The Spanish Exile (Islands of the Crown Book 1) Read online

  Contents

  Dedication

  Copyright

  Prologue

  PART ONE FIRST EXILE: 1760-62

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  PART TWO SECOND EXILE: 1766-67

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  66

  67

  68

  69

  70

  71

  72

  73

  74

  75

  PART THREE EXTRAS

  Keep Reading

  About

  Acknowledgments

  Author's Note

  The Last Princess Sample

  To my youngest daughter Sabrina,

  Happy birthday to you

  and to this book!

  You kept me going

  when I wanted to give up.

  Thank you!

  The Spanish Exile

  Copyright © 2017 Jewel Allen

  Cover design by Mikey Brooks

  www.insidemikeysworld.com

  Book design by Jewel Allen

  Development editing by Sabine Berlin, Eschler Editing

  First publication: February 2017

  Publisher: Treasured Stories

  www.TreasuredStories.net

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this book may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any manner without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations for critical articles and reviews. All rights reserved.

  Prologue

  Madrid, Spain, May 1767

  None of the sultry Spanish summer heat outside permeated the thick stone walls of the military court, where its dank, miserable dampness seeped into the prisoner’s bones.

  Flickering lamps attached to wall braziers illuminated Raúl Calderón’s impassive face. Flanked by two guards, he stood straight in his white uniform. At the age of twenty-four, he had endured grueling danger and devastation in the past seven years. God willing, he would survive this peril, too.

  And if not, his conscience was clear.

  He faced only a judge and a jury of five officers, seated at a long, unadorned and rather battered table more suitable for carousing at a tavern than for the graver purpose. The judge had barred an audience. One of the jurors cursorily looked at the papers in front of him. One read each page meticulously, as though he would find some exception to the judgment they would hand down. But Raúl knew, those testimonies held irrefutable evidence of his crime.

  Treason.

  Punishable through death by garrote, a crude method that could sever the spinal cord and avoid strangulation if done correctly.

  “Captain Raúl Calderón.”

  At the mention of his name, the prisoner’s blue eyes flickered to the judge’s, whose expression was heavy, exhausted. “Do you have anything else to say for yourself?”

  Raúl looked each juror in the eye, then the judge. “No, sir.”

  “I have presided over this court for other cases. You are the first Captain of the Guards to come through.” For a moment, a veil seemed to fall away between judge and prisoner. It was just a man conversing with another, wondering aloud, “How could this have happened?”

  The stone walls seemed to press in on Raúl as he pondered this question. Points in his life flashed through his mind, from his childhood, fighting to get into the army, victory, loss, heartbreak, and then, now, a crossroads which could lead to his life or death.

  How could this have happened?

  Raúl knew exactly how it began, seven years before.

  PART ONE

  FIRST EXILE: 1760-62

  1

  Halfway between Seville and Cheverra, Spain, seven years earlier, April 1760

  Luckily, the pistols weren’t loaded.

  Seventeen year old Raúl Calderón bounced on the wood bench when the carriage hit another rut, accidentally kicking open his father’s gun case under the opposite bench. Across from him with eyes closed and hairpiece precariously askew, Papa snored, rattling the roof. How he managed to sleep through all the commotion, Raúl couldn’t fathom.

  He put the pistols back in the container, latched it shut, and slid it under the bench. He winced as his body ached from having to stay in the same position in the enclosed quarters.

  With each mile, the axles squealed and the wheels shuddered. No matter which way he tried to sit, each bump jarred and jostled his bad leg, the one he injured falling from a tree and which never healed straight. Papa refused to pad the carriage walls and seats. To save money, he said.

  If only he could nap like Papa through this ride. Last night, Raúl couldn’t sleep, anticipating his first trip to Seville with excitement. But the reality proved disappointing. They saw about a dozen of Papa’s clients over the course of the day. Raúl was surprised at how small the houses were in the city, even those belonging to Papa’s high-ranked clients. They ignored Raúl and spoke coarsely to Papa, who tolerated every insult as though he were a servant. On the way to and from the carriage, the father and son walked along narrow alleys, dodging slop people threw out their windows. Ditches smelled foul from garbage and excrement. Hardly the glamorous harbor city Papa had bragged to him about.

  A quick little trip to the shipyard made up for the squalid alleys. Workers were pulling a galleon in for repairs, and its massive sails and hull up close made Raúl gasp as he stood awestruck at the boardwalk. He pictured the exotic harbors of Acapulco and the Philippines receiving Spain’s merchandise and sending back this treasure load of goods which spilled in crates, barrels and tables. After much deliberation -- for there was a lot of merchandise to choose from -- Raúl bought a delicate sandalwood fan for his mother, a spyglass for himself, and, for laughs, two lacquered, half-coconut shells for his younger brother Julio.

  In the carriage, Raúl yawned. What a full day they’d had in Seville. And now he just wanted to sleep. But not while the carriage bounced along.

  He faced forward where he could see both sides of the road ahead, the carriage rushing past the orchards of Verganza. Clusters of orange blossoms smothered trees that stood so close together, they could hide secrets. Even if he shut his eyes, he would know they were there, because of the heavy citrus scent that tickled his nose and made him want to sneeze.

  And then he noticed some
thing odd.

  Dark shapes moved through the orchard. At first, Raúl thought they were birds. Now he could tell they were bay horses with riders, moving swiftly in a straight line on either side of the carriage.

  Bandits!

  Everyone in his village had a bandit story. Before this trip to Seville, a neighbor told Raúl, “May you live to tell yours.” Nonsense, he had said then.

  But now it was happening to him and he whispered a prayer. “May I live...”

  Like hornets, the horsemen swarmed the slowing carriage. The one closest to Raúl looked straight at him and raised his hand.

  Cáspita, Raúl thought, a pistol!

  He dove to the floor and slammed against his father’s boots. “Get down, Papa!”

  “Good heavens,” Papa exclaimed, “what are you doing?”

  Raúl lifted his face to speak, but a shot boomed before he could get the words out. The bench, where he had been sitting just moments before, shattered and showered him with debris. He shielded his head with his arms, the smell of burnt gunpowder replacing the perfume of the orange trees and making his eyes tear up.

  Shock coursed through Raúl’s body, momentarily numbing his thoughts. He looked up. Papa’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down before he squeezed himself on the floor beside Raúl. Raúl’s leg hurt in the cramped space. The carriage shuddered to an ungraceful stop.

  The horses neighed and muffled their driver’s plea. “Please,” Fernando begged, “spare me.”

  2

  On the floor, crammed with Papa between benches, Raúl felt like a chorizo in its casing. Discomfort was the least of his worries. He raised his head, the gun case under the seat catching his eye. Reaching over, he tried to undo the clasp but his trembling fingers kept slipping. Suddenly, Papa’s hand gripped his. Like a broken water spigot, sweat poured from Papa and onto Raúl as he shook his head.

  “Why not?” Raúl mouthed.

  “It’s just the two of us against their group.”

  “But --”

  Another shot boomed from the direction of the carriage door. Wood shattered and showered them with debris. Someone yanked open what was left of the door.

  A man laughed, a deep guffaw that ended in a rattling cough. Raúl glimpsed the man’s vest, the fabric so stained with soot and grease he doubted its color. He was balding, about Papa’s age. At first Raúl thought the bandit’s teeth were made of gold, but then he realized the color was just tobacco stains. The bandit poked Papa with a pistol.

  Papa’s hairpiece fell in a pool of sweat. The air in the carriage soured with the smell of Papa’s urine.

  “Coward,” the bandit said.

  “Take our money.” Papa gasped like a beached fish and gestured towards the bag under Raúl’s bench. “It’s all there. Take it and let us be on our way, for the love of God.”

  “Oh, we’ll take your money all right,” the bandit said, chuckling.

  Another voice from outside chimed in. “Samonte, just kill him.”

  “Did you tie up the driver?” Samonte asked.

  “I did, I did,” came the reply.

  Raúl silently began reciting the Lord’s prayer. He couldn’t remember the words and kept stumbling over the phrases. He pictured his mother in the chapel, rosary beads moving like a well-oiled chain in her hands. He imagined her voice, soothing, but the words didn’t come.

  The first bandit, Samonte, shoved Papa against Raúl and they both fell sideways. Samonte opened Papa’s valise and dumped out its contents over their heads. Out came Papa’s flask of brandy, the size of a fist. A handkerchief. A shirt. A money bag.

  Trying to not attract notice, Raúl moved his hand, feeling for the smooth glass of the liquor container until his fingers closed over it.

  “And who is this beauty?” Samonte asked.

  Papa faced away from Raúl, his balding spot atop his head the only thing visible. Raúl waited for Papa to answer, but he didn’t.

  Samonte asked again, “I said, who is this beauty?”

  “My...my wife,” Papa stammered.

  Shifting his body, Raúl saw that the vermin held up Mama’s portrait. He snatched it from Samonte’s hand. “No one disrespects my mother.”

  The bandit’s eyes filled with surprise, then rage. “Why, you little nobody.” He pointed the pistol at Raúl and cocked the hammer back.

  Raúl’s body trembled, then calmed. He refused to die today.

  He threw the brandy flask at Samonte’s grimy face as hard as he could. The container made a dull noise against the man’s skull. With blood trickling down his forehead, Samonte’s eyes crossed and, stiff as a plank, he fell backwards.

  Papa looked pale and gray, like raw shrimp. “What are you trying to do,” his voice rose, “get us killed?”

  Raúl tucked Mama’s portrait in his vest pocket. “Just doing the right thing.” Then he reached for the gun case.

  This time, Papa didn’t try to stop him.

  Raúl took a deep breath. It had been so long since he’d shot the pistol.

  Get the powder flask, fill the muzzle, add the lead ball and paper, and ram it down.

  He jammed the loaded weapon in Papa’s fingers. “Shoot them before they shoot you.”

  Papa’s hand shook as he accepted it. A thick cloud of dust engulfed them. Outside, the other horsemen churned up the road as they circled the carriage.

  From outside, Raúl could hear Samonte say, “I’m fine. Get that brat in there.”

  Raúl reached for the other pistol.

  “Stop right there.” A new voice spoke with a lisp.

  Raúl glanced over. Many of the speaker’s front teeth were missing, and one eye was half-closed. He looked like a gargoyle. The man held no weapon in his hands, just a coil of rope. “Why should I?”

  Gargoyle appeared stumped. “Because I said so?”

  “Well, I say a pistol trumps a rope any day.” Raúl picked up the pistol, cocked it and pointed it between Gargoyle’s eyes. Immediately, Gargoyle dropped the rope and put his hands up. Samonte reappeared beside him, the bloody dent on his forehead giving Raúl immense satisfaction. Samonte frowned at Gargoyle, then at Raúl. He swore, then raised his hands in surrender.

  Raúl gestured with the pistol. “Tell your men to drop their weapons and to line up against the carriage.”

  Samonte’s eyes narrowed. “Wait. Is that pistol even loaded?”

  Raúl supported the weapon with his other hand. “Why don’t I try it and see?”

  “You’re bluffing.”

  Raúl’s gaze faltered, and for some stupid reason, his hand lost its grip. Dumb nerves. The pistol fell on Papa’s back and slid between them with a clatter to the floor.

  “I knew it.” Samonte grinned. “Hand it to me.”

  Raúl wanted to hurl the gun at the man, but just picked it up and handed it over. With his filthy paw, Samonte took the weapon. Stroking it with his finger, he said, “Beautiful. And empty.” He tucked it between the folds of his dirty waist band. To Gargoyle, he said, “Tie them up.”

  His father’s pistol was loaded. Raúl wished Papa would use it now.

  As though reading his mind, Papa raised his head and pointed the gun at Samonte. “Leave my boy alone.” His breath came in short bursts of wheezing.

  Samonte ribbed Gargoyle. “Another bluffer.” He reached for the pistol. Papa cocked it and the bandit paused, looking unsure.

  “Leave us alone,” Papa repeated. His voice still shook, but it came out clearer. More firm. He half-rose, aiming the pistol at Samonte, though by now, his hand shook wildly. After a moment, Samonte snarled and fought him for it.

  The pistol went off, the lead ball hitting somewhere above, inside the carriage. Acrid smoke filled Raúl’s nostrils and made his eyes water. He gasped for air, then reached for the flask of gunpowder. Samonte was nowhere to be seen. Probably cowering on the ground.

  “Papa,” Raúl said, “hand me the pistol.”

  Papa shoved it towards him. The barrel was still hot to the t
ouch. Raúl filled it with gunpowder, spilling some on the floor as his fingers danced around to keep from getting burnt.

  When the smoke cleared, Samonte reappeared in the carriage doorway. He pointed a musket at Papa’s head, but stared at Raúl. “Move and he’s dead.”

  3

  Gargoyle left Papa in the carriage, after Samonte’s instruction to “separate them.” The cretin dragged Raúl onto the dirt road, kneed him onto his stomach and tied his hands behind his back, his feet at the ankles. Raúl tried to raise his head, but Gargoyle kicked him on the ear. Pain exploded in his head. Gargoyle moved his foot again.

  “No más,” Raúl whispered, putting his hand up. “Por favor.”

  “Not so tough after all, are you?” Gargoyle said.

  Nearby, the other four horsemen stayed in the saddle.

  “Mariano,” Samonte said. Gargoyle’s name, apparently. “Quit fooling around. Go tie up the old man.”

  “What for?” Gargoyle groused. “He’s too scared to do anything.”

  Raúl’s body tightened with anger. Their laughter stopped abruptly, followed by a strange noise, like a stampeding. A thrumming sound vibrated through the ground.

  What was that?

  Samonte exclaimed, “What the -- ”

  Shots boomed from the direction of the orchard trees. Horses whinnied. Hooves danced close to Raúl’s face. With difficulty because of being tied up, he shifted himself towards the carriage, to escape the mayhem, jamming his shoulder against the wheel. He tried to turn his head to see what was happening, but the horses’ legs just formed a wall. Dust churned up. The wheel against which he sat rocked back and forth. He rolled out of its way as the pair of carriage horses neighed and pranced around. The bandits on horseback scattered, leaving behind Gargoyle and Samonte.

  What was going on?

  For a moment, a gap in the chaos of horses cleared. A new rider made his white horse rear up, as though leading an army to battle. A red scarf covered the lower part of the man’s face. With a sword in hand, he bore straight down upon Samonte. Metal rang against metal in their duel, dust swirling as the horse danced at his master’s behest.