The Spanish Exile (Islands of the Crown Book 1)

by Allen, Jewel

  Their quarry stopped abruptly and turned, throwing debris at Raúl’s face which only slowed him down momentarily. After a few seconds, he outpaced the man and caught him at a lunge, knocking him down with such force that Raúl lay there stunned himself. The man flipped over with his back to the ground and tried to kick, but Raúl pinned him, the point of his saber pressed against the man’s throat.

  The trip had been a secret, so how did this would-be assassin know about the king’s departure? “Who sent you?”

  “I was paid by a stranger.”

  Raúl leaned against his throat, but the man never changed his story. Disgusted, Raúl ordered Mario to secure the man as a prisoner. Within an hour, they caught up with the king’s convoy once again. Everyone was on edge; the horses jumped at every sound and they paused more than once at Raúl’s signal to investigate a noise. Twice, the carriage wheels got stuck in bogs. Raúl didn’t wait for Mario to help. He dismounted, shoved the carriage with his shoulder and got it on its way.

  “Are we resting,” Mario asked, “or eating?”

  “No and no,” Raúl replied.

  Finally, they reached the Tajo and Jarama Rivers, signaling their arrival in Aranjuez. They rode between rows of trees that flanked both sides of the road. Raúl sent Mario ahead to ready the troops to welcome the king. By the time they drove past the gardens and stone-laden plaza, troops gathered in front of the hunting pavilion. In the early dawn, the palace’s numerous archways and main building glowed a shell-pink.

  Raúl’s shoulder muscles relaxed as they reached safety. His glance met Mario’s triumphant one.

  “Another assignment accomplished, Captain,” Mario said. “With your leave, I’ll go to the kitchen for dinner.”

  “Not me,” Raúl said. “I’m going to sleep.”

  Mario grinned. “Who needs sleep when you can have Aranjuez strawberries?”

  Early the next morning, a soldier gave Raúl a report. “Captain, it appears that the assassin was paid by someone attached to the bishop’s staff.”

  The Jesuits, Raúl thought. The count was right.

  “Have you told anyone yet?” Raúl asked.

  “No, sir. I wanted to see if you had further orders.”

  “Deliver him to Count Saldana for questioning. He will know what to do.”

  “Yes, sir.” The soldier lingered.

  “Yes?”

  “The rioters are at it again in Madrid. They’re burning minister’s houses and looting. They heard about the king’s journey to Aranjuez. Citizens are saying he’s going to go back on his word and will send forces to crush them.”

  Raúl grimaced. “Get some fresh horses ready. We’ll depart immediately.”

  Mario was in the kitchen, eating strawberries with cream. “Let it be known. Strawberries taste just as good in the morning.”

  “Don’t get too comfortable,” Raúl said, grabbing a handful and popping one in his mouth. “We need to go back to Madrid.”

  “We’ll send some for the road,” a servant said, offering a handful. “Is this enough?”

  Mario pointed at a bucket. “That’ll do.”

  52

  Arriving in Madrid that afternoon, Raúl entered the capital on horseback. Despite the unsettling sight of a swelling sea of people on the streets, he motioned for his men to follow. The crowd, noticing, hemmed them in from all sides. Mario’s horse neighed and reared. “Just proceed as normal,” Raúl said. “Stay close and within hailing distance.”

  He spurred his horse Dante forward, nodding to acknowledge citizens, who in turn pinned him with hostile gazes. There was hardly any room for people, let alone a horse, but he pushed on, forcing the crowd to part. Men, women, and children grabbed at his reins, his boots, Dante’s bridle. It made for slow, unnerving work through the streets, but finally, Raúl and his men reached the Plaza Mayor, which meant they were close to the Marquis’ house. In the light of one working gas lamp, people hoisted a large, flat object. A mob of people rushed forward and someone set it on fire. The flames illuminated the portrait of the Marquis of Esquilache.

  “The portrait.” Mario stared, aghast. “They must have gotten it from the minister’s mansion. I’ve seen that over a fireplace.”

  Raúl surveyed the crowds, at least three times as big as yesterday’s. “Mario, fetch more troops.”

  The troops were already on their way by the time Raúl met them on the road. At his direction, hundreds of cavalry fanned out to bring order to the burning city. Raúl led dozens of men to Minister Esquilache’s mansion, also known as House of Seven Chimneys. Doors leading to the balconies on the second floor were open, with flames leaping out the windows. The house’s chimneys from which it derived its nickname poured out black smoke. Looters with paintings, furniture and lamps streamed in and out of the main door which stood at the top of a set of steps and under a graceful archway. A brigade of soldiers were attempting to douse the flames with a line of buckets.

  A woman ran out, and, seeing Raúl’s group, headed for them. “Officers! My husband has been hurt.” She doubled over, unable to continue through her weeping.

  Raúl dismounted and touched her shoulder. “Take a deep breath. There.”

  “My husband worked for the minister,” she explained between sobs. “We were trying to keep people out of the master’s mansion. Someone attacked my husband. He’s inside. I need help getting him out.”

  While his men confronted looters, Raúl followed the woman into the mansion. She pointed to a man who lay on the floor, his head bleeding and staining the carpet red. Raúl carried him over his shoulder and deposited him gently outside, under a tree and away from the main pedestrian traffic.

  The man’s wife tearfully knelt beside him and thanked Raúl for his help. He instructed a soldier to see to his wounds and to get him medical help.

  There was a greater problem for him to deal with.

  A grisly scene assaulted his senses: a citizen dragged what looked like two dead bodies behind a carriage. The corpses wore the Walloons’ military-issue blue uniforms with red cuffs. People lined the street, cheering the carriage on. Raúl motioned for Mario to come with him, then ran over and squeezed his way to the front of the crowd.

  Aiming at the driver, Raúl shot his musket. The driver fell off his perch, clutching his leg. Citizens screamed and ran off in different directions. The horses slowed to a stop.

  “Cover me,” Raúl told Mario. He ran and cut the ropes to the soldiers’ corpses and carried each one to the carriage. The driver dragged himself away from the scene.

  Rioters continued to attack the Walloons. Each side fired guns, making the air thick with smoke. They wrestled for weapons, the soldiers putting up a valiant amount of resistance. However, with the soldiers outnumbered ten to one, the citizens won out. Someone swung their musket and hit a street lamp post, shattering it and sending a ball of flame to the ground. People scattered. Soon, others copied the maudlin behavior, toppling more posts to the ground.

  “Viva la España!” they chanted, over and over, like mad dogs salivating over their prey. The Walloons fell like the lampposts, their blood staining the pavement. A rioter ran around with his mouth stretched into a clownish smile, then dragged a dead Walloon by his foot up and down the street, to gleeful onlookers.

  Bile and anger rose in Raúl. He raised his gun and shot the lout desecrating the soldier’s corpse. People screamed and ran. Raúl and a handful of his men got on the carriage. Taking the driver’s seat, Raúl steeled himself as he navigated around dead bodies of citizens. He slowed down enough so his men could pull soldiers into the carriage. Around the mass chaos of crowds and clouds of smoke from burning buildings, he maneuvered the vehicle.

  Raúl whipped the horses, goading them forward, then came to his senses. The horses didn’t deserve his anger.

  May the Lord have mercy on them all.

  53

  On scant sleep, Raúl woke to the early dawn. He stretched and watched, puzzled, as flecks of ash floated down
his bed. He rushed to the window and swore. The city burned even worse than the day before. He got dressed quickly so he could go and lead the patrols in Madrid.

  “Good morning,” he greeted Mario as they both entered the mess hall for a quick bite to eat.

  Mario rubbed his eyes. “I don’t see what’s so good about it. I hope these people get tired. I sure am.”

  By seven, they reached the main road with a battalion of over 800 soldiers. “Stay in groups,” Raúl told his men. “Shoot if you have to, but use your head.”

  They had to go on foot as people obstructed the way. The streets churned from masses of men, women and children who were chanting and marching, taunting the soldiers.

  As Raúl and his group approached the Bishop of Cartagena’s house, citizens were trying to ram down the door. The Bishop rushed out to his balcony in his housecoat.

  “Please,” the bishop begged, “stop and go home.”

  “Not until you send the king our message,” Conchita shouted.

  Oh no, Raúl groaned inwardly. Not Conchita.

  Bishop Cartagena wrung his hands. He looked around, his glance settling on Raúl, who was making his way to the balcony.

  “Yes,” Raúl said, “go home, all of you.”

  “Captain,” Conchita countered. “You need to send a message to the king.”

  He walked over to stand in front of her. She folded her arms across her chest as though to ward him off. “I just escorted the king to Aranjuez,” he said, enunciating each word carefully. “He knows what you want. He has already delivered many of the people’s demands from last night’s confrontation at the palace. Do you not remember?”

  “I wasn’t there last night. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Then maybe, before you demand more from the king, you should at least find out what’s going on.”

  “I have.” She frowned. “It’s worse now.”

  Raúl frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Have you not heard?” Conchita asked. “Count Saldana and his military junta have been running the city in an iron grip.”

  “Can you blame him?”

  “Putting people in prison without a jury? You find that acceptable?”

  “Extraordinary times deserve extraordinary measures.”

  “Well now, your true colors show, and frankly, they are horrid. How could you even side with that man?”

  “Señorita Benavente,” Raúl said formally. “In case you haven’t noticed, I am the Captain of the Guards. My loyalty first and foremost –“

  “Is with the king,” she interjected. “Yes, I know.”

  “And his ministers.”

  “At least we are rid of one of them. How about Saldana, too?”

  “Count Saldana is a good, principled man.”

  “How could you say that? He’s rounding up Jesuit priests to interrogate them.”

  He gripped her arm. “Who told you that?”

  “I saw soldiers fanning through my neighborhood this morning. Mother Rita said they were at the church –“

  Gunshots broke out. Raúl shielded Conchita with his body and pushed her to the ground. “Get down!”

  People screamed and shoved each other to get away. Several citizens nearly trampled them.

  He had to get Conchita away from there.

  A soldier ran up to Raúl, ducking at the sound of gunfire. “Captain, some people are breaking into the mercantile!”

  “Take care of it,” Raúl ordered.

  The soldier stared. “Don’t you want to come, too, Captain?”

  “I will shortly.”

  Conchita pushed out of the circle of his embrace. “That’s all right, Raúl,” she said wearily. “Go perform your duty for the king.”

  He scowled. “Where’s that Gabriel? As much as I hate the thought, he could take you away from here.”

  “He’s at his villa finishing a play. This isn’t his fight. Well, he is fighting it in other ways.”

  Raúl turned to the soldier. “Go with as many men as you can round up and take care of the mercantile. I will be there as soon as I can.” He looked up at the balcony. The bishop at least had the sense to retreat into his house. One less worry there. To Conchita, he said, “Let’s go.”

  “The gunshots,” Conchita said, breathlessly, as they ran down the streets with other fleeing citizens. “That’s what I mean. Count Saldana is using brute force to subdue us.”

  “Put yourself in his shoes,” Raúl said. “The city is burning. Ministers and other prominent citizens are being terrorized. You don’t just send out a few soldiers to stand in the corner. You need to reclaim order. And if it means a violent crackdown, then so be it.”

  She wrestled out of his grasp. “I really hate what the army’s done to you. Where is your humanity? Do you even have a heart under that uniform?”

  He took a swift intake of breath, grabbed her arm, and pulled her away from the street into an alley.

  “What? Why?” She resisted. “You’re hurting me.”

  “Sorry,” he said, loosening his grip. “Just come with me.” When, still she acted reluctant, he said, “Please.”

  54

  People had been fleeing the main streets. This area, Madrid’s melting pot, was eerily quiet. Raúl led Conchita to a deserted alcove of a Moroccan bazaar. The store was a-shambles, abandoned in a hurry, the door still swinging on its hinges.

  He pulled her into the silence of the shop. It smelled of exotic spices and incense. Under their feet, broken glass crunched and he tiptoed around to avoid it. A heavy rug hung in a window protected them from prying eyes of passersby, should there be any.

  “Shouldn’t you fulfill your duty and go protect the mercantile?” she asked.

  “In a minute,” he said.

  Raúl turned so they faced each other, both of them breathing heavily from the effort of running out of harm’s way. A wary expression flitted over her lovely face. He placed her palm against the left side of his uniform.

  “Feel the beating of my heart, Conchita,” he said. “I do have one. I care about our citizens. When I joined the army, I swore to myself that I would never be that officer who abused his power. You can accuse me of anything, foolishness or impulsiveness, but I’ve never been cruel. If I exercise any semblance of power, it’s to protect the rest of the citizens.”

  She stared at his hand, covering hers.

  Now his pulse began to drum and thunder in his chest. Could she feel that, too? Could she sense just how much he wanted her?

  Yes, he wanted her. How could he even deny it?

  He reached out and touched her smooth porcelain skin, tracing his thumb against the contours of her cheekbone, and along her jaw. “The other day, I told you I’d choose duty to the king over you. And I still would if I had to choose.”

  She flinched.

  His hand cradled her jaw, her neck, his voice lowering to a whisper. “For a few stolen moments, however, I will forget I am a soldier and pretend you are my queen.”

  When their lips touched, everything fit like pieces of a puzzle. She was his and he was hers, and nothing else mattered.

  He held her close. “My heart is yours,” he assured her. “Could you even doubt that? You’ve always owned it, lock and key. When I went to battle, I imagined your lovely face, the way you’d give me a side glance with a little teasing light in your eyes. When I was hurt, I imagined that you were there to kiss my pains away.”

  She pushed slightly away, turned over his palm and kissed it. “You’re kinder to your hands than that time when you worked on the farm chores.”

  He smiled. “No farm chores in the army.”

  “A shame. I rather liked watching you lift those crates.”

  He chuckled. “Did you, really? At that time, I thought you did, too, until you pointed out you considered me a brother.”

  “Well, I did, then,” she admitted. “But I will be honest. When I saw you the other day at the Plaza de Antón Martín, and later, in the th
eater, grown-up with your full beard and nothing like the boy I left behind in Cheverra, I nearly swooned.” She murmured, “And that kiss.”

  His hand cupped her face, her eyes drifting shut. Like a cat, she rubbed her cheek against his palm, then brushed her lips against his wrist. With a little growl, he captured her mouth with his and crushed her to him.

  She yielded, arching her back so that the space between them melted into a molten sensation that scorched and fed something vital inside him. He splayed his hands so they followed the contours of her waist and the small of her back.

  With a little regret, he finally broke off the kiss. “I probably really should go help at the mercantile. After I take you home.”

  She tiptoed and kissed him full on his lips. Which of course prompted him to pull her into another scorching kiss for several more minutes.

  55

  Battle-ready troops greeted Raúl upon his return to the barracks. He approached a Habaldier and asked what was going on.

  “A mutiny in the ranks at Valencia, sir,” the soldier answered.

  Raúl cursed. “Who is the leader?”

  “I don’t know, sir. All I know is that we have orders to maintain peace in Madrid while other troops are in Aranjuez protecting the king.”

  “Raúl!” someone hailed him across the courtyard. Mario squeezed his way past the assembling troops. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  “Come brief me while I get changed.” Raúl led the way to his quarters.

  “As if we didn’t have enough to worry about,” Mario grumbled. “Word was, a company of Walloon Guards and a half-dozen Navy have seized the port of Valencia.” Mario threw his hands up in the air. “More madness.”

  “What’s their problem?”

  “Some Walloons accepted the end of their commission. But a few aren’t taking their dismissal sitting down. They’ve taken over a fleet of ships and are defying a blockade.”

  Raúl buttoned his coat and adjusted his collar. “Do you know who leads the Navy rebels?”

  “Jann Von Dirjk.”