39. Chapter 39

Chapter 39

"You will never do anything in this world without courage. It is the greatest quality of the mind next to honor."AristotleThe carriage thundered along the rutted roads. Dust rose like smoke, stretching dirty fingers into the sky. Isabel kept her eyes open, focused on the landscape—anything to avoid her inner turmoil. Barren and treeless, there was hardly much to keep her attention besides dry streams crawling like snakes across the plain. The vastness imprisoned her, and she longed for the freedom of the tower.

They halted at a ramshackle port village. The streets were empty. No people, no animals, nothing. When Antonia’s son helped her from the carriage, the heat hit her in the chest. "Where is everyone, Tito?"

"The siesta, Your Highness."

Sleeping. Everything was sleeping. Isabel wished she was too.

The small party crossed the lane toward the harbor. Though the huts had their windows closed, Isabel felt watched. As if Spain itself, with its weather-beaten face, hawkish nose, and glittering black eyes, peered at the insolent girl in their mist.

Adjusting the hood over her head, Isabel hastened her steps. The brick plaza, this one a very silent, drab one, opened up to a rocky beach. Spindly piers and narrow wooden docks reached the ocean but fell short of the harbor. It was easy to spot the royal frigate. It looked like a mother hen among the smaller chick-sized fisher boats.

The Portuguese flag, the one she had so naively sewed, flew alongside the Spanish one. Her heels sunk into the sand, and she missed a step. While Antonia’s son went for information, Isabel waited with Sophie and Henrique’s guards. Even though it filled her with dread and shame, she forced herself to look at the flag. It trembled in the gentle breeze, and she vowed to set things right.

When Tito returned, her skin felt taut, her insides brittle.

"I’ve secured a rowboat." He took her arm, guiding her to the breaking waves, and lowered his voice. "The Duke of Canastra is not with him."

Isabel sighed. Thank heavens. Without the duke’s influence, she might convince Alfonso. Casting a baleful look at the soldiers patrolling the shore, she climbed atop the rickety boat. The hawks jostled them as they were rowed offshore.

The frigate loomed in their front, much larger than she expected. Barnacles stuck to the waterline, and ropes thudded against the masts. The flags were no longer visible from her viewpoint, but she knew they were there.

A rough-looking marine officer grinned lecherously at their small party.

Risking overturning the skiff, Isabel rose and lowered her hood, revealing her tiara. "I’m Isabel de Orleans, Infanta de Portugal. Take me to your king."

The smirk faded from the officer’s expression, and he bowed deeply. "This way, Senhora Isabel."

Alfonso lounged on the frigate’s deck. His lanky form was neatly encased in his country’s military coat. His longish hair wiped the sides of his face as he stared at the ocean. She could bet his soul had already arrived in Madrid.

Isabel set her jaw and lifted herself to her full height. "You donned the uniform at last. It suits you."

"Isabel, thank god." His eyes widened and he shot to his feet. "Where were you? I have soldiers scouring the countryside."

Isabel pointed to the mast behind him. "The Portuguese flag doesn’t belong on a Spanish Frigate." To give weight to her words, the cloth twisted and snapped with a gust of wind.

A flush colored his face and, turning away from her, he leaned over the railings. "Have you ever seen Spain’s nautical bulls?"

Isabel swallowed an angry retort and followed the direction of his gaze. On the shore, scores of black oxen were harnessed to huge barges. The beasts, their coats gleaming with the harsh sun, were taunted and cursed by men wearing loincloths. Heads lowered, they advanced into the sea. A merchantman awaited to load their cargo.

The smell of oranges and brine cooled her cheeks, no doubt coming from the metal barrels they pulled. Braying, the poor creatures struggled with the weight but kept on, their bodies vanishing inside the surf.

Her hand came to her throat. "Certainly, they will drown."

"They’ve been at this for millennia. In Roman times, businessmen reared this breed of oxen to thrive in salt water. A crafty way to solve the problem of a lack of port. Centuries passed, and nothing changed. No ruler ever built one. The Spaniards pay for their politician’s lack of vision with the sweat on their backs and the blood in their veins. That’s why Spain needs me."

Isabel forced her gaze from the gruesome spectacle. She had believed in him the first time he had sweetened her with such talk. Now, he sounded hollow, false.

"I don’t think it is fair when the ruling class hides their mistakes behind their subjects."

He smiled sadly, his eyes not quite meeting hers. "Canastra sometimes assumes control of things. I required the military to regain power. The country needs me."

The monotone of the words sounded almost like an apology. She didn’t need an apology. Her desperate situation called for a true monarch.

Isabel took a deep breath. "Spain deserves a strong king, one who—"

"And it will have." He whirled and caught her hands in his. "Portugal as well. Your brother chafes under the responsibility. You said it yourself. With the peninsula united, we will regain the power of the Great Navigations. We will—"

"You don’t believe that." Isabel didn’t flinch from his touch and gazed into his eyes, hoping she could make him see the truth. "Portugal and Spain are as different as port wine and sangria. The people will fight against it. Both sides will suffer. There will be war."

"Canastra has no intention of a hostile invasion. He promised me—"

"Canastra has no scruples. He manipulated my brother into sending me to Spain." Why could he be so blind? Isabel pulled away from him. "He maneuvered you into offering for my hand to set up this scheme—"

"You shall not judge my supporters." His expression turned cold, distant.

"With Canastra as a supporter, you won’t need anyone to bring you down."

"Enough. Canastra was the only aristocrat who didn’t abandon me. You never had to fight for your rights."

"The army is already on your side. The Duke of Aosta is no doubt back in Italy licking his wounds. You don’t have to do this."

"I’m sorry, Isabel, but I had to compromise." His expression closed, and he turned from her.

Her breath caught at the finality of his words. But what else could she do? She had argued with him as a princess, as a patriot, as a Christian, as a woman. Alfonso answered everything like a sulky boy.

She couldn’t admit defeat. Heart speeding, she grabbed his hand. "Princes compromise. A king does what is right. A Spaniard shouldn’t shed his pundonor when he sits on the throne."

A tick appeared on his jaw, and he fisted his hands.

Birds flew overhead, swooping across the water, their screeches too loud. The hull swung, and a wave of nausea rolled through her. She forced herself to stay still, staring at his handsome profile. Perspiration dampened her skin as she counted the rise and fall of his breaths. What had she done? The insult to his honor had been too harsh.

Alfonso whirled from her and bellowed words in Spanish. Too fast for her to understand.

A bulky man raced to them and saluted. She judged him to be the captain by the tricorn and braided epaulets.

Isabel gripped her skirts, her heart thudding painfully against her corset. Had he not told her a Spaniard couldn’t allow an insult to go unanswered? Alfonso would toss her into the sea or lock her in the hold. As a war prisoner, she would never see Henrique again. Would he still hate her then?

Alfonso pointed to the mast. "Lower the Portuguese flag." Then he gazed at her, and his voice softened. "I will give it back to its owner."

Her legs faltered with the force of her relief, and she leaned against the railing for support.

She curtsied low, touching her knee to the deck in absolute deference. “Thank you, your majesty.”

He lifted her and kissed her cheek, his longish hair brushing softly against her.

"Cross the Ebro with me. Be my queen."

Isabel startled. She could almost hear the voice of her mother inside her head. You were born to be a queen. Alfonso would have an enormous task, from forming a constitutional government to setting up a court. He would have to be wise beyond his years and fend off untoward advances. He was a boy still. All his teachings came from books and instructors with subversive intentions. What did he know of politics? Of intrigue? There could be others like Canastra.

With her training, Isabel could pave the way for his success. Even so, the words would not form. She could not marry him. Her heart belonged to another.

She pressed his hand affectionately. "Be wise. Trust your own judgment. Your kingdom will return stability to Spain, and I’ll cheer you from my country."

Back on the beach, Isabel clutched the Portuguese flag to her chest, watching Alfonso’s frigate leave for Madrid until it was a speck on the horizon.

"Where to, Your Highness?" Tito asked.

"To Braganza." Isabel shielded her eyes, straining her vision towards the south. The tower wasn’t there. Just an expanse of wasteland mixed up with the colors of sunset.

Their small party had crossed the border back to Portugal when an army brigade forced them to stop. Her heart fluttered in her chest.

Someone opened the coach’s door. The Count of Almoster shadowed the road, the sun glinting off his golden hair. He bowed slightly, his eyes accessing the interior. When he saw only Sophie, his hand left the hilt of his saber.

Isabel was acquainted with Anne’s husband and inclined her head.

"War is imminent, Your Highness. The border is no longer safe—"

"I beg to differ, Count. I just spoke with the king of Spain." She smoothed the Portuguese flag over her lap. "I can assure you, he bears no ill will towards us."

He frowned and, with a nod, sent an officer scurrying away, no doubt to check the truth of her words.

"Is that all? Your officers are crowding the road, and I tire of the sun."

"Your Highness, if you are done with your ride, I would like to escort you to Lisbon."

"I’m headed to Braganza."

"I’ve just come from there." His expression softened, and Isabel wondered how much of her relationship with Henrique he knew.

A flush rose in her cheeks. "Is everything alright… with the tower?"

"Viscount Penafiel left this morning," he said and closed the door.

Isabel reclined on the leather bench, staring straight ahead. She listened as the Count of Almoster gave orders to begin the journey back to the capital as if the words came from another realm.

Sophie tapped her hand and sighed. "You will feel better when we reach home, Citizen Isabel. Being welcomed by your people has never failed to cheer you up."