Page 101 of The Truth About Myths
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 hispundonorwhen 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?
