by Allen, Jewel
“Congratulations,” he spat out. “It must be really tough aiding and abetting a riot and running back to the theater. I don’t recommend it.”
Her lips compressed tightly. “It could have been a disaster. I was so flustered.”
On her face, she slathered cream, then wiped off the rouge. It was fascinating to watch her face become pink-skinned again, breathtakingly lovely in its purity.
If only she were so innocent.
“Would you listen to this nonsense!” he exploded. “I don’t care about your theatrical performance, as spectacular as it no doubt was. Get off that stool and answer my questions properly, citizen.”
She wheeled around and stood up. “Who are you? My master?”
“I was about to ask the same thing. You are not the Conchita I knew from Cheverra.”
“And you are not the Raúl I knew. That Raúl was sweet and respectful, not some arrogant, aggressive stud!”
She began pulling pins out of her hair, viciously, as though she wanted to hurt herself on purpose. One by one, cascades of dark locks streamed down, gleaming in the candlelight.
He was seized with a desire so strong, he wanted to put his hands through her hair and pull her head back, capturing her mouth with his. He wanted to rub his beard against the smoothness of her neck, down to the swelling of her breasts at the neckline of her gown.
Their glances caught and held.
She lowered her hands against the vanity as though to steady herself.
He gazed at her mouth, raw and moist and parted. He reached for her and, as though in a dream, she lunged into his arms with a little moan.
With the fingers of one hand tangled in her hair, and the other supporting her supple waist, he kissed her deeply. The vanity shook as he crushed her close, desperate to drink in her sweetness.
Through the fog of their kiss, he remembered his mission.
Abruptly, he thrust her away from him. It was all he could do to keep his hands to his sides. She collapsed against the vanity, knocking over several bottles, and blinked at him. She had a cut on her lip.
“Let’s pretend this day never happened,” he said hoarsely.
She touched her lip and looked at her finger, stained with blood. Her hand trembled. “Which part?”
“Do you seriously think we can be involved when...?” He let his words trail off.
She studied his face, then lowered her gaze. “I guess not.”
“Please, Conchita, for our friendship’s sake, don’t court any more danger. I cannot guarantee your safety. My duty lies with the king first and foremost.”
The expression in her eyes hardened. “Don’t worry about me. I’m the least of your problems.”
“What do you mean?”
“You will have citizens to answer to.” She waved a hand. “Go.”
He didn’t move. “Conchita.”
“Go!” she said, shoving him away. She turned, the mirror capturing her reflection. She looked like a glorious goddess, raging at him, a mere mortal. “Get out.”
Raúl gazed at her mournfully, then left her.
In the hallway, he ran into Gabriel de Guerra. The man jerked his shoulder out of the way, his eyes smoldering with resentment. Above one eye, he had a scratch.
That scratch from Plaza de Antón Martín. Gabriel de Guerra was the second masked man.
“You slimeball,” Raul said, grabbing Gabriel’s ruffled collar.
The man blinked. “Pardon me?”
“You can do what you want to cause riots, but to drag an innocent woman like Conchita!”
Gabriel shoved Raúl’s hand away, straightening his ruffles with soft-looking hands, the multiple rings on his fingers glittering dully in the hall lamps.
“She is no innocent,” he hissed. “She knows exactly what she is doing. It was her idea. Granted, she came to me, asking how to pull off something like that. So I went with her. To keep her safe. I admit, it was an insane plan.”
“If you had told her no, she wouldn’t have done it.”
“She would have done it just the same, gotten a different man to help her. What man could resist the fiery Conchita Benavente? Oh, she knows what she’s doing. Tears in her eyes, her hands clasped at her bosom, talking to me about the poor, and how she wants to make their lives better. Fighting to protect our freedoms.”
“Freedom for hat and cape!” Raúl scoffed. “Could there be no more odious, shallow reason?”
Gabriel’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Capitan, I make my living with costumes. A prince, a pauper, a soldier, a priest, name your role, I have clothed him. Put on a costume and it spells out how we act, what we do. It is our identity. So when the king takes the Spaniard’s identity, telling him to take off the cape and hat, and replace it with a watered down version of our weak French cousin’s, can you blame him for feeling like you have taken his manhood? And then, what next? Our country run by foreigners who don’t know what we truly want.”
“The king wants a better life for the people.”
“A better life!” A nerve bulged in Gabriel’s neck. “Do you eat rocks? Have you not noticed how much food costs? My mother pinches every cent, and boils beef bones twice through for her supper when I come over.”
“What,” Raúl raised an eyebrow. “The admission fees you extort don’t provide enough for her?”
“I’m done with this discussion. You have ears but you refuse to use them.”
Raúl grabbed the ruffles again, making cloth tear. “If anything, anything, happens to Conchita, you will be wearing a deathly costume, because I will come for you.”
47
In the barracks map room, where Count Saldana summoned him, Raúl apologized for his appearance.
The count surveyed him from head to toe and chuckled. “Yes, you are a mess. Been at it all day, I take it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I understand.” Count Saldana pointed to a chair. “Have a seat. Coffee?”
“Gladly.” Raúl poured himself a fragrant cup of strong black coffee and stretched out his long legs. He sipped the drink, relished the warm liquid soothing his belly, and prepared to listen.
“I have a mission for you, Captain,” Count Saldana said. “I know you will need to rest, but I wanted you to be thinking of a plan right away.”
“Yes, sir?” Raúl took another generous sip of coffee.
“The Minister of Esquilache’s goose is cooked, so to speak. Everyone wants him out. Which means his departure will leave a vacuum. Some of the king’s enemies will take advantage of that.”
He set down his cup and leaned forward. “Captain Calderón, I have it on good authority that the Jesuit Church is the machine behind these riots.”
Gentle Father Zamora, with his stooped back, came to Raúl’s mind. “Really? That seems far-fetched.”
“Does it? Why do you say that?”
“Well, for one, I have friends among the Jesuit priests, and they seem to only want to look after the welfare of the people.”
Wordlessly, Count Saldana stood up and fetched a piece of paper from a desk covered with books and a variety of ink stands. He handed it to Raúl.
“Here,” Count Saldana said. “Read this. It’s a sermon at mass, yesterday. Read the last paragraph.”
Raúl read, “We must bow only to one King. And that King is Jesus. We owe him our allegiance. Anyone else who tries to usurp that place in our hearts is trying to undermine our loyalty to the One and Only True Monarch. What can we do about this? I ask you to search your heart and rise up as one, in Christ.”
Raúl handed the paper back to the count.
Count Saldana smiled. “That phrase ‘rise up’ is particularly telling, isn’t it, Captain?”
Raúl nodded. “Yes, sir. But surely, this is just a metaphor?”
“No, it isn’t.” Count Saldana pinned him with his gaze. “Many are preaching this from the pulpit.”
Raúl steeled his emotions. He shouldn’t let his friendship with Father Zamora cloud
his judgment. “What would you like me to do, Count?”
Count Saldana rested his chin on his fingers, forming a tent. “Nothing. For now. Just...be alert and keep an eye out for irregularities. Hopefully, we won’t need to do anything. But if we did...?”
Raúl raised an eyebrow in question.
The count continued, “I expect you to uphold any judgment against them.”
“Of course,” Raúl said quickly. “My allegiance lies with the king.”
“I’m glad we see eye to eye, Captain.” The count smiled. “I knew I could count on you. Even without the distraction of the riots, the Jesuits are trying to undermine the king’s power. That has to stop.”
Raúl thought of Conchita and Gabriel. He wouldn’t hesitate to turn in Gabriel, but it would mean that Conchita would have to be implicated, too. As their discussion only touched upon the Jesuits, Raúl felt justified in keeping mum about the pair.
As Raúl left the room, he turned one last time. Count Saldana held the sermon in his hand, looking at it thoughtfully.
48
All through the night, Raúl’s regiment responded to reports: the stoning of the Grimaldi mansion, the rioters approaching the Sabatini mansion. By morning of the next day, March 24, Raúl’s body ached all over and his eyes were bleary, but he forced himself to keep riding back to the city. On the streets, there was no sign of letting up. Crowds swirled through, the whole day.
When would this madness end?
As twilight arrived, Raúl went to the Plaza Mayor. He craned his neck to look out over the crowd. The people went into a frenzy, men waving their hats and moving along like a parade down the streets near the plaza, spectators cheering them on alongside, and from the balconies.
Paco, holding a banner with the words “Freedom from tyranny” painted on crudely, led the pack.
Some people zoned in on Raúl, pelting him with garbage. He avoided getting doused from someone’s chamber pot and managed to situate himself at the edge of the crowd as it funneled into the plaza, where a platform had been set up.
“To the palace!” Paco shouted.
Raúl nodded to his men, and they formed a cordon to block the people from marching down the road to the palace.
“Paco,” Raúl shouted. “Stop!”
Paco gave him a steely glance. “Raúl, you were a friend. But no longer. I have nothing to lose. Shoot me if you must, I am marching forward. We want to present our demands to the king.”
“You have everything to lose,” Raúl countered. “How about your children, left orphaned?”
“I have thought of them. I can stay within the four walls of my house, like a prisoner. Safe but dead. Or I can be out here, fighting to honor their mother’s memory.”
The gap between them grew like the shadows lengthening in the plaza.
“I can’t let you come forward,” Raúl said. “Not in your emotional state.”
Like a feral cat, Paco’s eyes burned red at the rims. “I won’t back down.”
“I’ll go.”
The two men looked at the direction of the voice. The crowd parted, revealing diminutive Father Zamora. Slowly, he moved sideways through the seething crowd, like a little crab without a shell.
“You, Father?” Paco said, with a little laugh.
“I’m not armed,” Father Zamora said. Even if I were, I would not be able to fight. I have no intention other than to bring the people’s petition to the king.”
“What do you hope to get out of it?” Paco asked, his brows knit together in confusion. “Alms? I have no money.”
Father Zamora looked surprised. “Nothing.”
Paco didn’t speak for a long moment, then passed his hand over his eyes. “I’m sorry. I haven’t slept much, and the bitterness, the grief...it’s just...”
“You don’t owe us an explanation,” Raúl said. “Are you alright having Father Zamora bring the petition to the king?”
Paco nodded. “It would be best for him to be the intermediary.”
After several minutes, Paco sent a document with Father Zamora. Raúl escorted the priest to the gate. Battle-ready troops glanced at them curiously.
“Wait here,” Raúl instructed Father Zamora. “Let me make sure the king will receive you.”
Father Zamora nodded, drooping a little like a flower in drought. Exhausted. Raúl motioned for a soldier to get the priest a chair. But Father Zamora just waved for him to go on.
Torches lit the royal palace’s main vestibule, deepening the pillars’ pink limestone into a darker salmon and the white colmenar limestone a muted gray. Raúl’s footsteps echoed in the cavernous chamber as he climbed the stairs, the circular windows above framing stars in the night sky.
Count Saldana was in conference with other Council of Castile officials. He broke away as Raúl approached.
Raúl said, “There is a priest here, Father Zamora, who would like to present the people’s petition to the king.”
Count Saldana frowned, now giving Raúl his full attention.
Raúl continued, “I recommend that the king hear his petition. The people are restless outside, and will not be pacified any longer.”
“What do you know of this priest?”
“He is an honorable man. A priest from my hometown.”
Count Saldana mused for a moment, then a glimmer of a smile appeared on his face. “It would actually be brilliant.”
“Pardon me, sir?”
As though remembering Raúl was there, the count’s glance sharpened. “Let me ask the king. I think it would be appropriate.”
He was gone just shortly. Returning, he nodded briskly. “Just the priest.”
“Of course.”
When Raúl went to fetch the priest, he had his eyes closed and hands put on a soldier’s head.
Raúl approached and waited. Father Zamora was giving a prayer. Once done, the soldier casted a worried glance at Raúl, then the priest.
“Good luck with your family,” Father Zamora said.
The soldier nodded and went back to patrol.
“His mother’s sick,” Father Zamora explained to Raúl. He moved along slowly, as though each step pained him.
“We can get you one of those litters,” Raúl offered.
“No, no. Just...thank you for being patient. I’ll make it there.” He stopped often, his breathing ragged. Raúl was worried, but he pretended that all was well. He offered his arm and the priest accepted it gratefully. He leaned heavily against Raúl, glancing up once in a while.
“A shame,” Father Zamora said. “I can’t see the detail on the artwork. My eyes are failing me in my old age.”
They stopped at the large landing, so Raúl could study the painting. He had passed this landing dozens of times, and he’d never taken time to look at it. Until now.
“It is a scene with what looks like a procession of devout,” Raúl said. “They are climbing clouds to a congregation of angels up above. In the bottom left corner, demons needle their prisoners.”
“Ah, yes,” Father Zamora said. “Guiaquinto’s art. It is called, ‘Spain protects Religion.’”
Raúl nodded in agreement. The allegory fit. Then he remembered the conversation he had with Count Saldana about the Jesuits. How religion could also weaken the king. Did it still deserve Spain’s protection?
He offered his arm once again. “Ready to see the king?”
49
The guards looked at Raúl and Father Zamora, then waved them on into the anteroom. Father Zamora’s eyes widened as they passed the rose tapestries.
Catching his expression, Raúl said, “Lavish, is it?”
“Actually, I was thinking the opposite,” Father Zamora admitted. “The monarch has much simpler tastes than I imagined.”
Raúl agreed. “King Carlos is a man of the countryside. He once told Count Saldana that all a man needs is a good pack of dogs and hunting grounds.”
On that cue, baying hounds cut into the cavernous silence. Raúl exchanged grins with t
he priest. “Follow that sound and we’ll find the king.”
The king sat in a chair at a circular table, about ready to eat his evening meal. Several clergy sat at a separate table nearby. Three handsome Pachon Navarros, large speckled white hounds with brown heads lay at the king’s feet. As the page announced Raúl and Father Zamora, the dogs bounded up, greeting the visitors, then quickly settled down. One dog stayed beside Raúl, nudging his hand for a petting every so often.
The Minister of Esquilache, Leopoldo de Gregorio, stood to the side, subdued, his shoulders slightly caved in. He had a long face and elegant features that seemed to sag with the weight of the world. The Count sat on the opposite side of the king.
The room had an overall tint of rose and gold, between the tapestries and the carpet. In the midst of such splendor, the priest stood out in his homespun brown cassock.
A page knelt on a cushioned kneeling pad and poured water for the king. King Carlos drank the glassful and set it down. He seemed to be in fine spirits, smiling. “It is good to see you Captain Calderón, and to make your acquaintance, er...”
“Father Zamora, Your Highness,” the priest said, bowing. Despite the shabbiness of his attire and the ravages of old age, Father Zamora radiated contentment.
“Pardon the intrusion, Your Highness,” Raúl said, “but Father Zamora, a friend of mine, would like to speak with you on an important matter.”
The king dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “Not at all, not at all. What can I do for you?”
Raúl motioned for the priest to step forward.
As Father Zamora did, his hands trembled. “Your Highness, I’ve come to...” Looking puzzled, he looked at Raúl, as though for guidance.
“Present the demands of the people?” Raúl coached.
“Yes, that’s right.” Father Zamora took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. “Pardon me, but it’s been a long day. I’ve come to present their demands.”