s hand. “Eat it? Why, I would thank you, sir!”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m hungry, sir.”

  “Hungry.” Raúl guffawed. “You haven’t changed a bit all these years, Mario.”

  Mario Benavente dragged his gaze from the apple and stared at Raúl. “Raúl Calderón!”

  They clasped arms and laughed.

  “Well, you are not much taller but definitely broader,” Raúl conceded. “And you still love food, I see.”

  “I would never turn down free food.”

  “Did Conchita ever make it to the grand theater?”

  “Small parts. But they’ve filled her head with grand illusions.”

  Raúl pictured Conchita in his mind. He’d thought about visiting her in Madrid, but he always told himself, Someday, when I am a decorated soldier.

  “Good for her. So, you decided the soldier’s life is for you?”

  “My mother threatened to kick me out if I didn’t find a job. I saw this line forming on the street, and for lack of something better to do, I joined it. And here I am!” Mario looked over Raúl’s uniform. “You’ve made a name for yourself, my friend. Everyone talks about how mean and vicious our weanling supervisor is.”

  Raúl smiled and opened the door. “They haven’t seen mean and vicious. Let’s go meet them, shall we?” As Mario passed him, Raúl said, “I almost forgot. Here.”

  Mario caught the apple in his hand.

  “For your family’s kindness,” said Raúl.

  “That’ll be a few apples’ worth.” Mario tucked the fruit in his pocket.

  “Remember though, I won’t play favorites. You’ll have to work hard like everyone else.”

  Mario rolled his eyes. “Hard work, sweat on the brow and all that talk. You remind me of my sister.”

  Raúl thought of fiery Conchita and her driving ambition. “May good fortune smile upon her.”

  “She’ll have no problem attracting a smile,” Mario replied, “especially if Good Fortune is a man.”

  35

  Procession day finally arrived.

  Half of the recruits quit before the two weeks were up, but the remaining ones made Raúl proud. The men appeared fairly professional if one overlooked a recruit tackling an innocent citizen who held up a sign he thought wished the king ill. The plaza teemed with cavalry, artillery, and troops, all formed neatly like they had drilled over the past two weeks. Citizens surrounded the soldiers, ready to wave their handkerchiefs. Good old Mario. He stood at attention, but his eyes betrayed him. They kept straying to the vendor selling jamon serrano.

  Trumpets blared, signaling the king’s arrival. Raúl took up his position at the head of the formation. His gelding nickered and settled, cocking his back hoof. Raúl tugged just a little at his reins, straightening his horse up.

  This was the first time Raúl had seen the king since he and Don Busco saw his procession in the plains. The memory of his tutor suddenly filled Raúl with anger. He straightened up in his saddle and shook the feeling off. The king had nearly reached him and he wanted to exude positivity.

  Count Saldana walked alongside the king. Beside the stocky officer, the king looked frail and lean. He was not a handsome man, with a thin and bony face, but he had kind eyes. The two men stopped right in front of Raúl.

  “This is Ensign Calderón. He’s responsible for training our recruits,” the count said, gesturing towards Raúl.

  King Carlos smiled. “Good work, Ensign.”

  Raúl thrust his chest out slightly. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” he said. They exchanged a few more pleasantries, then the king moved on.

  Leandro Aguilar followed in the count’s wake. Raúl stiffened, bracing himself for the criticism he was sure to receive. To his astonishment, Leandro merely said, albeit stiffly, “Well done.”

  After the king passed everyone, he got into a waiting carriage. Raúl turned to his men to issue orders for their formation to file back towards the barracks.

  He did it. He took the count’s challenge and succeeded.

  Still, his triumph felt hollow. Restlessness plagued him. He wanted to move on, but for every step forward, something held him back, a yearning for home and family. For roots. A thirst to know how they fared. Whenever news came from Cheverra, he heard nothing specific to the House of Calderón.

  Trumpets blared and brought Raúl back to the present as Count Saldana led men on horseback through the avenues leading to the Palacio Royal.

  His destiny lay here now, Raúl told himself, among stalwart men like Count Saldana. Whatever the future held, he resolved to face forward, bittersweet memories of the House of Calderón tucked firmly in the past.

  36

  Facing a mirror, Raúl tied the cravat at his collar, tugged at white coat cuffs and waistcoat, and straightened his Tricorn hat. He had just shaved, but already, a hint of a beard formed on his jaw.

  Mario appeared behind his reflection. “By the way, Conchita is coming.”

  Raúl feigned indifference. “I would expect her to, as your sister.”

  “Right.” Mario rolled his eyes.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Mario turned and whistled. “Nothing. Oh, and your mother’s coming, too.”

  Raúl froze. “I never invited her.”

  “News travels in a small town. She asked me about it, so I had to give her details. I had no choice.”

  Raúl flicked a dark speck on his sleeve. “I wish you hadn’t. I’d never interfere in your family life.”

  “Why do you keep them at arm’s length? Your mother’s not been herself since you left.”

  Raúl kept his gaze on his reflection, tight-lipped.

  “She looks like she’s aged, faded,” Mario persisted. “I thought maybe she was ill. But a servant in your household told me she wasn’t. Just sad. Your father’s situation hasn’t helped. You know how my father drank a lot? Your father out-drinks him now. There are rumors. Unpaid bills. Folding of the farm. But they are, as I say, just rumors. I could be wrong, of course.”

  “You shouldn’t go around spreading rumors,” came Raúl’s terse reply.

  Thankfully, Mario got called on to help set up for graduation so they could end the conversation. Raúl stayed behind.

  For a long moment, he looked at his reflection in the mirror. He recognized his mother’s eyes in his, not as vibrant of a blue as hers, but strikingly similar. Like her, blonde streaks threaded through dark strands.

  Gone was the boy who quaked in Leandro’s presence. Gone was the boy who had something to prove. He had finally arrived.

  But what of his family?

  “No longer my concern,” he murmured to himself, before joining his group.

  The rays of the setting sun shone directly in his eyes, making Raúl squint. He stood in the barracks courtyard in full uniform like the rest of his regiment, ready to accept his commission. Just one more formality, and he would be an infantry soldier. He would soon be living his dream.

  Already, there was talk of war, of soldiers being sent to the front lines to occupy Portugal, a former ally now conspiring with the English against France. Spain, bound by the family pact
between the Bourbon monarchs of France and Spain, was obligated to retaliate. Even new recruits like Mario would be drafted into this campaign.

  But first, this ceremony.

  Flags festooned a stage set close to the barracks. Chairs lined the courtyard in neat rows. The regiment sat in the middle, while spectators sat to the sides. Raúl hadn’t seen her yet, but Conchita was in the crowd, somewhere. The anticipation of seeing her turned his insides into jelly.

  Ah, but who was he kidding? She never looked at him as more than a friend. He pushed thoughts of her aside throughout the training master’s speech, gave in to his daydreaming, then focused on the speaker when Count Saldana took to the podium.

  The count spoke of valor and integrity, of doing the right thing even in the face of unpopularity.

  He said, “You are just beginning the rest of your military life. Live it well and honorably. Each of you here has the makings of greatness. We expect much of you. Fulfill your destiny. Your regiment is only as good as the sum of its parts.” He paused and seemed to stare right at Raúl. “I expect you to enjoy success. Be careful with pride. Remember that the fall is greatest from the top.”

  Then he declared them ready for their assignment. The regiment rose and whooped as one. The group’s buoyant celebration faded to the background. Walking towards Raúl was Conchita, in a simple but stunning white silk gown, her long dark hair cascading down over a shoulder like a waterfall.

  Raúl’s gaze drank in her beloved face, more chiseled and lovely over the last two years, her deep-set, dark eyes more pronounced against her creamy complexion. She wore a red flower in her hair, which matched the rouge on her lips. He stared at her mouth, a hunger building inside him, then tore his gaze away.

  She embraced Mario, then gazed at Raúl. He bowed.

  “Well,” she said in a throaty voice that caressed his ears, “you achieved your dream.”

  “I did, thanks to you.”

  “Pah,” she said, shrugging her shoulder. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “You encouraged me.”

  “Very well, I shall take credit for it. But you’ve obviously been a good trainee. Mario is my informant.”