by Allen, Jewel
My son Wesley for inspiring me to write a "boy" book that he would not be embarrassed to read. And who hopefully will read this novel after serving his two-year LDS church mission.
And, last but not the least, my husband Drew for his consistent dose of reality/encouragement, and without whose support I wouldn't be able to spend my days figuring out how to get a fictitious Spaniard in and out of trouble.
Author’s Note
In April 2007, I watched the passenger batil, the 50-meter, wood-hull MV Catalyn-D, detach itself from the dock at Cuyo, Philippines, in the darkness of dawn. The island was waking up, lights from huts marking the outline of a coast. A sweet sadness washed over me. I just spent two glorious days in Cuyo, and now I was leaving. I wondered if that was how my Spanish ancestor Don Antonio Ponce de Leon felt when he left Cuyo in the late 18th century to sail back to Spain. Did he wonder, “Will I ever return? Will my children ever come to Cuyo?”
Several years ago, an elderly relative sent me a thick sheaf of papers documenting the family history of my paternal grandmother’s family in Cuyo, Palawan, Philippines. The pedigree chart harkened back to Don Antonio Ponce de Leon, a Spanish duke and an officer in the army of King Charles III. Don Antonio’s son, Pablo, allegedly returned to Cuyo decades later, marrying a local girl and donating the silver frontispiece of the church altar. There was, purportedly, an inscription to that effect.
“I’m descended from royalty,” I reminded my husband before I joined my brother for a two-week vacation in Palawan that April of 2007.
“Probably just the product of someone’s overactive imagination,” he teased.
“I’ll prove you wrong,” I promised.
***
The reigning Spanish monarch during Don Pablo’s time, King Carlos III, was an austere man, some would even say dull, passionate about hunting but caring little for the frivolities of his European cousins. What he lacked in social graces, he made up for as a ruler. He surrounded himself with forward-thinking men, the likes of Esquilache and Count Pedro Pablo Abarca de Bolea (Count de Aranda), whom I based Count Saldana on. Historians refer to King Carlos III’s reign as “the Age of Enlightenment” for he transformed Madrid to its former glory, with garbage collection and street lights. He believed in the free market and deregulated the price of staple foods.
In 1766, discontent erupted in the land. After a period of drought and hoarding, grain merchants began selling bread at astronomical prices. To add insult to injury, the king declared a ban on the national dress of slouch hat and cape, as a security measure.
On Palm Sunday, the people revolted, demanding price controls on grain, the expulsion of foreign ministers and the overturning of the clothing ban, among others. The king acquiesced from his balcony, then fled to Aranjuez. For a time, a military junta tried to maintain order in the capital. Don Antonio Ponce de Leon, the duke of Arcos and a member of the royal guards, played a key role in protecting the king from advancing rioters.
As a reward and to keep him safe from enemies, King Carlos sent Don Antonio to the Philippines, then a Spanish colony; to Cuyo, a remote island in southeast Palawan. The king charged Don Antonio with the task of reinforcing Cuyo’s fort and helping the natives ward off attacks by their southern neighbors who challenged Spanish sovereignty.
After the chaos of Madrid, and a long sea voyage without modern comforts, Don Antonio must have exulted at the sight of the tiny islands that form the Cuyo group, a string of stepping stones in the open sea. Most are uninhabited, remote. They sit in quiet desolation, white-sand beaches sloping up to mountains covered in thick foliage.
I imagine his arrival was greeted with as much pomp and circumstance as a little fishing village could muster: a feast of lato, seaweed which look like clusters of little grapes with a salty crunch eaten raw, the day’s catch, sautéed squid, and perhaps, boiled vegetables from nearby Bisucay Island. And rice, plenty of rice. He may have lodged at the convent, the guest of the friar.
Today, the fort stands as it did in Don Antonio’s time, just a few blocks from the wet market. A staircase leads up to a stone observation desk. I shivered as I looked from the deck down to the entryway, framed by a sturdy railing, where Cuyunons poured hot oil onto slave raiders who attacked their island. The belfry stands silent, its bells coated with dust and cobwebs. In the olden days, they would have rang loud and clear when the watchtower guard spied enemy praos (vessels or boats) in the waters.
The church was empty when my brother and I stepped inside. It was a long walk to the altar, a raised platform covered in tile and a red carpet. I approached the silver frontispiece that also housed the Blessed Sacrament and looked for the inscription.
Nothing. Just elaborate etchings on the face, but nothing that alluded to the altar’s donor. “This is like ‘Da Vinci Code,’” my brother said as we inspected the altar inch-by-inch. And about as confounding, I thought glumly, as we came up empty-handed.
We returned to the municipal building, where a planning official – and fellow Ponce de Leon descendant – claimed to have shown the inscription to her children.
“Look down on the floor,” she said.
Returning to the church, we looked down on the floor, which was covered by carpet and new-looking tiles. We were just about to give up when my brother said, “There it is.”
On the very bottom of the silver frontispiece, where carpet met altar, I read the inscription in Spanish. There was the year, “1800,” and the name, “Don Pablo Ponce de Leon.” So it was true. Don Antonio and his son were not just the figment of someone’s imagination.
As I left Cuyo, my thoughts must have mirrored Don Antonio’s. I wondered if, someday, I would return. And if my children would ever go to Cuyo. I hope, like Don Antonio’s son Pablo, they do.
***
The less I found online about this ancestor, the more I became obsessed with this desire to know more about my Spanish ancestors and their lives and times. I began reading about King Carlos III, the Spanish Bourbon king under whose reign my ancestor served. I read voraciously about royalty, military life, manners, art, customs, and architecture in eighteenth-century Spain. Every week felt like Christmas, as books and articles I had requested from our small bookmobile arrived through interlibrary loan.
I tried to read as many books as I could about the subject, but as far as I could tell, no one had yet written about an officer in King Carlos III’s army, honorably exiled to the Philippines for his role in the expulsion of the Jesuits.
Thus, Raúl Calderón came into being.
Many characters in my novel existed in real life, such as the king and his key ministers who served on the Council of Castile. But the heroes – Raúl and Conchita – and the villains are all a product of my imagination woven into the rich tapestry of history.
***
In the summer of 2014, I experienced the dream of a lifetime by traveling to Madrid, Spain, with my sister Joy and oldest daughter Sierra as part of a two-week European vacation. It was part girls-bonding, research for this novel, and R&R.
We started in Barcelona and took the train to Madrid. On the morning of our third day, my daughter Sierra and I set out to sample the famous churro y chocolate, and to visit the Palacio Real de Madrid, which was reportedly decorated from (King) Carlos III's time.
"Why are you so interested in Carlos III?" Sierra asked, after the Aranjuez tour, where I'd asked at least a dozen questions pertaining to him.
So I explained to Sierra: My novel is set in Spain under his rein (late 18th century), and our Spanish ancestor may have served in the Royal Army under that king.
The churros we had that morning from Churreria & Chocolatera were bent, piping hot, then dipped in chocolate. While trying to find the entrance to the Palacio Real, Sierra and I (Joy was at mass) sat on a bench and indulged. (Well, she took a bite.)
As they say in Spain, que rico!
Two bites were plenty for me. I gave the rest to an accordionist who seemed surprised, then smiled, as he accept
ed the offer.
After churros, Sierra and I queued up for an English tour at the Palacio. Our guide would say, charmingly, "Have a look..."
And we did.
I not only looked at the tapestries, gilded furniture, hand-painted porcelain, and art, they actually looked familiar to me. I have been learning so much about Carlos III, I remembered many details. He was reportedly austere. If he was austere, I can't even imagine how his relatives with lavish tastes may have been.
The first room of the tour made me smile. It was the Hall of Habaldiers, named after the guards, some Spaniards, some conscripted from different countries, all valiant, sworn to loyalty to protect the king. I smiled because I pictured my ancestor, a Ponce de Leon, entering, mingling and making himself feel at home among his contemporaries.
Another favorite of mine was the throne room (where Carlos III received dignitaries and commoners alike) and the dining room (which was converted from the queen's quarters - Carlos III was a widower upon assuming the throne - and which is used today to host 120 or fewer guests).
But the icing on the cake was that, when I asked about the balcony from which Carlos III quelled the riots of 1766, our tour guide came out to the huge plaza with us and pointed at the balcony. I got woozy knees just staring at it.
I told Sierra it's not like I'm obsessed with this king, just a little.
***
It took me two years from that trip to finally revise The Spanish Exile. I had already produced a passable manuscript by the summer of 2016, if my goal was just to get it out there to the masses, but my developmental editor said the plot lacked a story arc. It had swordfights, soldiers, villains, heroes and romance, so it was plenty exciting, but the story was mostly episodic. With much sighing and shedding of tears, I went back to the drawing board to figure out what made Raúl tick.
As it was a story based on history, I decided to dig deeper. With Google as my friend, I discovered that during Raúl Calderón’s time, Spain was engaged in a Seven Years’ War against Britain and its allies like Portugal. Thus were the battle scenes in Portugal born. Not only could I then account for Raúl’s formative years, but I could also flesh out his others’ characters by putting them in adverse battle situations. Despite my initial dread, this research turned out invaluable. In fact, one of my beta readers said the story came alive for her when Raúl went to battle.
I also decided to work a little bit more on Raúl’s love interest, Conchita. In my original manuscript, she was a vain, one-dimensional character, easy to dislike. But real people are seldom just maddening. Usually, they have redeeming and charismatic qualities that endear them to others. In order to find Conchita’s I imagined a girl of her age in that time period, trying to find success in theater. Again, Google yielded gems about how theaters were laid out and what playwrights wrote. Finally, when Conchita spoke, I could hear her voice.
About this same time, the brilliant director-performer Lin Manuel-Miranda was making waves on Broadway with his hit musical Hamilton. In the original manuscript, Conchita fell in love with a pompous director who existed, it seemed, only to show off his colorful costumes. This time, I channeled Lin-Manuel Miranda as Gabriel de Guerra. A danger was having him take over the story; he’s larger-than-life that way. So I took only a pinch of Miranda and will reserve the rest for possibly a spin-off book.
***
For the sake of narrative, I’ve taken a few liberties recreating dialogue and scenes with real historical figures like King Carlos III and the Council of Castile. Cheverra and Placido are fictional towns. In all else, I have done my very best to portray history as accurately as possible.
I will be the first to admit that I do not know all there is to know about eighteenth century Spain. How I wish I have actually lived in Spain like a native, and that I had a time machine! That would have made my job so much easier. On the flipside, I have stretched and grown as a writer and historian.
This has been my most challenging writing project to date. My goal was to immerse the reader in that epoch and to make history come alive through the eyes of my characters. To achieve that, I went through dozens of revisions and near complete overhauls. I stopped and started the project several times and tried to abandon it in favor of other manuscripts. But this novel kept calling to me, and now, it is like a baby about to be born. I am both nervous and excited.
Thank you for taking this historical adventure with me.
If you enjoyed this book and have a moment to spare,
I would really appreciate a short online review.
Thank you for your help
spreading the word. Reviews make a huge difference
in helping new readers find this book.
~ Jewel Allen
Please enjoy this sample from the
next book in the Islands of the Crown series
Prologue
Gurian, Philippines, 1766
Mud caked the jungle path, wet from the morning rain. Slippery. Dangerous. With each step, 16-year-old Juliza took, she slid. Still, she slogged on, even as the leathers of her sandals felt like they would tear.
The air hissed with mist, heavy with animal sounds: monkeys howling, snakes slithering, bird wings flapping, insects humming. A few shafts of lights pierced the tree canopy overhead, illuminating moss, vines and ferns, some as big as a person. Trickles of water crossed her path, and she knew that game would be found ahead.
She pricked her ears to the sounds of animals, but heard nothing. Not even the soft footfalls of the warriors who had accompanied her on this hunt. From the corner of her eye, she saw them fan out, about a dozen warriors, bare-chested and decked with weapons – a spear, bow and arrow, a small machete at their hip, advancing and circling the prey ahead in an ever-tightening noose
Then she heard that unmistakable sound of horn against tree trunk. Scraping. Juliza froze and looked around. The warrior beside her nodded his head and made a little motion with his hand, like an arrow being fitted into a bow and being released at its target.
Juliza grabbed an arrow from her quiver and fitted it in her bow, her eyes searching, her ears listening. Her heart pounded wildly in her chest. Up ahead, a wall of trees, bent and gnarled from centuries of growth, protected her prey.
And then she saw it – a gleaming black devil, scraping its horns against the trunk of a gigantic balete tree. A wild tamaraw. The deadliest of wild buffaloes. Ill-tempered and fast.
Her hands trembled. If she looked clumsy, she could be forgiven at this first hunt. But like anything else, Princess Juliza, the Last Princess of the Gurian Sultanate, wanted everything to be perfect, and nothing short of a quick death for this animal would do.
She may have never gone on a real hunt before, but she certainly had shot arrows at targets on the ground, on trees, while on horseback. She had a good aim, and she could use it today.
The creature saw her and blinked. Perplexed, then agitated. She could see its pupils dilate with fear and distrust, its nostrils flaring with anger and a building rage. It lowered its head, the tree trunk forgotten now, then pawed the ground, occasionally glaring at Juliza with one of its eyes, for the other, she could see now, had previously been gouged by another arrow.
Fit the arrow, pull back, let the arrow sail at its mark.
Juliza thought through these steps, but her arms would not cooperate. She stood there just watching, paralyzed, until she heard a sharp, “Princess, now!” from behind her. Then she moved again, her arms thawing, her fingers operable again. She raised her bow and arrow, aiming for the animal who now went beyond pawing and snorting, and was collecting himself so he could make short work of the girl standing just three man-lengths in front of him.
The tamaraw launched itself just as Juliza released her arrow.
The beast didn’t stop. And so Juliza fitted another arrow. Not just a hunt, but her fight to stay alive. She would have to be the vanquisher or die trying.
Just as she raised the arrow to her eye level, the tamaraw seized up in m
id-air and made a bellowing noise as it crashed and fell. It filled the jungle with its last noises on the earth.
Juliza’s knees buckled. She let herself melt to the ground, her bow limp in her arms. Her tunic was drenched in sweat, her legs covered with grime of the climb.
“Well done, Princess,” one of the warriors said.
She turned her head to look into Koda’s dark eyes. “You had your arrow fitted in your bow,” she accused.
“I swear, I didn’t.” His dark eyes held hers. “I knew you’d get it.”
She raised her chin. “It just took me a while to get there.”
Koda knelt beside the beast. “He’s a giant, nothing like I’ve ever seen before.”
Juliza stood up and brushed the dirt off her legs. The other warriors started to work on the carcass, gutting it and cutting it into quarters. One of them whistled and a horse came running out of the trees to stand obediently by the warriors’ side. They would take care of transporting the meat back to the palace.
Koda and Juliza started to head back from the direction they’d come, downhill and back to the lowlands and the coast. After a few minutes of silent company, Koda stopped and looked back into the jungle, then glanced at Juliza.
Her breath caught in her throat.
One moment, they were just walking companionably, and another moment, he grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the path. He pressed her against a tree, wet and rough against her back, and kissed her.
How she had yearned for him all day, and now, he held her in his arms. She couldn’t get close enough to him. She gave him full access to her mouth and her heart. He was the vanquisher, and she was the vanquished.
“Juliza,” he said, between kisses, “you scared me, you know? Next time, I won’t promise not to fit an arrow, not when a beast like that is charging at you.”