Beyond the Spanish Road

By Annie Kaye

Javier is fulfilling his parents' wishes by serving as a soldier in the Spanish army—a duty that will take the young swordsman far from his beloved home and family to a planned invasion of England. In France, his unit awaits the arrival of the Armada, and it is there, near the shore of the English Channel, that Javier meets Gaspard, a local merchant who has the face of an angel.

Long ago, when he realized he would never truly love a woman, Javier resolved to remain celibate. What sparks between him and Gaspard shakes that determination to the core, a love that grows until it will no longer be denied. But their situation is impossible: Gaspard is intent upon having an heir, while in Javier’s future, war looms closer every day.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dreamspinner Press
• Release date: May 9, 2012
• ISBN: 9781613725023

Book preview

Beyond the Spanish Road

IN MY life I had known love of many kinds: the constant love of my parents and family, the love and pride I felt for my country, and love for my church and my God. These forms of love were deep, yes, and invaluable. They engendered loyalty, ethics, patriotism… they shaped me as I grew into a man. It was not until adulthood, however, that I discovered the greatest form of love I would ever know. I found it without seeking it, at a time when I was at a great distance from my family and country, and in a place where, I believed, even my God would not accompany me.

I was born in Spain in 1570. My family owned a large quantity of land, some of which was used to raise sheep and some rented to tenants who used it for their own crops and animals. I was named Javier, namesake to my grandfather, who died shortly before I was born. My childhood was spent in a happy and abundant family. My mother and father truly loved each other, and in my early years I thought all marriages were the same. It wasn’t until adolescence that I started to understand how many marriages were arrangements of social or business advantage rather than true affection.

As a loyal subject of King Filipe II, I became a soldier in his army when I was not yet fully grown. Though many of my friends dreamed of sailing in the invincible Spanish Armada, and others to join the arquebusiers, my talent lay with the sword. My father, a great, muscular man, had been a swordsman before my birth and had taught me to wield the long blade as soon as I was able to hoist it. The day I donned a white tunic with a red cross, signifying that I belonged to His Majesty’s Army, was the proudest day of my parents’ lives.

My parents’ happiness meant a great deal to me, and I took pride in my abilities. Nevertheless, I was deeply saddened by the knowledge that serving the King would take me away from España, away from the home and countryside I’d known all my life. I was to go to France, with no idea when I would return. It might be years before I would again see my parents, my brothers and sisters, my friends. I would miss the rising sun throwing sparkles across the Mediterranean. I would even miss the Merino sheep my family raised, providing some of the finest wool on the continent.

As the date of my departure drew near, my mother became melancholy as well. She was the person I loved best in my large family. She had always understood me and listened patiently to the things I wanted to talk about. She knew I would rather have remained on our farm, feeding and caring for the flocks, counting new spring lambs and shearing the ewes, than join the army and head off to war. Mami often told me I was her sensitive boy, but she never shamed me for being quiet or shy. I think it was because I was so much like her, more so than any of my brothers or sisters were.

We’d heard stories of the long and arduous journey north on the Spanish Road. The difficulties I would face, both on the trip and once we were engaged in war, were a source of great worry to Mami. Several nights before I left home I woke to her sitting on the edge of my bed, her work-worn fingers trembling as they smoothed over my hair. She was crying quietly, whispering prayers over me, asking the Holy Virgin to bring me home safely. I pretended to sleep on, letting her murmured supplications wash over me. They comforted me; the hard knot that had been growing in my stomach relaxed a bit, at least for a short time. I had never known anyone to refuse my mother anything—somehow I couldn’t believe even God would dare tell her no.

I believed, too, that we were fighting a holy battle, a war in His name. My tercio, under the command of the Duke of Parma, would travel north to Brussels. We would continue to Dunkirk, France, meeting the Spanish Armada there. Led by the Duke of Medina Sidonia, the Armada would carry us across the English Channel—la Manche, the French called it. We would invade Queen Elizabeth, who had been excommunicated from the true church, who persecuted those who wished to attend Catholic mass, and in a final disgraceful act, had executed faithful