The Spanish Exile (Islands of the Crown Book 1)

by Allen, Jewel

  He moved on to the curb and flagged down a carriage. As he ensconced himself inside, he realized he’d been holding himself rigidly. Expelling a breath, he massaged his leg. It usually didn’t bother him, but today, with the humidity, it did. That, and the unsettling feeling of trouble, just waiting to happen.

  43

  Minutes later, the carriage driver let Raúl out in the plaza. Get the fish, then join Father Zamora for a quiet meal. He looked forward to a relaxing evening.

  The boqueria spilled over with vendors conducting brisk business for Palm Sunday. Lines snaked around the tables covered with palm fronds and nearly out the front entrance to the market. The awnings looked heavy with rain. Occasionally, a vendor pushed up on the drooping center of the awning, tipping water onto some of the customers.

  Dante’s fish stall was easy to find; it had the longest line. Raúl joined it, standing behind a woman with a jaunty yellow bonnet and a dainty little figure. She turned her cheek, sending a jolt of recognition through Raúl. The lady was his blacksmith friend’s wife.

  Raúl touched her arm. “Hola, Mercedes.”

  Her head whipped around. “Raúl Calderón! What are you doing, being domestic at the market?”

  “I have an important charge.” He smiled. “I am getting the cod for my supper with Father Zamora.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Best of luck getting one for a reasonable price.”

  “Where’s Paco?” Raúl asked of her husband. Paco Concepcion had once made a sword for Raúl, and it was Raúl’s favorite.

  “Finishing his work for a demanding client.” She made a face.

  “Ah, but at least he has work.”

  “Oh,” she said airily, “he’ll always have work. Some better paying than others. Some worth doing more than others.”

  “Tell him hello for me.”

  “I will.” She turned to Dante the fishmonger, who was ready to attend to her.

  Mercedes told him what she needed, and Dante quoted a price. “What?” Mercedes’ voice rose. “I refuse to pay such a sum. Why, that’s insane. First, bread. Then coal. Now this!”

  A tired expression crossed Dante’s face. “I am conducting a legal transaction, Señora. If you want to blame someone, blame the Marquis of Esquilache. We can set whatever price we want because you’ll pay for it. It is the rule of market.”

  “Why, you condescending man.” She tossed her head back. “I am perfectly aware of the marquis and his idiotic ideas. Banning the cape and hat, too. Trampling our rights. He comes in promoting so-called reforms, but what have they done for the people?”

  Dante drummed his fingers on the stained table. “Do you wish to discuss politics or are you buying fish?”

  Mercedes threw her hands in the air. “Forget it.”

  “Next!” Dante looked at Raúl.

  “Don’t you buy from this rude man,” Mercedes said, stomping past Raúl.

  “Nice to see you, too, Mercedes,” Raúl said. She didn’t even look back.

  “She is a handful, that one,” Dante said, sighing. “Beautiful but impetuous. Like a storm at sea, you know? What can I get for you, Captain?”

  “Not your cheapest fish, but not your most expensive one either.”

  “Oh, no, not you, too.”

  “I’m not debating your prices. Just give me something cheaper, all right?”

  Dante smiled and obliged.

  Moments later, with his arm heavy with a wrapped cod and his pocket empty of money, Raúl fought the market crowds and emerged outside. He made his way to the Plaza de Antón Martín, where he figured he could catch a carriage to Father Zamora’s house.

  In the dying light of day, the pedestrians circled the plaza, leaving the middle part somewhat clear of people.

  Suddenly, two men crossed the middle. Nobody else stood by them. The crowd watched their progress and gave them wide berth. The two men -- one stocky and the other more like a teen boy -- flaunted their clothes, the banned long cape and chambergo or broad-brimmed hat, walking towards a pile that was covered in heavy cloth. They both had handkerchiefs wrapped around the bottom half of their faces.

  Again, that tension from earlier that afternoon needled at Raúl.

  What were these citizens up to?

  Raúl crossed the plaza and confronted them. “You know, of course, that the hat and cape are banned.”

  The two men just looked at each other.

  “You look like you have a brain,” Raúl said. But you are not being smart today. Take it off.”

  The stocky man cupped his hands over his mouth, then he whistled, high and long. In the periphery of Raúl’s vision, the bystanders moved to encircle them.

  Raúl pulled out his pistol and cocked it. “Get back!”

  “Now!” the whistler shouted, grabbing the cloth and uncovering stacked crates. The crates held weapons -- muskets, bayonets and swords.

  Citizens rushed forward, grabbing what they could. Someone pushed Raúl from the back. His gun went one way and the cod another. He dove for the weapon, but somebody else picked it up. Seeing a break in the mob, Raúl dashed through, to get reinforcements.

  But the crowd closed in upon him, a feverish light in their eyes.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” the stocky man said. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  44

  Raúl raised his arm, hitting the masked man above his eye and drawing blood. The coward retreated into the crowd before Raúl could pull the handkerchief off.

  He looked around for any familiar faces. “Mercedes!” he !” he called out to his friend’s wife. “What is this about?”

  A man grabbed Mercedes’ arm. He asked, “Are you with him, or with us?”

  She shook him off, her expression fierce. “With the people.”

  “Good.”

  “But we need to let this man go,” she said, looking at Raúl.

  “He’s the enemy!”

  She shook her head. “I know him. He’s not like the others. Just let him go.”

  No one moved. Raúl took a step, then another. Someone cocked his musket. Raúl paused, but kept on moving. Past Mercedes, who just gave him a sidelong glance.

  “Give him room,” she said.

  At first, no one moved. Then the crowd parted.

  “Don’t forget your fish!” A man said, sending the cod sailing overhead, hitting Raúl on the back. The crowd laughed, their teeth glinting like bared dog canines.

  Where were the other soldiers? Raúl wondered. Surely they could tell this crowd was up to no good.

  Suddenly, someone jostled Raúl from behind. The people crowded in on him, shoving and hitting him with the butts of their muskets. Raúl shoved a man to the ground.

  “He killed him!” someone said.

  “No, he didn’t,” Mercedes said. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  The crowd continued to press in on him.

  “Where is your cape, soldier?”

  “And your hat, are you trying to be like the French?”

  Someone knifed his tri-corn hat, turning it into a wide-brimmed chambergo. A woman knocked it off his head and stomped on it.

  Raúl had to stop this and somehow get the attention of the other soldiers. He wrestled away someone’s musket, cocked it, then fired in the air. Thankfully, the crowd scattered. Long enough for soldiers to swarm the plaza and chase out citizens. Raúl jumped onto the fountain ledge, to make sure he was more visible to his men. A soldier turned his head, startled, and pointed his musket at Raúl.

  “Lower your weapon, fool,” Raúl said.

  “Oh, I am sorry, Captain,” the corporal said, blushing. “I didn’t realize it was you.”

  “Be on the lookout for two men in capes and broad-brimmed hats.”

  The soldier looked at him like he was crazy. “There are quite a few of them, sir.”

  “Not masked ones.”

  “Oh. Yes, of course, Captain.”

  “Keep the crowds out of the plaza,” Raúl said, marching out of the military c
ordon. He came upon the fish he’d purchased earlier, its head and stomach squashed in by a heel, and kicked it. It landed at the feet of the soldier who almost shot at him. The corporal’s brows knit in confusion. He glanced at the fish, then at Raúl.

  Raúl’s frown turned into a chuckle. “The fish was overpriced anyway.”

  He hailed a carriage to go to the barracks, where he could issue orders and plan out a strategy to deal with the crowds. He would have to send Father Zamora his regrets.

  The afternoon felt all wrong. And unfinished. There would be more of this where it came from, he was sure.

  The carriage stopped. The driver got out and opened the door. As Raúl set his foot on the step, he glimpsed a flash of a hat and cape through the opposite carriage window. The two masked men walked down the street.

  “Never mind,” he told the driver, he said, sprinting after the men.

  One of them turned and must have seen Raúl, because they both took off running. The stocky one ran down the street, through a crowd of citizens still loitering, and the smaller man turned into an alley.

  Raúl cursed under his breath. Which one to chase? He could hardly see the man in the crowd. They absorbed him like the tide of the sea swallows the sand.

  He ran to the alley.

  And into a near standstill. He wasn’t counting on a crowd of people spilling out of a tavern, getting in his way. Barreling into a man, Raúl dodged his angry gesture.

  “Arrogant kingman!” the man shouted.

  Raúl ran past two doors and nearly reached a third when two women pushed off the doorway, blocking his path.

  “What is the rush, Officer?” Up close, one of the women’s rouge looked smeared, like a painting made by a child. Her friend pulled up the edge of her skirt, revealing a boot and a torn stocking.

  He ran around them. “Sorry, can’t chat. Have a good evening, ladies.”

  His target had gained half the alley, throwing a wooden cask in Raúl’s way. Raúl jumped over it. His quarry turned into an alley between two buildings up ahead.

  Several moments later, Raúl reached the same spot. The masked man was cornered. The alley had turned into a three-sided courtyard. There was nowhere else to go but towards Raúl. He was trying to claw his way up a wall and slipped down like a greased cat.

  “Get your hands up,” Raúl barked.

  At first, the man just glanced at him, then continued his futile attempt.

  Raúl repeated his order. This time, the man turned around, his eyebrows coming together before he tried to sprint past Raúl. Raúl caught the man’s arm and yanked him down. The man fought like an animal and tried to pull away, but Raúl kept hold him.

  Raúl pulled the handkerchief down to the man’s neck and gasped.

  “Conchita?”

  Conchita stared at Raúl, her chest heaving with labored breaths. She exploded into sudden movement that had her free and running down the alley.

  Raúl did not try to follow her.

  45

  By the time Raúl returned to the plaza, dazed with his discovery, the rioters’ numbers had swollen to alarming proportions. When Mario joined him, Raúl decided not to tell him about Conchita. There wasn’t time to talk anyway. People stood shoulder-to-shoulder, crammed in every nook and cranny. Major crowd control was in order.

  So much for Raúl’s instructions to his men to keep the citizens from the plaza.

  Raúl couldn’t see the street from where he and his men stood on the ground. From the balconies, citizens cheered the others marching down the streets. Raúl and his men took up their posts along the mob.

  “Shouldn’t we stop them from marching?” Mario asked, glancing around nervously.

  “We can stop them about as easily as we could stop the river from flowing to the sea.” Raúl pressed his lips together. “As long as they aren’t being violent...”

  “Raúl.” Mario’s voice was quiet. Insistent.

  The mob paused and now they were staring at soldiers up ahead. They were Walloons, the regiment made up of foreigners -- Irishmen, French, German -- conscripted by the Spanish Army.

  The citizens advanced. The soldiers backed off, like trapped animals, pointing their weapons at the crowd but losing the nerve to use them. Raúl could see why. Hundreds confronted them, and at best, there were a few dozen soldiers.

  A woman in a yellow bonnet walked up to a Walloon and pointed at his chest. “Tell your Italian minister to go back where he came from. We’re tired of his brilliant new ideas.”

  “Good heavens,” Raúl said, “it’s Mercedes.” He motioned for Mario to follow him. The crowd pressed in tightly and was slow to let them through.

  “Back off!” the soldier told Mercedes, over the din.

  “Keep your filthy hands off me,” Mercedes screamed.

  “I said, get back!”

  She raised her hand, and a shot rang out. Raúl finally made it through the wall of protesters in time to see Mercedes fall to the ground.

  Raúl rushed to her side, stemming the blood on her stomach with his hand. He looked at the Walloon. “Stupid fool, she was unarmed!”

  “I thought she had a weapon!” the Walloon stammered out, as the mob circled him.

  A man shoved others out of the way. It was Paco, Mercedes’ husband. He gazed down at Mercedes’s lifeless form, then turned furious, burning eyes at Raúl. “Why did you let this happen?” he roared.

  Raúl shook his head. “I tried to get here as quickly as I could.” Paco took her from Raúl’s arms, blood staining his shirt.

  “Mercedes,” Paco moaned. He looked over his shoulder, at the Walloon. “You killed her!”

  The mob came alive, lunging at the soldier, seizing his gun, and tearing his clothes. Raúl fired a subordinate’s musket in the air. That got the mob’s attention. They turned and regarded him with hostile eyes.

  Raúl looked at the soldier, bleeding on his face, his eyes wild with terror, his naked torso shaking. “Let him go,” Raúl told the people.

  “No,” Paco said. “You’re next, Capitan.”

  Raúl promised his friend, “He will be disciplined.”

  “You mean slapped on the hand so he can kill more citizens?”

  “Look at him. He’s just a young soldier.” Raúl met him when the new batch of soldiers arrived. He couldn’t remember his name but remembered he was from Austria, like the rest of his Walloon regiment.

  “We don’t care,” another man snapped. “If I were you, I would get out of here.”

  Raúl beckoned for his men to come closer. “Break it up.”

  The soldiers fanned out, pulling citizens away from the mob. Women screamed and clawed at their faces. Men fought back. Someone hit Raúl’s face with a stick. Raúl shook off the pain and unsheathed his sword. A man lunged at him. Raúl jumped to the side and hit his attacker with his sword hilt on his back.

  The crowd dispersed willy-nilly. The Walloon who had shot Mercedes lay shivering on the ground. Raúl ordered two soldiers to take him to the infirmary, then the barracks for questioning.

  Still kneeling beside Mercedes, Paco raised his head, his eyes wild. “She was buying fish, just now. She told me about the protest, but I never imagined...” He bowed his head and wept. Then he stood, carrying his wife in his arms.

  Raúl walked alongside him.

  “No,” Paco said. “You’re one of them. Stay away. You hear me? Stay away!” Someone shoved at Raúl as a contingent followed in Paco’s wake.

  Raúl took a deep breath. Mario gave him a questioning glance, but he just barreled through the crowd.

  “Where are you going?” Mario asked Raúl.

  “To the Teatro del Principe. I need to talk to Conchita.”

  46

  Raúl waited for Conchita in the cramped, dim theater hallway, trying to empty his mind of dark thoughts. In vain, he tried to push aside the memory of the soldier shooting Mercedes, her vibrant spirit seeping out of her.

  He blinked as applause broke out. A door opened,
magnifying the sound. Conchita turned a corner and appeared in the corridor, stopping short as she looked up.

  “You didn’t think you could shake me off so easily, did you?” Raúl said.

  “It’s nice to see you, too.” She cocked her head. “What do you want?”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  “You know what.”

  She glanced over her shoulder, then nodded. “In my dressing room.”

  It was a narrow hallway. She brushed past as she walked by, and he caught a whiff of her perfume. No longer a fruity fragrance from what he remembered in their youth, but a more sophisticated one, musky and grown-up.

  He followed her, bending at the doorway to enter her dressing room. She lit candles, illuminating a tiny area, with just enough space for a gold settee, a vanity with a mirror, and a cushioned stool. Bottles, brushes, and all sorts of trinkets covered the vanity surface in disarray. He waited for her invitation to sit. It never came, so he remained standing.

  Conchita sat on the stool and faced the mirror. In the lamplight, her makeup was theatrical, exaggerated. Under all that, he hardly recognized the girl he loved.

  Who was this stranger?

  “I wish I could say I’m glad to see you.” She glanced at his reflection. “But that would be lying.” She dabbed a white cream over her mouth and wiped off the lipstick with a cloth.

  “I don’t relish this visit, believe me.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “Why, Conchita? How did you get involved in this?”

  She shrugged. “The people needed me to do it.”

  “Does Mario know?”

  “No. You and I know he wouldn’t be able to keep a secret”

  “Who was the other man?”

  She set the cloth down. “Do you think I’m so simple-minded I would tell you?” Fury sparked in her dark eyes. “By the way, you put me through hell tonight.”

  He gazed at her, flabbergasted. “You dare to tell me that? I have been all a-jumble since discovering my friend has been inciting riots.”

  She tossed her head. “I haven’t been inciting them. Your superiors are the ones responsible for this. Give credit where credit is due.” One at a time, she took off her earrings, tossing them carelessly on the vanity. “Anyway, my head was all a-jumble tonight. It’s a wonder I could remember half my lines. The lead actress fell ill and I’m the understudy.”