Page 100 of The Truth About Myths
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."
Chapter 39
"You will never do anything in this world without courage. It is the greatest quality of the mind next to honor."Aristotle
Thecarriagethunderedalongthe 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?"
"Thesiesta, 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."
