The Spanish Exile (Islands of the Crown Book 1)

by Allen, Jewel

  Raúl cursed.

  “What now?” Mother Rita asked Raúl.

  “I have to go to Cheverra.” He told her about Leandro’s threat to Julio.

  “That blackheart is more evil than I thought,” she said.

  Raúl nodded. “Can you muster up a few more miles to Cheverra?”

  Mother Rita hitched up her skirts and straddled the mule, groaning. “Jump on and let’s get down there.”

  Chucho raced impressively down the road to Cheverra, until they reached the edge of the Calderón property. Raúl knew immediately where his brother’s house was. Flames leaped from it into the high heavens, rising with the sun.

  69

  Raúl felt the wall of heat as soon as he stepped foot in the courtyard.

  Julio, Raúl thought. Where is Julio?

  His chest loosened with relief when he saw his brother running out of the burning house. He looked around wildly, his gaze landing on Raúl. Then he turned to a woman servant. “Where is your mistress?”

  “She hasn’t come out.”

  In a strangled voice, Julio said, “I will go back for her.”

  Raúl touched his brother’s arm. “I will go with you.”

  Julio flashed him an inscrutable glance. But he didn’t disagree.

  Raúl followed Julio into the inferno. Then he stopped, stock still.

  Memories flashed through his mind – the women and children in a hospital in Almeida, trapped and dying. Their ghostly screams reverberated through his mind.

  “No,” he said, covering his ears.

  Reality hit him. He was not in Portugal. He was in Cheverra and this was his brother’s house.

  Raúl’s lungs filled with acrid smoke. He could hardly open his eyes. Even when he could, he could not see past a foot. Heat licked at his body. He was being cooked alive.

  Insane, this is insane. “Julio,” Raúl choked out. “Get out of here now. There’s nothing we can do...”

  “No.” Julio kept on going, even as beams began to fall. The house moaned and crackled and broke.

  Get out!

  Raúl got on his knees, where the smoke wasn’t as thick, and crawled to the next room and the next. A few times, he hit his head or knee against a wall or obstacle. He could hear his brother calling out hoarsely, “Selina!” Debris fell on Raúl’s head and body. The roof above was disintegrating, falling in pieces like an infernal rainstorm.

  “Julio!” He cried out through his burning lungs. “Julio, let’s go...”

  He could not breathe. It was too much, too thick, too...

  His knee bumped into something. He reached out and felt a leg, a girl’s hair. Selina. “Sel...” He tried to shout her name but no sound came out.

  Out, out, get out!

  He forced himself to lurch forward. “Julio!” he screamed. “I have her!” Raúl scooped her up and ran through the flames. Beams continued to fall, blocking his path, but somehow, he still managed to run over and under, shouldering through. He held his breath for as long as he could, but he could no longer do it, and the smoke seared his lungs.

  I can’t breathe!

  He gasped for air, without receiving relief. His legs slackened. He fell on one knee, unable to continue. But then he saw a gap in the stone wall, where the smoke moved as though being sucked into a tunnel. He forced himself to get up and keep running, then knocked out more of the mortar. Through the hole, he pushed Selina.

  This is it. This is how it ends, he thought, as he collapsed into unconsciousness.

  Raúl opened his eyes and quickly closed them again at the burning sensation. His eyes felt swollen, each blink scraping as though against a raw wound. He rolled to his side and coughed. Or tried to, each attempt tearing at his throat, making him double over with pain.

  “Here, have a drink.” Someone pushed a glass to his lips. Mother Rita’s abrasive voice. “And don’t bite me this time.”

  Raúl shook his head. He didn’t want anything down his throat. That would be torture.

  Mother Rita persisted. “Don’t be stubborn. It will be good for you.”

  It was not. The tepid liquid trickled down and made him nearly scream aloud. When she offered more, he shook his head and hid his face behind his arm. She poked him. “By the way, you look terrible.”

  “Thank you,” Raúl croaked.

  “But not as terrible as that villain who caused all this trouble.”

  “Leandro?”

  “Is that his name? I thought it was Diablo. Someone caught him hiding out in the orchards. Unfortunately, he got away.”

  “What about my brother?”

  “He got out of the house before you did.”

  “And his wife?”

  “She’ll survive. Those mountain girls are made of hardy stock.”

  “Good,” Raúl murmured.

  “Here’s your brother now.” She shuffled off.

  “Raúl,” Julio said, kneeling at his side and putting a hand on his shoulder. “Brother.”

  Raúl touched his hand lightly, but pulled back when pain shot through his skin.

  Julio gave him an apologetic glance. “You came in the nick of time. Why were you heading this way?”

  Raúl told Julio everything. Julio listened, then pronounced Leandro, “Villain!“ He clasped Raúl’s hand. “Thank you for saving my wife and unborn child.”

  “You are welcome.”

  “If my wife has a son, I’ve decided to name him Pedro, after his grandfather. And Raúl, after his uncle.”

  Raúl smiled. “We are family again?”

  “Definitely.” Julio nodded. “In fact, I had hoped you could stay for a little while.”

  Raúl hesitated, thinking of Papa. “As good as that sounds, I must return to the capital.”

  Julio averted his glance. He probably guessed the real reason, but he didn’t press the subject. “No rest for the Captain of the Guards?”

  Raúl shook his head.

  “Where’s your horse?” Julio looked around

  “In Madrid.”

  “How did you get here then?”

  “On a mule with an irascible woman.”

  Mother Rita reappeared. “Who is not deaf.”

  “Would you like to borrow a horse and carriage for your journey home?” Julio offered the old woman.

  “What?” Mother Rita interjected. “I was enjoying my mule ride.”

  “Don’t worry,” Raúl said. “I’ll take the carriage. You can ride your mule.”

  Mother Rita clacked her dentures together. “And this is the thanks I get!” She raised her cane, but brought it down without hitting Raúl.

  In farewell, Raúl embraced Julio, who promised to stay in touch. On the way back, Mother Rita entertained Raúl with her stories. Raúl doubted their veracity, but it didn’t matter. Listening to her calmed his nerves and stilled the fearful voices inside.

  As they entered the city, Raúl noticed a slew of guards camped at the side of the road. At the sight of Raúl, they held up and pointed their weapons.

  “This is the end of the ride,” Raúl murmured.

  “I thought you were smarter than that,” Mother Rita said. “You don’t have to turn yourself in, you know. Just elope with that flighty girl.”

  Raúl winced at the reference to Conchita. “If only she wanted me still.”

  Mother Rita harrumphed. “If you ask me, I don’t think she’s being upfront to you about that Gabriel de Guerra.”

  Raúl feared she was right. “I’ll walk from here, Mother Rita. Thank you for all your help.”

  “I’ll take you there,” she said. “Chucho’s feelings will get hurt if he doesn’t take you.”

  “All right,” he said, humoring her.

  Chucho took Raúl to the soldiers, who frisked him and Mother Rita, too.

  “You knuckleheads aren’t fit to lick this hero’s boots,” she yelled, throwing her shoe, but missing.

  “Take care of yourself,” Raúl told Mother Rita, as two soldiers led him away in handcuffs.


  70

  Raúl stood in front of the military court, feeling a tightness in his chest as the votes came in, unanimously.

  Five votes of guilty for treason.

  The judge’s eyes flickered upward to Raúl’s. “Captain, you are hereby sentenced to death by execution.”

  Death. The word echoed in Raúl’s mind.

  “This court will recommend the verdict to the king,” the judge said, “who shall either approve or disapprove it.”

  An aide-de-camp led Raúl from the witness box out to the hall, where Mario and Mother Rita sat.

  Raúl wondered where Conchita was, but didn’t ask.

  The judge walked out of the court, hesitated, then walked over to Raúl and his friends. “You will be executed tomorrow afternoon, between four and sunset,” he said.

  “Surely, someone has gotten pardoned before,” Mario said.

  Mother Rita nodded. “You live as long as I have and you hear everything. Once, the hangman had to stop when the royal family was about to pass through. Royal family’s too delicate, I suppose.

  Mario’s face brightened. He asked the judge, “Isn’t the king coming home tomorrow from Aranjuez?”

  “In the morning, I believe,” the judge said.

  “Can you schedule Raúl’s execution then?” Mario suggested.

  “The hangman chooses the time,” the judge said. “I’m afraid nothing else can be done. Well, the king could have issued a pardon, even a commutation of sentence to one of the presidios. But Count Saldana himself delivered the letter, and the king sent back his response: ‘Let justice be done.’”

  “Of course Count Saldana would,” Mario muttered.

  “It’s time for your friend to go back to his cell,” the judge said.

  Mario clasped Raúl in an embrace. “I’m not crying, mind you,” he said, roughly wiping his face with his sleeve.

  “And I’m not embracing you,” Mother Rita said.

  “That’s fine,” Raúl said, smiling.

  Two guards marched Raúl to the prison cell where Leandro had taken him from the day before. That night, Raúl slept fitfully on his cell bed.

  In the morning, after he ate a scant breakfast of gruel, the guards took him to the jail chapel. He sat on one of the benches and stared at the little cross on the front wall. Bowing his head, he prayed and prayed, until his fingers cramped from being clasped so tightly together.

  Mario came to visit. “The good news is, we requested a pardon, for you and Gabriel de Guerra. The bad news is, only one of you got a pardon, and it wasn’t you.”

  Raúl’s shoulders slumped. Even over death, Gabriel bested him.

  “Don’t worry,” Mario said. “It’s not over yet. Who knows, maybe the earth will quake and the prison will break in half.”

  “With my luck, the ground could swallow me.”

  “Yes, but wouldn’t that be much better than the garrote?”

  “Not by much,” Raúl smiled weakly. “But thanks for trying to cheer me up.”

  71

  Ahead of the procession to the Plaza Mayor, members of a charity carried banners. Raúl followed, flanked by constables, a contingent of soldiers, a priest, and the official notary who would confirm his successful execution. The Plaza Mayor teemed with people jostling to get a better view. They howled with enthusiasm as they caught a sight of Raúl. The din reached a frenzy as he climbed the gallows, constructed just for today.

  One step after another.

  Below the gallows, Count Saldana watched with a solemn, inscrutable expression. Conchita was nowhere to be seen. Raúl was glad she would be spared the gruesome sight.

  The town crier announced Raúl’s crimes. He ended with, “Let this be a warning to those that witness this, that the crime of treason leads not to bliss.”

  The hangman, wearing the broad-brimmed hat and cape, led Raúl to the garrote, which was attached to a gallows pillar. The hangman’s eyes flickered towards Raúl just briefly before moving around where Raúl couldn’t see him. The iron felt cold and heavy against his neck. The crowd hushed as the hangman began to tighten the screw.

  Raúl looked up to the sky, a deepening blue in the twilight. Oranges and yellows of the setting sun spread like wildfire in the horizon. The hangman put a dark cloth over Raúl’s head, snuffing out the sunset.

  In darkness you were born, and in darkness, you shall return...

  Raúl gasped as the iron tightened against his windpipe.

  Someone take off the screw, someone, please...!

  “Stop!” A raspy female voice shouted.

  The cloth was yanked off his head, catching at the screw and tugging at Raúl’s throat. Mother Rita was looking down at him, holding her cane out to ward off soldiers who gazed at her, perplexed.

  “Get off the gallows,” the hangman growled.

  Mother Rita pointed towards the outskirts of the crowd. “The king’s carriage is passing through!”

  The hangman looked at Count Saldana for confirmation. Count Saldana’s eyes hardened. “Continue with the execution. And throw that woman out of here.”

  “Don’t you dare touch me,” Mother Rita barked at the soldiers. “I am a witch.” She cackled for good measure.

  The soldiers stopped at the steps.

  Conchita appeared beside Mother Rita. “Here, she’s going.” As she helped her off the gallows, Conchita glanced back at Raúl, her eyes shining.

  Mario chimed in. “She’s telling the truth. The king is coming. You must dismantle the gallows.”

  From their vantage point, Raúl could see the king’s carriage, still a little distance away. The people chanted for the execution.

  Count Saldana walked to the edge of the gallows. “Tighten the garrote.”

  The hangman hovered in indecision. Then his hand moved.

  Raúl fell forward, unable to stop his descent because his hands were still tied.

  He was free. Free!

  The day’s entertainment was canceled. The crowd jeered and booed, descending into near-riots. As Mario pulled Raúl with him, hands tore into Raúl’s shirt.

  Suddenly, the hands fell away, and everyone knelt down. The king was passing.

  “No offense to his Majesty,” Mario said under his breath, “but this is a good time to make our exit.”

  A soldier grabbed Raúl’s arm. “Back to jail with you,” he said.

  In his cell, Raúl rose when Mother Rita and Mario entered.

  “Thank you for interceding,” Raúl said.

  “It wasn’t me,” Mario said.

  “And it sure wasn’t me,” Mother Rita said, sitting on the cot with a little groan. “I did have to climb that gallows in a hurry, and I have no energy left. This is what happened. Conchita went to Aranjuez and offered to perform for the king, delaying their return. To coincide with your execution. She’s not so selfish, after all.”

  “Conchita helped?” Raúl murmured in a daze. “What happens next?”

  “She’ll probably marry that good-for-nothing pompous director,” Mother Rita.

  “I think he meant what will happen to him,” Mario said. To Raúl, he suggested, “Why don’t you ask the king? I heard he wants to see you.”

  72

  Raúl entered the Royal Palace throne room and walked gingerly the length of the carpet to face the king. King Carlos looked resplendent in full military regalia. His ministers flanked him on either side, also wearing formal dress.

  The red velvet walls and the gold accented carpet led the eye to the gilded mirrors on the far wall which reflected at least a dozen lit candelabras. A massive chandelier hung in the center of the room, above which a fresco by the great Tiepolo depicted Neptune in his chariot and allegories of viceroys in the Americas for the Spanish crown.

  After Raúl bowed, the king motioned for him to rise. Above the king was the royal crest, and on either side, gold sculptures of lions. The sight never failed to inspire awe in Raúl.

  “Welcome, Captain Calderón,” the king said.
“By all accounts, I should have you hanged.”

  Raúl’s palms began sweating. “I wouldn’t blame you for feeling that way, Your Highness.”

  “By Count Saldana’s account, you are an enemy to the crown.”

  Raúl nodded. “I wouldn’t blame him for saying that.”

  “Let me see. You shielded dissidents from arrest. You destroyed evidence against a suspected criminal. Is that true?”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  “Count Saldana says I should have you executed...”

  Raúl’s heart thudded.

  “...but he isn’t the king.”

  Hope bloomed in Raúl’s chest.

  “I’ve studied your situation,” the king continued. “I’ve talked to Count Saldana. He paints a rather different picture. The story he tells is of a man who prizes friendship and honor above duty to the king. If I were a vindictive monarch, I would take offense at that. But as it is, I actually admire you. Perhaps if more men thought for themselves, this may be a better world.”

  The king sobered. “As much as I admire you, however, punishment is merited for your insubordination. How do you think should I punish you, Captain?”

  “I rightly don’t know, Your Highness.”

  “I can strip you of your officer rank. Does that not seem reasonable?”

  All the past seven years’ work, gone. Raúl closed his eyes and nodded.

  “Instead, I hereby decree that you leave the peninsula as an exile.”

  “Exile,” Raúl echoed, his mind racing.

  King Carlos looked at the fresco above. “Do you see my viceroys in that painting? The Spanish Crown is the mightiest in the world. The far reach of our influence attests to that. Clear to the Philippine Islands, where I will send you to.”

  The Philippine Islands. Where Father Zamora served. The connection energized him. A place of ferocious and some friendly people. Stunned, he managed to say, “Thank you, Your Highness.”

  The king waved his hand. “After your first bout with malaria, your first typhoon, you might not be thanking me. Still, I would hope you like that better than, say, prison or death.”