The Spanish Exile (Islands of the Crown Book 1)

by Allen, Jewel

  The soldier belched and pointed. Under the moonlight, the fields showed mostly black shadows. Then Raúl detected movement. Someone raising a weapon.

  “Get down!” Raúl dove to the ground.

  Mario froze with a bottle tipped to his mouth. A gun boomed and the bottle shattered.

  “Enemy guerillas,” Raúl muttered.

  Their attackers fired off at least a dozen shots before Raúl was able to shoot back. Between him and a few other soldiers, they got some shots off until the snipers finally dispersed and left them alone.

  “Cowards,” Mario muttered. “Kick a man when he’s down, would you?”

  “Hush, Mario.”

  “Why? They ran off --”

  “Shhh.” Raúl held up a hand. “You hear that?”

  A voice cried hoarsely. “Help.”

  Raúl crawled over, cautiously, until he came upon Leandro, gasping for breath. His lips moved, but no sound came out. His eyes, on the other hand, pleaded for help. Raúl moved the man’s arm, crossed over his chest, out of the way. Leandro moaned. He had a gaping wound just to the side of his ribcage. Raúl bandaged it as best as he could, resisting the urge to bind it roughly.

  “Thank you,” Leandro whispered.

  “You’re welcome,” Raúl said, walking away.

  Mario sidled over to him. “I thought you and he were at odds.”

  “We are.” Raúl busied himself with cleaning and re-loading their weapons, while keeping an eye on their surroundings.

  “Then why did you bother to fix him?”

  Raúl gazed at him steadily. “Because I am not that heartless. Besides, maybe it’ll give him a dose of his own medicine. Let’s see how many of the sick and wounded he wants left behind now.”

  At sundown, Raúl set forth, as usual, on a hunt for food and water. Despite wrangling enough for his needs, his stomach ached constantly. With the food they managed to raid, there was only so much to go around, and he made sure that the sick -- even Leandro -- got a good portion.

  In the dark, Raúl’s senses were heightened. Insects jumped against his legs. They were the only things that survived the enemy’s scorching of the land. If his reflexes were quicker, he’d try to catch grasshoppers. Rain had fallen the past few days, making his feet in his tattered boots soggy and slipping all over, but it also meant drinking water. As always, there was the smell of burnt brush. Over the past several evenings, he’d had to go further out. It made him nervous to be away from camp by himself but it was much easier that way.

  A campfire glimmered past a little hill. His pulse quickened. Approaching the soft light that bounced off a cliff on one side and boulders on the other, he climbed the hill noiselessly on all fours. The smell of roasting meat struck him with full force, making his mouth salivate. In the past, he’d been content to just wait and steal scraps of food scrounged from an abandoned camp, but he had to be bold today. Their troops’ survival depended on it.

  Peeking over the rise, he took in the idyllic camp scene. A tethered horse grazed close by. Its rider sat with his back turned towards Raúl and faced the fire. Raúl had to create a disturbance. A distraction.

  It turned out unnecessary. From the distance, the sound of horse hooves pounded the earth. The lone camper stood and awaited their arrival. The horses and their riders encircled the fire. They wore some sort of a winter coat over their uniform, the color of which he could not discern in the moonless night.

  A friendly white or a stranger’s gray?

  Raúl lowered himself behind the hill. The new arrivals were a distraction but not the right kind. He hoped they would go away soon. By himself, the lone man would be so much easier to deal with.

  He took another peek. The horsemen were leaving the man behind and proceeded to ride around the hill where he was hiding. Raúl flattened himself against the ground as best as he could, but it was too late. The horses stirred up the dust and circled him.

  There were voices, low and unintelligible. Raúl lay still. Footsteps crunched in the dirt and stopped next to him. All hope drained from his body.

  The soldier, who had a mustache on a lean face, leaned over him. “What is your name and regiment, soldier?”

  “Corporal Calderón, sir,” he stammered, “from the Seville regiment.” And then, the realization dawned on him. The man spoke Spanish. Behind him stood other soldiers. Through the opening in the riders’ coats, Raúl could see they wore the white uniform. Like his own.

  “Where am I?” Raúl wondered aloud.

  The mustached soldier grinned. “Welcome back to Spain, Corporal Calderón.”

  41

  A week later, Madrid

  In the throne room at Madrid’s royal palace, Raúl stood at attention. His muscles ached from having to stand still so long, but he ignored the pain. This was nothing compared to what he’d had to endure on the battlefield.

  Just seven days ago, he returned to Spain, not fully recovered from that harrowing experience. Not just physically. At night, he tossed and turned and woke at every single noise outside his window. But when he thought of the alternative, left for dead in Portugal, he was glad he was still alive.

  A thrill ran through him as his gaze lingered over the painted fresco of battle commanders ministered to by angels on the ceiling, at the red carpet with the royal blue and gold flowers, and pretended he’d been here a million times, instead of just this once. A dozen rows of spectators on gilded chairs whispered among themselves to the left, Count Saldana and his senior officers to the right. Behind them, Mario and Father Zamora acknowledged Raúl with smiles.

  Raúl stood by himself among the dignitaries. The throne sat empty in front of him.

  The chatter stopped and everyone got to their feet. Raúl glimpsed the Count and his officers kneeling as His Majesty, King Carlos III, approached, and he followed suit. A man wearing a shiny pair of leather boots stopped in front of him.

  Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He looked up into the king’s eyes. King Carlos said, “Rise, Corporal Calderón.”

  Following the king’s command, Raúl stood, looking down at the king by virtue of their height difference.

  “I have heard of your valor on the battlefield,” the king said. “How you saved your regiment from sure death.”

  Raúl wasn’t sure he was hearing the correct words. “Your Majesty, you must be mistaken. I had few weapons at my disposal and probably exchanged volleys once with the enemy.”

  King Carlos smiled. “Oh, but I was referring to the food raids. Without you, your regiment would have starved to death.”

  “Many of us worked on it.”

  “Certainly. But you led them on expeditions, Corporal Calderón. You could have left behind the sick in your regiment, but you made an effort to get them well. In fact, one of our officers owes his life to you.”

  Raúl’s glance met Leandro’s. The latter’s arm was in a sling.

  The king turned to a page and took a sword from the long cushion he held. “For your valor, I hereby knight you the Order of Valderana, and hereby appoint you the rank of Lieutenant. Please kneel.”

  Raúl knelt, his body trembling with strong emotion. This was a surprise, a complete surprise. The king rested a sword briefly on one shoulder, and then the next. “Rise, Lieutenant Raúl Calderón.”

  Raúl rose and smiled. Lieutenant. The title had a nice ring to it.

  King Carlos bestowed ranks on a few other soldiers. And then it was over. Officers came to congratulate and thank him.

  Count Saldana shook his hand. “You will be working for me directly from now on.”

  “An honor, surely, Count Saldana,” Raúl said.

  Leandro stood apart. Raúl thought he would come over, but he didn’t. One would almost think he was sulking. No matter. Raúl wouldn’t let him ruin this moment.

  The crowds parted, leading his gaze down to a back row where Conchita stood with her mother and brother, Raúl’s special guests. Mario took his sister and mother by the hand to lead them up to
Raúl.

  Señora Benavente touched her collar self-consciously. “Mario, did you have to bring me up here, where everyone can see my worn-out clothes?”

  “Don’t worry about it, Mama,” Mario said. “No one’s staring at you.” He took her by the elbow. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.” And then they moved away.

  Conchita looked exquisite, with her hair gathered up, the gauzy material of her gown following her womanly figure. Her ruby lips parted, revealing a dazzling smile.

  “How beautiful you look,” Raúl said. He kissed her hand, his lips lingering on his skin as long as he dared. When he raised his head, she clasped both his hands.

  “Thank you for all you did for Mario,” she said.

  Raúl reveled in her happiness. “I told him I couldn’t face you if he died.”

  “Well, you did it.” She dimpled. “And guess what?”

  Her joy was contagious. “What?”

  “I’ve been accepted to the Academy of the Arts. In Barcelona.”

  He blinked, blindsided. He had been looking forward to her being in Madrid, now that he was back.

  “That’s wonderful,” he said.

  “I was working at the dressmaker’s shop,” Conchita explained, “and one of the theater’s patronesses came in. Somehow, Madame Martine -- my employer -- mentioned that I was interested in theater. The patroness admired my sewing work. So she invited me to come over to makeover a costume for a friend. And the short of it is, the friend turned out to be Gabriel de Guerra, the director of the Teatro del Principe. He recommended I apply for this scholarship. I did and I got it!”

  “What does it mean to get this scholarship?”

  “I will be living with other female theater students in Barcelona for at least two years. Four if I am lucky.”

  She was breathless, alluring, and heartbreaking, all at the same time. Her smile faltered. “You don’t seem happy for me.”

  Raúl forced a smile. “Of course I’m happy for you. I’ve heard stories about Barcelona, how bright and exciting the place is.”

  “It is!” she said. “It is close to the sea. Overrun by sailors, not that I’m looking for anyone at the moment.” She shrugged. “But never mind me. Congratulations. You have earned your dream with flying colors.”

  Raúl stared at her glowing face, not trusting himself to speak. He loved her, he realized, and yet he couldn’t have her. He cleared his throat. “Look at us. You, going for your dream, and me going for mine. I leave soon for another military mission.”

  She studied his face and smiled. “Every time I see you, not only do you look stronger, physically, you seem stronger inside, too. You will do well in life. God be with you, my friend.”

  “I wish you well, too,” he murmured.

  Father Zamora came over, more gray than ever. “Congratulations, Lieutenant Calderón.”

  Raúl wondered if he was just imagining it, but his speech seemed to slur. The priest was getting old.

  “Thank you, Father. You deserve the knighthood more than me.”

  The priest waved the compliment away. “Will I be seeing you at my parish?”

  “As you know,” Raúl said, “I will be taking a tour of duty.”

  “Not for a few weeks.”

  Their glances held. Raúl looked away first. “I can’t lie to you, Father,” he said. “Probably not.”

  Father Zamora nodded. “I understand. When you are ready to return...”

  “You’ll be the first to know.”

  “I shall pray for you regardless.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  Later, when he was back in his barracks, he divested himself of his uniform and laid out his medal on the table.

  He strode to the window and looked out at the sky, partially obscured by the cityscape, but still glowing with the sunset. Somewhere in Cheverra, the same sun set over the orchards, burnishing the leaves gold and crimson. At one time, he had imagined Conchita rambling over the countryside with him, happy and content. But now, their lives coursed along such divergent paths.

  He shook his head, slowly, then firmly. “The army is where I belong,” he murmured. “Tonight is a new beginning. Let the future come. I am ready for it.”

  PART TWO

  SECOND EXILE: 1766-67

  42

  Four years later, March 23, 1766

  Raúl waited outside the Catedral de Madrid for Father Zamora to finish the evening mass. It had been a long time since Raúl had set foot in a church. The angels on the church facade smiled down on him. The demons leered. Raúl felt like his spirituality resided in the middle. Good but not saint-worthy.

  Luckily, Father Zamora still counted him as a friend. The priest had invited Raúl to come over after mass and join him for dinner. But his mass had gone longer than planned and Raúl felt restless standing in the shadow of a church he no longer believed in.

  It was Palm Sunday. Vendors hawked palms and sweetmeats to buyers. Parishioners walked by on their way down the wide steps, looking at him curiously. He backed up and got out of their way, adjusting the cuffs of his full military dress, as befitting the Captain of the Guards.

  Twenty-three years old -- four years after he was first promoted to Lieutenant -- and now, Captain of the Guards. How far he had come.

  Mario exited the church, throwing a coin to a vendor in exchange for a pastilla. Over the last four years, Mario had stayed about the same height but had gotten wider. His fondness for food had his midriff straining his uniform. With his extra pounds and the fact he could never grow a decent beard or mustache, he looked young.

  “Posing for a statue?” Mario asked.

  Raúl raised an eyebrow. “A statue?”

  “You know, the one that will stand in the plaza to commemorate all your heroic deeds.”

  “I thought you meant a saint statue.”

  “Of course not. I know you better.” Mario chortled. “Speaking of statues, rumor has it the palace is commissioning a statue for Minister Esquilache. Is that true?”

  “I’ve heard rumors, that’s all.”

  “And I’ve heard an earful, too, believe me, from my sister. Conchita says he doesn’t deserve it.” Mario slid a glance at Raúl. “She’s back from Barcelona, by the way.”

  “Oh?” Raúl said. He had thought of her often, at first, but other women supplanted her over the years. “How is she?”

  “How is she?” Mario mimicked Raúl. “You can’t fool me, Raúl. I know everything there is to know about you.”

  “And it seems as though she knows everything there is to know about Minister Esquilache. Does the fact he’s originally from Italy bother her? He’s done a lot of things for Spain, even more than your average Spaniard.”

  Mario unwrapped his meat pie and took a bite. “Pray, tell me what he’s done.”

  “Why, just walk along the paved streets at night, under the lampposts. His handiwork. Boulevards -- his idea. And garbage collection --”

  “Yes,” Mario said. “I suppose those are brilliant. But the banning of the cape and hat?”

  Raúl smiled ruefully. “I admit, that one seemed a little far-fetched. But you and I know very well that it is much easier to identify criminals when the guardia civil can see their faces.”

  “I’ve already seen at least three signs about the new dress rule torn down today. It’s not only unpopular, people hate it.”

  “Nor was garbage collection popular at first. But I rather like walking down Madrid streets uneventfully. I used to have to dodge trash and worse at every turn.”

  “Want to walk down Madrid Streets with me?” Mario asked. “I need to buy a new belt before the mercantile closes.”

  Raúl glanced at Mario’s belt. “What’s wrong with what you have on?”

  “Not long enough.” Mario grinned.

  “I’m waiting for Father Zamora. Enjoy your uneventful Madrid walk.”

  Mario didn’t move. “Aren’t you going to ask me?”

  “What?”

&nbs
p; “Which theater Conchita is at.”

  Raúl chuckled. “All right. Which one?”

  “Teatro del Principe.”

  After Mario left, the mass ended. Parishioners started streaming out. Several minutes later, Father Zamora came out of the cathedral. The priest moved and spoke slower, but that didn’t bother Raúl. He rather liked it. Father Zamora’s slow pace calmed him.

  It didn’t look like Father Zamora was getting out of there any time soon. A line of parishioners formed at the main door. Many brought their babies for a blessing or to simply visit with the priest.

  “I’m sorry,” Father Zamora told Raúl in a discreet aside. “I’m afraid our meal will be delayed. I haven’t even purchased our fish.”

  “I’m happy to get it for you,” Raúl offered.

  “That would be wonderful.” The priest rifled in his pocket for change. “Here’s some money. My favorite vendor is Dante Ovideo.”

  Raúl pictured Dante in his mind. A man in his twenties, he liked to hum lilting sea tunes he learned from his shipman father. He joked that he grew up like a fish, anxious to get out of his father’s boat. But ultimately, he couldn’t stay away from the sea, armed with a net instead of his father’s telescope.

  “Isn’t he everyone’s?” Raúl said. He pocketed the change. Hardly enough to cover the purchase, but he would just make up the difference.

  “Thank you.” The priest smiled down at a baby, held by its mother in her arms. “I will be home as soon as I can.”

  Raúl made his way down the steps, stepping over brown signs languishing in puddles, the royal proclamation banning the long cape and wide-brimmed hat, issued by the Marquis of Esquilache. Walking past a crowd of churchgoers, Raúl felt uneasy under their intense stare.

  “Look,” one said, “one of the king’s stooges.”

  Several people giggled.

  Raúl turned his head. The tittering died down. He scoured the crowd for the speaker, but everyone just lowered their eyes.