They came to a halt, and the girl pointed at one of the houses before them with red cloths over its window. “Tio Davide lives in that one. But we are not allowed too close because you know…” The girl threw Vasco a grimace of pure, sassy revenge. “We don’t have the plague and don’t want to catch it.”
Brites laughed, loud and heartily. From one of her apron pockets, she produced a bundle, and from within that, several small slices of cheese. “For that alone, you’ll get extra.”
“What, now you’re carrying food, too?” Yzabel gasped, her voice sounding small amid the shrieking children, who pounced on Brites’s offering. Though Yzabel had known about Vasco’s constant stash, Brites’s was news, and the kind that felt like a personal betrayal.
Looking at those tiny nibbles was enough for the magic to awaken, to burn under her skin and demand she touch it. She closed her fist tighter, nails digging deep in her palm, drowning her curse with pain.
Pouch in hand, the children scampered off, and as soon as they were out of earshot, Brites turned to Yzabel. “I promised your mother I’d help you with your magic, remember? Since I’ve failed, she made me promise something else.” Her hands fell on Yzabel’s shoulders. “I’m to keep you alive. For as long as I’m able.”
“You place too much worth on me. The world won’t end if I die. Or if I don’t marry Denis.”
“True. We could find another princess,” Vasco said. “And we’d be all the poorer for it.”
“Why? You know about”—she lowered her voice—“the curse. To be honest, Vasco, I don’t even understand why you still wanted me to be your princess after you found out. Why you stuck around tutoring me for five years while I wither and waste—”
“Because no one else would do this,” Vasco cut her off, tone strong and steady. “As many headaches as you give me, Yzabel, no other possible contender would tread in the mud, walk in a neighborhood infected with the red fever, to hear out a man who’s known to be a drunkard just because he told your lady’s maid the harvests they worked all spring and summer on have suddenly vanished.” He paused to raise her jaw with his forefinger and make her look into his brown eyes. “No one else cares. Not as much as you do. Denis needs someone like you. We need someone like you.”
Why did he act like her common decency was an otherworldly trait, and not the bare minimum?
Vasco hugged her, and his strong palm held the back of her head for a long minute before kissing the top of it and backing away. “Now, let’s do what we came here to do.”
Yzabel nodded while Brites drifted closer to the window to call Senhor Davide. Moments later, the door creaked open and a man emerged. Brown skin marred with scars and dotted with old age stretched thin over his bony frame; wrinkles deep, eyes sagging, slumped shoulders drowning in the sheep’s wool capote. He shambled forward, the tanned hide of his shoes so worn there was no inch that hadn’t been mended. Pants, vest, and shirt of threadbare cotton, the black faded to brown from too much use.
“Your Highness,” the man said, voice wispy in an almost-toothless mouth, rough like the song of broken sugarcanes whistling in the wind. He knelt a few paces from Yzabel, the oil in his hair gleaming in the sunlight. “You came. Brites said you would, but I…”
“Of course I came, Senhor Davide. And please, rise.” She made a motion to help him, but Vasco kept her back, his furrowed brow reminding her not to chance a touch. The red plague was so contagious the clothes themselves could carry the virus.
The old man’s knees trembled as he obeyed, and it was only when he had to brace himself on his thigh that she noticed his left arm ended in a stump just above the wrist. “Sorry I can’t invite you into my home.” He gestured to the red fabric hanging over the door to his eerily quiet home behind him. “The youngest are all down with the plague. Sores just started opening on some of them. Already giving them Saint John’s Wort, but you know how this is.”
His sigh said everything he didn’t—that no matter what they did, some of the children would die. Without enough food to go around, they’d die faster.
“We’ve brought some lavender oil and other salves to help. Brites…”
Her maid set the box down on the ground. “They’re separated by pouches. Can you hand them around the neighborhood, Davide? We brought enough for everyone.”
“I will—but lavender oil, Your Highness? Are you certain?”
She gave him a soft smile. “Why else would I bring it?”
Davide bowed his head. “Thank you. Truly. We used up all of ours in the previous bout of the plague, and nothing else works quite like it.”
“I only wish I could do more,” she lamented. Her dizzy head cast a spell on her, and she would’ve swayed again had she not been holding on to Vasco. Once it settled, she pushed past the slowness encumbering every muscle and bone in her body. “Do you want to tell me about what you brought to Brites’s attention? Your prelates didn’t take kindly to your appearance in the Carmo Church. What makes you believe they’ve been lying about the harvests?”
Thick eyebrows rose. “Because we worked all spring and summer from sunrise to sunset. Carts and carts of wheat, of carrots, peas, kale, turnips, grapes. Yet when the time came to pay us, it was as if we’d brought in close to nothing. We kept cleaning the fields, getting ready for the pomegranates and the quince, and when we asked for our rightful payment, the steward said the mice had gotten in the stores, and he had nothing to give us save for a handful of dinheiros. We had little choice but to hunt for wild animals, and the baron and bishop forbade that, too.” He raised his left arm to brandish the stub like a weapon. “This was my reward when Captain Mendes caught one of our polecats returning with a rabbit. Took my hand, and the animals, too.”
Yzabel’s hand rose to cover her gaping mouth. When Denis had told her to meet him in Terra da Moura instead of Trancoso—where their wedding was to happen—he’d mentioned suspicions of misappropriation from the gentry, and that she should head there instead. That way they could get to know each other before marrying while he investigated the issues himself.
Much as she was loath to admit it, the only reason she could come talk to Senhor Davide was because Denis allowed it. And because she was to report to him after. Would marriage be more of this, for the rest of her life? Her actions hinging upon the decisions of a man?
Useless thoughts, to be spent another time. For now, she had to know more. “What made you talk to Brites, and in turn, me?”
“Because when word came that you’d be visiting, Captain Mendes made the rounds to intimidate us into staying silent. Suddenly, they had dinheiros and food to give us—dinheiros many of them took.” Davide threw a spiteful look at the closest church, a more modest building than the Carmo where the nobility attended. “Just like the bishop suddenly had room in the hospital to harbor all the homeless so they wouldn’t offend you with their presence.”
The breath left her lungs in a rush and the blood drained from her face.
The Bishop had what?
“Another person, and I’d have believed you were like them,” Davide said to Yzabel. “But Brites was with you, and she doesn’t stick around people who aren’t worth it, royal as they may be.”
Brites shrugged, her lips tight to hide the blooming smile. “I’ll take the compliment. And I trust the princess will take your story very seriously. Look at her. Like she saw an alma penada.”
Some levity returned to Davide’s face. “It’s good to see you, even if I can’t hug you.”
“I wasn’t expecting you to still be around, to be honest. Pleasant surprise.” Brites winked. “What about Gill and Lionor? Your other kids?”
“Grown and married, the two of them. They live right over there. All of my oldest do.” He pointed to another house in their cluster, mercifully free of red drapes. “And you wouldn’t believe where some of their young ones are off to. Do you remember the Enchanted Mour
a?”
“With the time we spent trying to find her? Couldn’t forget even if I wanted to.” She nudged Yzabel with her elbow. “I’ve told you her story, remember?”
A series of blinks jostled her memory of an afternoon half a year ago, when they’d been preparing to leave Aragon to come here. As they’d been sorting through Yzabel’s delivery of ointments and salves, Brites had told her of an old friend she’d met in Sintra, how they’d traveled together to Estremoz and crossed Terra da Moura on the way; how, on their night at the hostel, one of the sisters had told them the legacy behind the village’s name.
Yzabel frowned. “I do. But didn’t you say she wasn’t around anymore?”
“I thought she wasn’t. When I left, everyone had all but given up on it.”
“And we had—until one of the boys swore he heard a voice around the dolmen ways off the river. Then other kids did, too.”
“Your children want attention. Enchanted Mouras don’t exist,” Vasco grumbled his way back into the conversation. “If it’s fanciful tales you want to waste your time on, then we should cut this short and get back. The king is waiting.”
“Don’t be rude,” Yzabel hissed. “These children have half their families dying of the red plague, and all of them are starving. Let them have their fantasies while they can.” Let them have the fantasies she wished for, but her curse had cut short.
Brites shook her head and sighed. “I swear, Vasco, all that height and not an inch of tact in you.” A click of her tongue. “You’re right about something, though. We should be getting back.”
The sun halfway peeked across the horizon, and the church’s bells chimed the fifth hour of the evening. After both assuring Senhor Davide she’d tell the king of what he said, and that they’d come back soon to check on the state of the plague, Yzabel thanked the old man and left.
The Moura story spun in her head, round and round like a wheel. Her gaze wandered along the scenery, at the red over the mud bricks and white mortar, a bleeding wound over those homes and families. At those five children now playing blind goat in the grass.
Her stomach tightened painfully, and Yzabel struggled to keep a smile as she waved goodbye to them. They’d been so happy with scraps of cheese and bread, as happy as she was in the rare event she managed a whole bite of her meals without incident. Had the five of them tried to find the Enchanted Moura, too?
Bright dots burst across her vision. Her belly rioted against the void she’d made of it. She paid them no heed, her head too busy concocting a scheme to somehow bring food into these people’s bellies and to spare them from the starvation her own flesh knew so well.
From her great-aunt’s fate, and the way Yzabel’s own life was unfurling, she could expect the same destiny to befall her in less than four months. If she were to die at eighteen, she first had to find a way to make an impact that would improve the lives of the Portuguese—before hers was extinguished.
Chapter Two
A Thorny Meal
By the time they arrived at the castle, Yzabel’s legs groaned as if they were hinges in need of oil. She met Denis at the kennels, where he was inspecting a new litter of mastiffs born three weeks ago. Despite the heaviness that weighed upon her, she couldn’t help but squeal at the puppies’ antics. Vasco took Lucas to be fed with the other hounds, and Brites left to prepare Yzabel’s room for the night. Leaving her alone with her betrothed for a meal that was, by far, the most grueling part of her routine.
They walked in slow, measured steps that took all her concentration to keep up with—she had to lean more and more on Denis as they walked to his chambers. The painful grind of her bones dwindled, the ache waning and waning until it was eclipsed by hunger crawling in her belly, and the throbbing of the cilice’s teeth on her thigh.
What she wouldn’t give to take that horrible thing from her leg, to walk without its bite on her flesh. But it wasn’t as if she could confess to the evil in her veins. Pain was the only way she could pay for the depravity she committed every day.
Only through sacrifices can we achieve His forgiveness, Dom Domingos’s words tolled in her mind. She held onto them as they walked, wondering what she was doing wrong, wondering why God did not listen, or if He did, why He didn’t help her.
The void roared in her stomach, and she couldn’t hide the limp in her next step.
“How long has it been since you’ve eaten?” Denis asked.
Years would’ve been the honest answer, the truth she kept from all but Brites and Vasco. She hadn’t had a proper meal since her first blood, when the curse had manifested.
“I’ve been fasting all day,” she said between heavy breaths. The stairs loomed ahead, shadows dancing along the lines of the granite steps. A long sigh fanned in her ear, and the world swayed again as Denis lifted her. The mantle slipped from her shoulders, while her body, heavy and rusted as iron when she tried to move, was carried without effort.
“I can make it,” she protested, but his pace didn’t slow. From the corner of her eye, she caught the shadow of a frown darkening his eyes, pressing down on his lips. “Denis, please. Put me down.”
“Only to watch you faint? Isn’t it enough that I’m forced to watch you starve yourself?”
His irritation shivered on her skin, and Yzabel curled into herself, crown toppling against her knees as she clutched at the acid burning a hole in her stomach. The curse was killing her, and she hated that she had to lie to him, hated that the devotion everyone praised her for was nothing but selfishness.
“You saw fit to give those children food even though I told you not to,” Denis continued grumbling, beard pricking the shell of her ear. It baffled her why he insisted on growing the thing. Patchy as it was, he was better off shaving it clean.
“So it was you following us.”
“Did you think I’d let my future wife walk outside the castle walls with just her lady’s maid, an old guard, and a dog for protection?” he asked back. “And my man wasn’t the one you saw. Matias knows better than that.”
Yzabel chewed on the inside of her cheek, thinking. “Then who was it?”
“One of Captain Mendes’s men. The local guarda was concerned with your safety among the commoners.” The crease between his brows deepened as he frowned at her. “And stop trying to change the subject. Tell me why you gave them food when I expressly forbade it.”
“I had to,” she moaned. “You won’t let me do more.”
Denis’s retort seethed beneath his rib cage, yet he held it as he nodded to the guard stationed next to his chambers. The soldier opened the door, and when he closed it behind them, Denis let her down on a chair by the table before taking the seat across from hers. Shoulders low and lip curled, the united front they presented before the nobles gave way to sharp tension.
The man who’d been supportive before a crowd was not the same sitting before her now, talking to her in a patronizing tone. “Handouts might make things better for a while. And those children might not starve today, or tomorrow, but what of the day after? Do they ask you for more? Do you keep giving until there’s no food in the country and we’re all starving? What happens, then, when they come clamoring at the gates and we have nothing to give? A revolution?”
Yzabel dropped her hands on her lap. “You have your suspicions about what’s happening in this town—suspicions Senhor Davide corroborated today. The poor are starving, and to keep food from children when I have it would’ve been cruel.”
“It doesn’t matter. I told you not to do something and you did it anyway. Is this how our marriage is to be?”
She forced herself to meet her betrothed’s stare. “If we’re to fight every time I try to help those who need it, then yes. It’s how it’s going to be.”
“I’m not saying you can’t help them.” Inhaling deeply, Denis massaged the bridge of his long nose. “I don’t have the energy for this tod
ay. Just please tell me what that man told you about the harvests.”
Glad for the change of subject, Yzabel did just that while Denis uncovered the candlelit feast, revealing roasted pheasant and turnips glazed gold with olive oil and speckled green with herbs, a bowl of migas, fresh bread, cheese, figs, and marmalade.
So much more than the two of them could possibly eat, a sight so lavish and beautiful it lifted the hair on her arms and raised an intense itch, tickling its way down her fingers like an ant colony moving in tandem beneath her skin. The rich scents held hands as they wafted up her nose, watered her mouth, set off a rumble in her belly that drowned the gurgling wine Denis was pouring into their crystal glasses.
Her curse piled up in her fists, begging to be used. An attempt to smother it only served to magnify its uncanny will, leaving her trembling, helpless to watch as Denis filled his plate with a bit of everything, then did the same to hers.
“That’s too much—”
“These things take time, Yzabel, and you can’t feed everyone who comes asking until we root out the true cause of their problem.” The plate clicked against the wooden table as he placed it in front of her. “And if you bear such concern for the commoners and their health, you must do the same for yourself.”
But how could she when magic simmered in her fingertips, ready to pounce on the nearest edible thing? She swallowed under Denis’s scrutiny, glad that he couldn’t see the light in her hand, afraid of what he’d be able to see if she slipped in the slightest.
“I know.” She licked the dryness from her lips. “It’s just…”
Denis slumped against his chair. “It’s just what?”
“That’s easy to say when you’ve never gone hungry,” Yzabel muttered. “Easy to say when you have a country at your feet.”
He fixed her with a glare, dark brown eyes peeking from under his scowl. “Eat.”
With jittery fingers, she grasped the silver cross dangling over her flat chest, earning a long roll of the king’s eyes. In her thoughts, she said, God in Heaven, please take this curse away. Let me eat and build my strength so I can be Your dutiful servant and help those who need me the most. If this keeps going, I don’t know how much longer I have left. Please let me eat in peace tonight.
A Curse of Roses Page 2