38. Chapter 38

Chapter 38

"Ah, wretched me! That love is not to be cured by any herbs; and that those arts which afford relief to all, are of no avail for their master." Ovid, MetamorphosesHenrique crumpled the note. Alone, locked in his own castle. His first reaction had been a jealous rage, wanting to rip the rocks, carve a way out of the prison she’d made for him. As the waves pounded at the shore, he realized jealousy wasn’t the right emotion. At least, not jealousy for Alfonso. Since That first night in the garden, Henrique knew—Isabel was a martyr waiting to happen. It was there all along. Underneath the rusty breastplate lived a Joan of Arc, biding her time to save all. What a fitting choice for the prudish princess. Posterity veneered the woman warrior, the selfless saint, who sacrificed herself for the country. No one cared for the loved ones she left behind. A monster of a headache moved into his brain. If he had a drill, he would poke a hole in his skull and end the agony.

When the heavy oak portal screeched open, Henrique didn’t lift his head. His father’s housekeeper shuffled inside, her face haggard and yet sheepish.

He kept twirling the medal in his fingers. He didn’t ask if she had helped Isabel. Of course, the old militant did.

"How long?"

"A few minutes past dawn."

By the sun’s position, it was close to eleven in the morning.

"Who went with her?"

"Her maid, my son, and two of the retainers."

Henrique nodded. He knew Antonia’s son. A clever, resourceful lad. Spoke Spanish and Portuguese. The castle retainers were all retired soldiers who had fought with him in Mozambique. She would be safe in her mad, ill-advised adventure. Thank God for that.

"My carriage?"

She gulped. "Yes, Your Excellency."

Henrique scoffed. "You never called me such before. Don’t start now."

"The poor child. When she left… she was heartbroken. She only did so because she believed you wouldn’t support her decision. So she sacrificed—"

"Stop,” he barked. His jaw was locked so tight he might break his condylar bone. “I won’t allow you to say she sacrificed her love for the good of the country."

"But she did, and you would go after her if you were not a stubborn, selfish boy."

No more your excellencies then? Henrique pinched the bridge of his nose. "Do you remember when Father sent me to Mozambique?"

She made a comical expression, half glare, half grimace. "Your father was a nobleman. It was different—"

"Different? He, too, sacrificed me for the country. I lost my entry at Sorbonne, my mother’s last moments…." Henrique pushed away from the mantel, his voice harsh, metallic. "Now Isabel did the same. Should I feel thankful? Noble? Should I coin medals and compose a song? When will the reward kick in? When? At least to take the edge off the pain? The bitterness?"

She didn’t answer.

"No? Forgive me, but I want no part of her sacrifice," Henrique said, breathing hard.

Horses sounded beyond the gate. His heart picked up speed. Did she return? Panting, he went to the window. Pedro Daun’s black horse crossed the bridge into the courtyard.

Henrique’s shoulders sagged, and he shut his eyes. "We have visitors. Go see to their refreshments."

Henrique flung Isabel’s excuses at the unlit hearth. Trying to keep his gaze from lingering on the bed and the broken promises, he descended the steps to his room. The chamber smelled of dust and fresh paint. He grabbed an old valise. It took only five minutes to pack the possessions he had brought from Spain.

Pedro strode inside. "How long ago?"

Of course, he already knew. Henrique faced him, his face blank. He would be damned if he showed Pedro any hint of his pain.

"Dawn. Not later."

Pedro nodded. "If we leave now, we can reach her before she crosses the border."

Henrique stilled, his breathing strained. He could chase her, bring her back, and keep her captive. Rafaela’s prophetic words played again in his mind. Isabel is just like Canastra. She loves her country above all else.

Did he want to tie his fate to a woman who would always choose duty over him?

"She is headed for Salamanca. She took guards. You won’t have trouble locating her." Henrique closed the suitcase.

Pedro held his arm. "I thought you had found your mate."

Henrique shrugged away the touch. "Your Anne was willing to cut her throat to save you. Isabel is more than willing to do the same. For Portugal."

"But—"

"I’m done." Done with the hero’s journey, with his foolish, desperate need for love, for her. Done. "You go after her. I’m returning to Lisbon."