Epilogue

Epilogue

Lisbon, Fall of 1873, Ajuda Palace, Prince John’s Baptism

"The challenge which Hercules faced is still with each of us today – to wrestle with our limitations and the monsters within us, to overcome our flaws and failings and then, like Hercules, to go on and become something extraordinary." Philip MatyszakHenrique led the all-male procession, exiting the palace’s vestibule and emerging on a sunlit courtyard. The deafening cheer pierced his ears. Lisbon had come out en masse to fete their prince. They started gathering after the first cannon blast yesterday. And by the time the hail had reached ten, the salute reserved for a male firstborn, the streets became a revelry. The housemaids, the tanners, the shopkeepers, the port traders, the bakers, the sweeps. They all came, one after the other, some shyly, some loudly, some drunk, some sober, some gracious, some pushing, some bragging, some laughing.

Isabel had attended Queen Maria Pia’s labor all night. By the message she sent him, the queen would have loved to witness the crown’s renewed popularity. However, while she had recovered, she could not attend church as she was still impure, whatever that meant. Henrique couldn’t understand the intricate costumes involved in a child’s baptism. All to give the baby a name, and since it was born in a royal crib, it would be a mile long, and after the priest uttered it once, it would be forgotten.

Henrique shaded his eyes, trying to spot Isabel among the women’s procession. They left the queen’s apartments from the opposite side of the castle, and they would meet at the entrance to the chapel. He had spent thirteen days and seven hours away from his wife, and he shook from head to toe like a mooning adolescent. If only the train from Paris had not run late. He would have arrived the day before yesterday and made love to Isabel before this carnival. Instead, he had to stay with the king and his gentlemen, pouring liquor down their throats while the queen poured out the country’s next king. A fair division of labor, he might add. As a result, he was randy, he was moody, and he was without a care for the senseless procedures about to take place.

Dio covered his eyes. “I shouldn’t have sipped that last glass of port. It burned right through my stomach’s coat.”

The fault always rested in the last, not in the dozen first. “Then you better ready your stomach’s waistcoat. It will be a long day.”

Dom Luis’s son squalled as he was carried to the chapel by his fussing father. The king had out-drunk and out-bragged all his gentlemen. Griffin had succumbed first, as he stubbornly refused to eat. Still, Dio, Pedro, and Henrique had fought tenaciously. To no avail. The gloating king had spent the entire night extolling the prowess of his manhood and the values of his firstborn. With a blazing smile on his ruddy face, not once did he speak of the curse. His relationship with the queen improved dramatically.

“Don’t you love a christening? The ritual originated in the Middle Ages, from the myth of—”

“Save your breath, Dio.”

Dio grinned. “What? I thought the godfather routine would inspire you to start a family.”

“I already have a family.” He and Isabel formed a perfect couple, mathematically, physiologically, and spiritually. Why would he want to spoil that?

Speaking of his family, where was she? Gravel crunched under feet as they kept their sedate pace. Would it be a breach of protocol if he burst out in a sprint?

When they turned at the fountain, the male procession came face to face with the ladies. She was there. Resplendent in an emerald dress, her hair swept up, a delicate diadem circling her head. Their eyes met. His heart drummed a fanfare. Her lips parted, and then the sweetest, loveliest smile lit up her face. Henrique released a pent-up breath. Had he breathed at all since he left her at the train station? Apparently not. A nagging voice inside his head worried she might realize her mistake when she chose him to marry. Now, it went blessedly quiet. She had missed him as well.

When they entered the palace’s chapel, he could finally walk down the aisle by his wife’s side. Henrique pulled her into an alcove and tasted her lips. His heart leaped when he felt her little mews and how her body melted against him.

“You smell like a barrel of port wine.”

Henrique grinned. “I taste like one, too.” Somehow, the retort sounded better in his head than said out loud.

She chuckled and adjusted his cravat with deft tugs of her competent hands. He wanted to do sinful things with those hands.

“Do you know what to do?”

He frowned, biting the inside of his cheek to smile. “Must godfathers do anything?”

She shot him a disgruntled stare.

“I have it right here.” He removed a list from his pocket. “Place salt on the infant’s lips, exorcize the devil, answer ‘yes, the prince believes in God’, dump said poor child in the water, dry him, return him to his father, make love to wife.”

She smoothed down his lapels. “You are incorrigible.”

“But you love me.”

“Immensely. Now try to behave.”

He entered the aisle, cradling his wife’s arm in his, chest stuffed, his feet light. He wanted to shout to the court lining up the pews that, yes, this stunning, once-in-a-lifetime princess was his wife. When they arrived at the altar, he couldn’t keep his eyes from her, his gaze traveling the freckles on her shoulder.

Santiago, his face overly red, cleared his throat. Even after ten years, Henrique still choked every time he saw his friend in the cassock. Santi fidgeted with the bell and rearranged the chalice several times. Henrique could not blame his nervousness. Performing a prince’s baptism in front of his king, foreign dignitaries, and the whole Court of Portugal was no easy feat.

The king lifted the prince for all to see, and then, with liquid eyes, he passed the country’s hope to Henrique’s arms. By God, it was the size of a shoe. He had no recollection of babies being so small.

He gazed into the child’s face. The prince’s eyes had the color of opal stones. For a tense second, everything stilled, the choir, the oohs and ahhs of the old ladies, the crying of older children. Henrique could not breathe. He felt the child would speak to him, and worse, he wanted to hear his thoughts.

“Hello, little guy.”

The prince grabbed his finger, and Henrique’s chest squeezed. “If you ever want to learn about cars, and engines and bacteria, your uncle knows all about it. You will be good, won’t you? Yes, you will, and if ever you need advice, I’ll give you the gold location. Your aunt. She is the wisest woman I know.”

Henrique’s eyes met Isabel, and a tiny tear had made its way to the corner of her lips. When she smiled, the drop caught the light of a thousand candles.

“I love you,” she mouthed.

When the wet nurse came closer, arms outstretched, he reluctantly relinquished the tiny package.

Isabel pulled her arm through his, and it was over. People started retreating from the chapel.

“Do you want to stay for the banquet?”

“Absolutely not.” He placed her gloved hand above his forearm and directed her toward the palace. He knew of a shortcut to the secret garden.

“What do you wish to do?”

“Let’s make a baby.”

The End