The Spanish Exile (Islands of the Crown Book 1)

by Allen, Jewel

  “I told her all the bad stuff, too,” Mario assured him.

  Raúl rolled his eyes. “I wouldn’t expect any less.”

  Conchita looked over his shoulder. “Your mother wants to see you.”

  Raúl muttered, “Why doesn’t she come up then?”

  “She seems nervous.” There was a question in her eyes, which Raúl didn’t satisfy.

  He turned his head, following her gaze. Mama looked lost in the crowd, her hand covering her mouth. Then he turned back, clenching his jaw.

  Conchita touched his sleeve. “Be nice. Go to her.”

  He shut his eyes, then slowly opened them. “It’s not as simple as that.”

  “Go,” she urged more gently. “Please. She traveled all this way.”

  Raúl stood there for several moments, in indecision. He watched the others embrace their families. Even Leandro’s father came to visit. Leandro stood rather awkwardly, as his governor father’s voice carried to Raúl. “What, all this time and just a lieutenant?”

  It reminded Raúl of the father he had lost. But it didn’t mean he had to lose his mother, too.

  With new resolve, he turned and walked over to where Mama stood, stopping an arm’s length away. She was crying, openly weeping now, her body racked with sobs.

  “Son,” she said, offering an embrace. Despite his resolution to turn his heart away from his family, he walked into her arms. It instantly felt like home, like he’d never left.

  “Will you ever forgive me, son?” Mama said, holding him away from her, then cradling his jaw in her hand. Her face contorted with despair.

  “I forgive you, Mama,” he said, and clasped his mother in another embrace.

  “Then I can die happy.”

  “Don’t be so morbid, Mama,” Raúl said, alarmed.

  “I just mean that, literally, whatever happens, I can be at peace. I had worried I would never see you if something were to happen to me.”

  “Is Julio here?”

  “No. I just had to go. Papa would have asked questions and probably would have tried to stop us. It was better for me to just come by myself.”

  “I agree,” Raúl nodded. “I think it’s better, too.”

  “You have grown so handsome. A soldier now.” Tears welled up in her eyes once again. “I am so proud of you.”

  When Raúl heard those words, he felt like a little boy, craving his parents’ approval. His mother’s would have to do.

  Strains of a lilting bolero performed by a dozen musicians drifted in the sultry summer breeze, carrying it up to the railed terrace where Raúl stood with Conchita. Candles in globes glowed at every other pillar, turning the dance area below into a glowing, magical space. There were other couples in the garden, each discreetly staying clear of the other.

  “I was proud of you today,” Conchita said. “Your mother looked better after you talked to her.”

  Raúl shrugged. “I suppose it was a good thing to do. Thanks for insisting I see her.”

  “How could I not? She’s suffered greatly.”

  He touched the side of her face. “You have a good heart, Conchita.”

  When she didn’t pull away, he felt bolder. “I used to dream of you nightly.”

  “Used to!”

  “I was so exhausted, thanks to Leandro. I am his subordinate and he makes sure I know it.”

  “Oh, that...that pig! He makes my blood boil.”

  “Yes, he hasn’t changed much. But no sense ruining our evening over him. As I was saying, after a while, I could no longer picture your face. But I could never forget the feeling you gave me.”

  An awkward silence descended between them. She patted his hand and moved a few inches away.

  “I manage to put my foot in my mouth all the time, it seems,” he said. “I take it your feelings for me haven’t changed?”

  “I should tell you.” She smiled with regret. “I am seeing someone else.”

  “Ah,” he said, taking a step back. He massaged the back of his neck. “May I ask who it is?”

  “A fellow aspiring actor. Nothing serious. Yet.”

  “Well, whoever he is, he’s a lucky man.”

  She gave him a sidelong glance. “The woman who will truly love you someday is lucky, too.”

  He nodded, even though his heart wasn’t in it. What time was it? He just wanted to go back to his barracks.

  “But I’ve ruined your evening. Come,” she said, reaching for his hands. “Let’s dance.”

  What’s the point?

  But he indulged her and twirled her to the music until she spun, breathless, in his arms. For a moment, they froze. Something in her eyes seemed open, inviting. But obviously he just imagined it. She cast her eyes down, and it was back to being friends.

  In his barracks, later that night, he lay in the darkness, feelings of desolation knocking at his door. Like a wretch, he realized that he partially wanted to be a soldier to impress his parents and Conchita. His mother was duly impressed. But with Conchita, he was too late. It didn’t matter.

  The next day, their regiment would start their march to Portugal, taking Raúl from Spain and from a dark-eyed girl. Which was just as well. A resolve formed within him. No one, not even Conchita, could derail away his duty to the king and to the crown.

  37

  Three months later, August 16, 1762, Ciudad Rodrigo, Spain

  Raúl adjusted the bedroll on his back as he marched to the beat of the battle drum. Rat-tat-tat. Rat-tat-tat. Intermittent rain bogged down their skirmishes of the past nine days, but today the sun rose in clear blue skies over Ciudad Rodrigo, a Spanish town bordering Almeida, Portugal. Surely a sign of better things to come.

  Up ahead, on a white horse, Count Saldana led the troops, under the command of Count Aranda, who replaced the Marquis of Sarria. Raúl was glad for the change. They didn’t have to endure Sarria’s reported sluggishness and indecisiveness. The count led a battalion, some six hundred infantry, grenadiers, and artillery, ready to see some action.

  Raúl waved at Father Zamora, who stood a few yards away. When the regiment needed a chaplain for the battlefield, Raúl invited Father Zamora to apply. Raúl rejoiced when his old friend from Cheverra received the assignment. The priest waved back.

  Raúl’s white, buttoned leg gaiter stockings had been broken in, stained all shades of red and brown from the march. It gave him satisfaction to see them dirty. He was ready to fight for the crown, to attack Almeida. Portugal’s monarch, King Joseph, had acted belligerently by refusing to join Spain and other Bourbon families in taking a stand against the British tyrants.

  Just a little march further and they expected to reach Almeida, the first of their regiment’s Portuguese targets.

  A combined French and Spanish force spread itself across the barren plains, spilling out of the semi-defined road bridging Spain to Portugal. Mario was nowhere to be seen. Where had he gone?

  “Here is our Spanish friend,” a French soldier by the name of Montmarte said in Spanish, as he sauntered over to Raúl and draped an arm over his shoulder. “Are you scared yet?” He and his group snickered. Montmarte was a thorn in Raúl’s side. From day one, the man made it his mission to annoy Raúl, succeeding greatly.

  Raúl pushed his arm off and just kept walking.

  Montmarte bellowed, “I said --”

  Raúl turned so fast he gave himself whiplash. “I heard you. Yes, I’m scared. Scared of your stupidity.”

  “Ooh-la-la,” one of his sheep said.

  “Challenge him to a duel, Guillame.”

  “You cannot take a joke,” Montmarte said. “Your gaiters are too tight.”

  Finally, they left him alone, laughing and speaking rapid French among themselves.

  Mario reappeared, his arm laden with a pot of something that smelled good.

  Raúl eyed the pot. “Where did you get that?”

  “Oh, this?” Mario took a spoonful, brown gravy trickling out the side of his mouth. “I cajoled the mess captain to give me w
hatever was left over.”

  “I wish you paid attention to maneuvers more than food.” Raúl sighed. But he smiled, too, at Mario’s resourcefulness.

  The Almeida fortress loomed past a river on a hilltop with bastions jutting out of multiple ravelin points that made up part of an irregular star formation. Curtain walls connected these bastions, beyond which rooftops of houses and several buildings rose over the masonry. The Portuguese flag, stiff in the breeze, flew atop the battlements. A dry moat gaped wide beneath the stone walls and under tunnel bridges.

  The sun bore down on their regiment. The river flanked a fertile valley that opened into green pasture, against which the fortress walls glinted a silver gray. Count Saldana instructed the troops to refresh themselves in the river and get ready for battle.

  Raúl knelt on the river bank. He eagerly drank the fresh water and filled his canteen. He washed his face and arms, savoring the relief from the heat.

  Mario scoured the waters for fish to catch. Raúl smiled and shook his head at his friend’s preoccupation with food. Nearby, Father Zamora sat on a rock, unwrapping cloth from his foot and wincing.

  Raúl walked over. “What’s wrong, Father Zamora?”

  “My foot’s giving me some trouble. What a blessing that we can finally stop.”

  Raúl inspected the priest’s foot. A coin-size blister oozed blood and pus.

  “How long have you been dealing with that?” Raúl asked.

  “Just since yesterday.”

  “We can make a carrying litter for you.”

  “Oh no, that’s not necessary. I actually like this. It’s a reminder to me of how the Savior had to endure physical hardships.”

  “Just don’t go too far, Father. If you can’t walk, come get me.”

  Father Zamora smiled. “I will.”

  Raúl returned to the river bank, where several men shed their uniforms on boulders and jumped in the inviting water. He started to unbutton his shirt, too.

  But something gave him pause. In the Portuguese fortress, the bulwarks looked empty, just the barrels of cannons at ready. Nonetheless, they looked ready to spring at any moment.

  Suddenly, an explosion rocked the air. A cannonball landed somewhere to his right. Raúl dove to the ground, hitting his jaw on the dirt.

  Everything turned into a blur.

  “Take cover!” someone shouted.

  Raúl glanced up. Father Zamora crawled on all fours, looking disoriented. Raúl ran to him and pulled him to safety behind boulders. Mario pulled on his boots and made the sign of the cross as he dove into a ditch. The others dressed quickly as they crouched.

  The enemy fired another cannonball. The Spanish artillery answered with their own, allowing Raúl and other infantry the chance to run to the moat bridge, their footsteps reverberating. The first line of soldiers raised their muskets and fired, splintering the double gates.

  The soldiers charged the door with a battering ram.

  Crack!

  The log got lodged in the wood and the soldiers wrenched it out, leaving the start of a hole. They poised for another attempt. The wood scraped Raúl’s hands as they hefted it again.

  “Uno, dos, tres, venga.” They rammed the door again.

  The door broke in half. A cloud of dust rose up. Through the haze, the enemy’s riflemen raised their weapons and fired.

  Raúl dropped to his knees, taking the log with him, pinning his calf and causing his knee to grind against the bridge. Pain flared from his leg.

  Move.

  He had to find cover. Flattening himself alongside the timber, he moved sideways as shots boomed overhead and hit the bridge. He rolled off and flung himself over the low railing.

  He fell a good ten feet, the impact on the soft, damp soil knocking his breath out of him. He lay there stunned for a minute, then became aware of an enemy soldier aiming at him from the parapet above. Leaping up, he sprinted under the bridge, cutting himself off from danger. Just for a moment. More enemy soldiers appeared. He had to get out of there. He had to --

  Boom!

  A searing pain tore at his shoulder. He staggered forward and fell flat on his face. He pushed himself off the ground, pain engulfing his arm.

  Keep moving. Make it harder for them to shoot at you.

  A flash of Spanish soldiers appeared, covering him from above. He didn’t know who made up his relief, but he would take it. As his regiment fired back, he gripped the moat’s stone wall and climbed up, his fingers bleeding from the effort. Finally, he threw himself onto the draw-bridge and behind the wall for cover.

  Raúl tore a strip of cloth from his shirt and tied a tourniquet around his arm, tight enough to dull the pain and stem the blood.

  A few minutes later, Raúl re-joined his regiment. They rushed in past the now gaping gates as one, their progress thunderous and bombastic. The enemies were nowhere in sight. The Spaniards spilled in at will, their muskets at ready.

  Inside the fort, Raúl hefted his musket and fanned out with the others to flush out the enemy. He turned a bend and encountered a scene of chaos, of Portuguese soldiers and citizens fleeing into a maze of streets and houses. Raúl raced up a flight of stairs on the bastion and sensed a movement to his right. Below, Mario stopped and looked up.

  “Come with me,” Raúl said.

  Mario took the stairs quickly, his face red with exertion when he reached Raúl. “What’s going on?”

  Raúl gestured towards a building, where he’d spied someone slipping in. He led Mario past houses, eerie in their stillness, half-expecting their inhabitants to come out and attack. They reached the building, which appeared to be a storehouse.

  Raúl rattled the doors. “Locked.”

  “Should we ram it open?”

  “No.”

  Mario’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Why not?”

  “If someone lies in wait, I don’t want to find out that way.” Raúl studied the building. It had two stories, with a set of windows on the upper floor. He found a hand-hold on the lower half of the facade and made his way up the side of the building. If only there was a way to get his foot on the ledge above.

  “Here.” Mario hunched over. “Step on my shoulders.”

  Raúl stepped, sprang off his friend lightly and held on an exposed beam as he swung side to side. His injured shoulder burned with pain. He strained to pull himself up on a wood cornice with his good arm, using his leg muscles to heft himself over. The beam broke off and fell to the ground below, just as Raúl gained a solid foothold on the ledge.

  Entering a window, he caught his breath for just a moment, until the pain in his shoulder dulled. Raúl planted his feet gently on the wood plank flooring. Whispers came from down the hallway. Raúl froze and listened.

  The whispers ceased, too.

  Noiselessly, Raúl crossed the hall to the nearest room. It stood slightly ajar, but he didn’t want to go in alone. He needed Mario. He went down the hall further and found the stairs. He held his musket at the ready, just in case, but encountered no one in his way. Reaching the main doors, he unhooked the bar and opened it.

  “Come on in,” he mouthed to Mario. “Quiet now.” Motioning for Mario to follow him, he climbed the stairs once again.

  “Thank you for not making me scale the building.” Mario’s breath came out in ragged puffs.

  “Be prepared to climb down it if the enemy comes out.” Raúl stood at the threshold of the door where he’d heard the whispers. “Ready?”

  Mario’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. He nodded.

  38

  Screams rent the air, then settled into a stunned silence.

  Nuns in black habits filled the room. Lay women, too, and children. About forty of them staring at Raúl, sobbing and huddling together.

  “Careful,” Mario whispered. “They might be armed.”

  Raúl nodded, hoping Mario was wrong.

  One of the nuns stood up, disengaging the fingers of another nun who had been clinging to her. “What will you do to u
s?” She spoke in Spanish.

  “We won’t harm you,” Raúl replied. “We will escort you out to safety.”

  The nun’s glance flickered to the window, fear flashing in its depths. But she nodded. She went back to her group and said something in Portuguese.

  “Get reinforcements,” Raúl instructed Mario. “Hurry!”

  Mario left. Raúl leaned against the wall and winced. His shoulder hurt, the blood bright red and fresh through the rag tied around his sleeve.

  The nun who spoke Spanish approached him then stopped an arm length away. At first, Raúl gripped his musket. Then she said, “Here, let me dress your wound.”

  “Thank you,” he said, keeping his musket in his arms.

  Her hands worked gently as she peeled back layer upon layer, until his shoulder was exposed. She stared at his wound and turned to some women nearby. One of them pulled up her skirt and tore off a piece of her petticoat.

  “That isn’t necessary,” he said, but she already held the cloth aloft. “Gracias.”

  “De nada,” the woman said, flashing a shy smile. Suddenly, Raúl burned with shame. The women meant him no harm. They helped him while their city burned outside, no small thanks to him and his regiment. He wished he could repay their kindness somehow.

  A little girl and boy who looked like siblings stared at him from behind their mother’s skirts. Raúl smiled and patted his pockets. He took out a piece of jerky and held it out for the children to take. The boy looked at their mother, who nodded. He came forward and snatched it out of Raúl’s hand, long enough to get a pat on the head.

  Footsteps sounded in the hallway. Mario and a dozen other soldiers entered.

  “I made friends while you were gone,” Raúl explained, as the boy clung to Raúl’s leg.

  “I can see that.” Mario chuckled.

  “Where can we take them?” Raúl asked.

  “To the hospital. They’ll have supplies and food.”

  Raúl opened the door wide and gestured for the women to follow the soldiers out. He urged for the boy to join his mother.