Page 102 of The Truth About Myths
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."
Chapter 40
"Oblivion—what a blessing for the mind to dwell a world away from pain."Sophocles,Oedipus Rex
IsabeldisembarkedtheRainha Frigateand crossed the drawbridge to land on Lisbon's soil. It was hot and airless and muggy. The physical and mental oppression of the afternoon set up weights on her legs, and she had trouble placing one foot in front of the other. Since Pedro Daun had informed her of Henrique's desertion, nothing much mattered. What should have been a victory homecoming became a retreat to care for wounds. Two months since she saw the Tagus, Saint George's castle, the arches of thePraça do Comercio. Everything was the same, and yet it was not. Perhaps she had changed. She had flown, but instead of shedding the carapace, she had shed herself, and only the husk remained.
Sophie clicked her tongue. "This is not right. Citizen Pedro Daun sent word of your arrival. How come no one is here?"
Beyond the marina, only the palace coach awaited—no throngs of subjects waving scarves and going on tiptoes to glimpse their princess. No gas lamps lit the gloomy streets up the hill. No fresh flowers and boughs of rosemary festooned the windowsills.
