16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

“Spain is a bottle of beer, and I am the cork; when that comes out, all the liquid inside will escape, God knows in what direction.” King Ferdinand VIIIsabel crossed the formal garden and exited to a dry, rocky outcrop behind the castle. How quickly Henrique had dismissed her. Why had she fooled herself into expecting more from him? He had stayed for the entertainment. Woe to those who wanted more from him than fleeting pleasures.

Alfonso exhaled heavily. "I’m ashamed now… I’ve never been beaten so soundly at tennis. But this Henrique, he is quite good. Have you known him for long?"

"I met him on the day of the journey to Comillas. He is one of Luis’s trusted friends." Debauchery cronies more likely.

"He seems like an odd option to accompany an Infanta of Portugal."

Isabel frowned. She could speak badly of Henrique but wouldn’t allow anyone to do the same. "Viscount Penafiel was my brother’s choice, and I bow to my king’s wishes."

"Your brother should have sent a royal. We have a duty given to us by God to rule, and it leaves the relationship biased. It is not fair to any of the parts. We must keep our distance from the rest of the subjects."

No! She would tear apart any barrier between Henrique and herself. Isabel sucked in a breath, her hand instinctively moving to cover her mouth. Where had such riotous thoughts sprung from? If she had any sense, she should be the one erecting those walls. "You are right, of course," she forced herself to say, her voice a dejected whisper.

They walked in silence. Isabel could not muster the will to ask him about his plans. A flock of shallows flew from cork tree to cork tree. The fluffy beings had the freedom of wings but couldn’t escape each other.

Sophie and two of the duke’s footmen trailed behind them. Her own guards had returned to Lisbon yesterday. Canastra bade them leave in a closed coach as the leader fell ill with the Typhus. She hoped they would recover. Sophie didn’t trust their new bodyguard, that’s for sure. ... Still, Isabel had no reason to worry about her safety. Canastra guarded his property well.

"Are you all right?" Alfonso asked.

"I’m just eager to see your surprise." The lie came out lamely, and she stifled a groan. "I’m glad you saved me from Rafaela’s bullfight. I take it the sport isn’t to your liking?"

He grimaced, and a sallow smile curved down his lips. "Canastra fears the Guardia Civil will be there. They are loyal to Aosta."

Isabel had read about the fearsome military police. They were both revered for keeping order and reviled for being too vicious in keeping such order. How dreadful to fear walking freely in one’s own country. She touched his arm. "I’m sorry."

He dismissed the sadness like a puppy shakes water drops. "To be Spanish and not love Touradas? What kind of sinvergüenza do you take me for?"

"Now you will tell me bullfighting is a matter of pundonor as well?"

"Not quite. A torero without pundonor is not a torero, of course… But Toradas are Spain, and Spain is Toradas."

"I won’t believe such a lovely country to be the same as the violent sport."

He placed a hand over his chest. "One day, Isabel de Orleans… I will make you like bullfighting."

Isabel caught a daisy in her hand. "I doubt it."

“You are looking at this from the wrong angle. Spain’s story is linked to bullfighting in ways as ancient as the land." He peered at her briefly, and then his eyes lit up. "Have you been to the Jupiter temple close to the beach?"

"What does a ruin have to do with bullfighting?"

“Everything. During the Roman Empire, Spain garrisoned most of the legionaries. While common folk adored Jupiter or Minerva, soldiers worshiped Mithras. They believed this dark God to be responsible for creation. He killed a divine bull, and its blood originated all life.”

“Gruesome,” Isabel said, wondering where he was headed with his tale.

“The legionaries built temples to worship Mithras. Before a battle, soldiers huddled in its underground caves. A priest would slaughter a bull atop the grate, and the animal’s hot blood would bathe them, making them invincible.”

He paused, his voice solemn. “The torero fights the bull for this same mythical strength, giving immortality to those who fight the bull and those who watch.”

Isabel smiled for his sake. "The history lesson was great, but I will keep to my lavender soap."

"Thank Mithras for that." Laughing, he kicked a pebble. "Isabel de Orleans, what would you do if you had absolute power?"

Isabel frowned, taken aback by the odd subject. "I believe in a constitutional monarchy."

"That’s why it’s a hypothetical question. If I were king and didn’t have to bow to parliament, I would forbid exile. Spain for the Spaniards." His voice faltered a little.

It broke her heart how much he missed his home. But what could she do other than offer him empty platitudes?

"I would banish male debauchery. Enhance women’s power," Isabel blurted.

"More power?" He halted and looked deep into her eyes. "Impossible."

Glancing away, Isabel kept walking. She had breached all her rules about interacting with males during this trip. Still, she didn’t feel threatened, the way she advised her ladies would be when in the company of a man. Henrique aroused in her a palette of unwanted emotions, but fear wasn’t one of them. And Alfonso… his were the manners of a true prince.

"It is here."

The olive grove parted to show a grassy ridge. She had not realized they had climbed so high. A plain stretched for miles and miles, the muted colors of earth, rocks, and sun-burned hay contrasting with the powerfully blue sky.

“That is the Ebro River. Since my family had to escape from everything we held dear, I didn’t cross the river back to Madrid, to my home.”

Caressing the horizon, the Ebro sashayed among rocky outcrops. The water was so incongruent with the dry land it was almost a mirage.

Isabel looked into eyes so black they resembled a fathomless pond. A shiver ran up her arms. "Why, Alfonso, are you in Spain?"

His face hardened, and he took a step away from her. "I graduated from military school, and I’m not allowed to wear the red and yellow uniform. I’ve studied history, geography, and politics, but I’m not allowed my opinion. My mind brims with ideas to take Spain to the future, but my future was robbed of me. I want to wear my country’s uniform and board a Spanish frigate while my subjects scream Viva España." He closed his eyes, and the wind whispered through his hair. "I want to cross the Ebro to Madrid and sit on my throne."

Isabel gasped. "Surely you know this is impossible."

"I’m the only descendant of Saint Louis. The legitimate heir."

He talked treason. She turned to leave.

He held her arm. "Are you still my friend, Isabel?"

She shrugged away his touch. "I don’t have dangerous friends."

"How would you feel if a power-starved general banished your family from Portugal and installed foreigners in your place? An Italian playboy who doesn’t even know your motherland’s idiom?"

"I would not interfere if it was in my country’s best interests."

He grasped both of her hands. "I know you love Portugal, and I admire patriotism. I wouldn’t be here if my presence weren’t needed. Aosta is killing my country. The economy flounders. The peasants starve. Spain is in the Middle Ages, while Britain, France, and Prussia have factories and progress. I want to change the order of things."

A tightness spread from her chest to her limbs. For the first time, she felt unsure of how to act. Her king had given her clear instructions. Luis was back in Portugal, secure she was doing her duty. But Alfonso? Her instincts screamed he was ready to be king.

Alfonso smiled, his black eyes alight with shy mischief. "Come now. I’m not asking you to take arms with me and invade Madrid."

"What are you asking me? Portugal’s support is not mine to give."

He shrugged. "If I can’t have the support of the entire nation, can I at least have it from the one Portuguese who counts for me?"

Isabel stared at his outstretched arm. Could she deny Alfonso had the strongest claim to the throne? She placed her hand atop his. "You have it."