She should’ve been trying to love him as God had ordained, instead of letting Faty lure her into sin.
“Is this… Has your maid finally told you she did what I asked?”
She had? But how? When? Why?
The conversations Dom Domingos had witnessed between Faty and Denis. The increased absences from the room. It had all been there, and she’d refused to read what was so plainly written.
Yzabel buried her head on the pillow. She couldn’t think of Fatyan, for to think of Fatyan would be to remember this night, and all those before.
His hand pressed on the small of her back, thumb brushing the salve’s soothing coolness on another open wound. “Is that why you did this? Because you think I made your friend do horrible things?”
“No.”
The truth, and yet, Denis didn’t buy it. “I did want her to befriend the baron, but I never intended her to go through with anything. You assumed I did, and I was so angry I never corrected it.”
Her and Fatyan’s weeks of isolation could’ve been over in a day. If she’d just asked Denis what he’d meant, if she hadn’t presumed the worst about the man who’d be her husband—
“I’m not sure how she did it, but she had results. She found Vasco’s family rings hidden in the baron’s belongings and says he keeps Vasco’s dagger on his person. She also found where all the prelates hide their profits. It was written here…” A rustle of fabric, and a shoddy book appeared next to her head. “The baron had it hidden among his things.”
Yzabel read the fuzzy letters out loud, “Recipes of Além-Tejo. A cookbook?”
“With terrible poetry written on every page.” He closed the jar of salve. “Poetry that matches the one we found in the steward’s books—at least, verses related to the Olhapim. The Steward and the Captain had the other two.” A brief, concerned pause. “Can you sit up?”
She did, the remnants of the nightshirt sliding down her body, and she embraced the pain that came with the simple movement, staying still as Denis wrapped a linen strip around her torso. His fingers brushed the same places Fatyan’s had, but they evoked no spark in her skin or a flutter in her depths.
Even now, when she lay bare and vulnerable before her caring betrothed—a betrothed who hadn’t seen her naked until now—she couldn’t summon a drop of desire. She told herself it was because the pain drowned out everything else, but there had been pain with the cilice, too, a pain she remembered vividly. Fatyan trailing one finger over it, the tingle of pleasure following its aching path.
“Where was the hiding place?” Yzabel found herself asking in a tiny, tight croak.
“The tower—the one where they said the Moura Salúquia jumped from. There was a hidden trapdoor at the bottom, leading to a stone cellar full of barrels of wine and bags of grain. Pouches of spices, jars of olives, silver, and gold. The theft from the people, it seems, goes back since the Reconquista.” His attention flitted around the chamber. “Where is your maid?”
Yzabel’s guilty gaze fell on the commode’s open bottom drawer, on the gray stone humming with unseen power. Faint, the scent of almonds tickled her nose, and she wondered if Faty was still awake or gone back to sleep. If she was screaming inside that rock, or if she lay still and shattered, if she boiled with hatred for Yzabel, or if she trembled with regret.
Whatever she might be doing, Fatyan was gone.
Gone.
Disappeared forever, and the last Yzabel would remember was how she’d rejected her. The look on her face lined with disbelief and colored with hurt. Willing to return to a prison in order to never have to see Yzabel again.
For the best. It was for the best.
“She left my service last night,” she managed to say.
Denis’s motions stilled, but her present condition answered any other questions he might have. “That doesn’t surprise me. Not everyone has the stomach for your sanctimonious spectacles.” He neatly tied the strip under her arm, placed a hand on her shoulder. “You can’t do this to yourself, Yzabel. This country needs you strong, and not—”
“Bleeding and starving. I know,” she completed. “I’ll…I’ll try to be better.” Allowing herself a final sniffle, she tilted her head back to keep yet more tears from reaching her eyes and forced herself to bring reassurance to her false smile. “Thank you for freeing Brites.”
When Denis left the bed, he held out a hand. She took it.
…
Vasco’s funeral took place in the Carmo Church, the entire court clad in black and sitting in silence while Father Paulo spoke his sermon.
The Church, once Yzabel’s favorite sanctuary, now sent an anxious jitter to her legs and fingers. The somber air fell heavy in her lungs, and although she tried to catch Dom Domingos’s words, they arrived as nothing but distant echoes. She was afraid to behold Christ upon the cross and see him look away, afraid to look at the Virgin Mary to see her cry blood, afraid of the statues of Saints and the paintings of the scripture. Thus, she focused on what she could, the closed empty casket, arrangements of purple wild saffron, hortensias of pink and blue, and pansies of yellow, black, and red, laid around and over the wooden bed.
Vasco had died because she’d hidden things from her fiancé. Another tragedy of her own doing, one she could never voice to anyone other than the people who’d witnessed it.
Blood began to ooze down her back, and she sunk against Denis, hiding her face in the crook of his arm as they followed the casket across the narrow streets until it was laid to rest on a cemetery of marble graves and mausoleums.
On their way back to the castle, a shiver tittered on Yzabel’s spine, lifted the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck. The scent of almonds tickled her nose, the magic inside her rising to its call, halting her feet, spinning them around. A wave of ink-black hair, the flash of a hand the color of dark copper in the corner of her eye.
Wishful thinking. Trickery of the mind. Faty couldn’t be among the throng behind them—she was back in Yzabel’s rooms, inside the stone tucked away in the commode. All alone, as she’d been for over a century. Her thoughts spun and spun, back to Faty in the mist, waiting, and Yzabel had to press on the cilice so the stab of pain would drown them out.
Fatyan was pain.
Pain was Fatyan.
Perhaps once she went through enough of it, her head would associate the Moura with torture and not desire.
Chapter Twenty-One
Placebo
Next to Denis on his throne, Yzabel sat in black furs and a black dress. Though she didn’t wear the queen’s crown yet, he’d insisted she be there as if she did, and though her face was hollow and dark circles surrounded her sunken eyes, her expression was unwavering, her spine straight. Inside her, the magic was a swirling storm of white, raging in tandem with her wild emotions. At her feet, Lucas lay with his ears perked, alert to the nervous atmosphere; behind them, the Guarda Real stood to attention, Matias among their number.
The torches on the walls and the fireplace to the left had been lit, the cackling of flames lost to the howling winds outside. Yzabel kept her hand in Denis’s, giving an image of silent unity as the gentry filed in, first in trickles, then in pours. When the room was packed to the brim with nerves and rumors, Denis stood and cleared his throat.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the Court, I bid you good evening,” he began. “It’s no secret I’ve brought us here to conduct investigations on this village’s governance. Today, our efforts finally came to fruition.”
Denis motioned to her. “It was Princess Yzabel who first noticed something amiss in Steward Mendonza’s accounts. Messages that once decoded, detailed just how much of each harvest had been pocketed by the people I’ve trusted with these lands.” His scowling eyes roamed the crowd from one side to another. “My father and some kings before me ruled the nobility with a light hand and let the clergy enrich at the cost of th
e country. But I am not that sort of king, and I will not tolerate unjust behavior.”
A hubbub rose from the gentry, whispers growing louder until Denis screamed, “Silence! Ramalho”—he turned to the Grand Prior—“arrest Baron de Seabra, Steward Mendonza, Bishop Carvalho, and Captain Mendes.”
Denis’s guards moved to pluck the men from the crowd, throwing the throne room into chaos. Matias tackled the steward as he tried to escape through the back; the captain drew his sword, screamed for his men to aid him—none did, and he was knocked down with the pommel of a sword to the back of his head; the Bishop was under the Grand Prior’s grasp, and the baron…
“You Aragonese cow!” He dashed toward her, a knife glinting in his hand. Yzabel froze, and the baron took two steps before her mastiff jumped him, sharp teeth sinking into his arm, cutting flesh to ribbons. Lucas yanked until the knife clattered harmlessly on the floor. The man toppled soon after, leaving his wife and daughter screaming from the stands and blood flowing across the stone floor.
The four men were brought to their knees before Denis, all silent save for the baron, who cried and whimpered as he clutched at his arm—Yzabel doubted it could be saved, even if her betrothed didn’t sentence the four of them to death.
Denis’s footsteps echoed above the whispers. He picked up the knife de Seabra had used and slowly made his way back to the line of men, hand closing around the baron’s scalp. A strong tug pulled de Seabra up, exposed his throat. “Where did you get this dagger?”
“It’s mine, Your Majesty.”
“Is it? Then why do I recognize the engraving?” With a flip of the wrist, he held the blade in front of the baron’s eyes. “I sent this dagger to Vasco as a gift for negotiating my marriage contract. My marriage to the woman you just insulted. Crassly, I might add. Yzabel.”
She shifted on her seat, straightened her spine. “Yes, my king?”
“This man tried to do you a grave injury. His possession of the dagger proves he is responsible for Vasco’s death.” He slipped the knife under the baron’s throat before meeting her eyes. “His fate is yours to decide.”
Her gaze flitted to the other man, whose paling skin shone with sweat. He held his mangled arm to his chest, the black sleeve of his surcoat ripped open to reveal the gnarly wound, and his eyes fluttered in a struggle for consciousness. Matias stood behind him, and although his expression was serious, Yzabel could swear she saw a mysterious glint in his eye that she did not know how to interpret. Only that it unnerved her.
Lucas pressed his snout against her leg, and she scratched the top of his head, behind the ears. De Seabra had tried to come for her, and if it hadn’t been for the dog, he would’ve hurt someone. He had a soul blackened with ill-intent, diseased with egoism; he had abused his power for his own gain, kicked the downtrodden further into starvation and disease. At her word, his evil would be cut at the root, never to plague the world again.
But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t summon the words of death. Jesus had forgiven those who’d put him on the cross, had urged his followers to love and forgive, for no sinner was without redemption. And although the baron might be guilty of the crimes concerning this town, he was not guilty of killing Vasco. Denis used Vasco’s dagger as proof, but Yzabel knew better, even if she didn’t understand how the baron had come to possess it. Had Fatyan done that, too, when she’d been helping Denis behind Yzabel’s back?
“Let him live,” she said. “Strip them of title and rank and make them live among the people they stole from. Let them choose between seeking redemption or damnation.”
A buzz of surprise traveled the room. Yzabel looked to no one but her betrothed, and the slight frown he gave her a silent question of “are you sure?” At her nod, he released the baron, who’d since passed out and hit the floor with a heavy thump.
“Dom Domingos, take note of this decree,” Denis said as he made his way back to the throne. “I, Dom Denis by the grace of God King of Portugal and the Algarves, revoke all rights to explore land from the prelates in Terra da Moura. From this moment on, such rights will be given to the people working them.”
The rest of the prelates from Terra da Moura raised objections from their places among the crowd. Denis muzzled them with an effective, commanding shout. “You might not have perpetrated this deceit, but you are complicit in your silence. I do not for one second believe that you were not aware.”
The scribbling of a quill on parchment. “Is that all, Your Majesty?” Dom Domingos asked from his scribe stand at their right.
“Yes. I suggest everyone at Court to consider how they run their lands, lest the same happen to you. The Royal Treasurer will stay behind to assure the new distribution is done evenly, as well as guiding the citizens in their efforts.” He rose from his seat, and Yzabel took his extended hand. “Court is dismissed.”
“I can’t believe you did that,” she said after they’d left the commotion behind.
“I can’t believe you asked me to let them live,” he grumbled back.
“Cruelty leads us nowhere. They’re going to have a hard life as it is.” She looked down at Lucas, trotting beside her. “Imagine the baron working in the fields without an arm.”
“I didn’t think this dog had that in him; should’ve known better than to doubt an Além-Tejo mastiff.” Denis snapped his fingers, and Lucas veered to receive a pat. “Maybe we should get you another. They can guard you and our children together.”
A flush heated her cheeks at the mention of children, and what had to happen for them to be made. Memories of Faty flooded her thoughts, dried her tongue, had shame pushing her on one side, and regret pulling her on the other.
Shame because she had wanted every bit of it, and more.
Regret because she would never see Faty again, would never be able to apologize for saying those mean things, would never be able to tell her that even though it was wrong, she loved her, too.
“Why are you so afraid of it?” Denis asked, misreading her silence.
“It’s not that,” she hurried to say. “My blood still hasn’t returned. I need to gain more weight before we…try.”
“We’ll see how you’re faring once we’re married.”
Yzabel made herself smile in their exchanged glance.
“If not then, after. I’ll trust you to tell me when you’re ready, then.”
She let him place a careful arm around her shoulders and said, “Thank you.”
For too long, she’d been letting her betrothed down—her betrothed who was ultimately patient and fair, who’d waited five years for her to profess herself ready to join him, who made no unexpected demands and gave her many freedoms in return.
He could’ve kept her from making medicines, could’ve kept her from the smaller charities she devoted herself to, could’ve controlled her dowry lands, could’ve forced himself on her, could’ve had her persecuted for witchery. Kindnesses she’d repaid by being willful and dutifully righteous. Kindness she’d repaid by falling in love with someone else and not him.
But she could still make things right.
She could still make herself love Denis.
…
The next morning, their departure from Terra da Moura was as somber as the overcast horizon. Under heavy rain, their pace was twice as slow, and the chilly wind made every moment grueling. But it was the solitude that made it truly miserable.
The first day she spent in the clutches of moroseness, humor as bleak as the black of her mourning clothes. During dinner, she made herself pay attention to Denis and his plans to build a university.
“In Ulisbuna, maybe,” he said between bites of stuffed quail. “A place where people can learn Art, Law, Medicine, and their rights.”
“Most of the population won’t be able to afford that, though. Or want to.” Yzabel played around with the julienned kale on her plate. “They need their
children to work the fields, not sitting in school.”
“No, but it’s a start for those who can. We’re losing young people to other nations because we do not have a university of our own. Most end up staying where they complete their studies.” He took a sip of wine. “We have them finish their education here and keep their brilliant minds here as well. I’m the first Portuguese king who knows how to read. That…isn’t right. We’re supposed to trust our advisers and our stewards, but how can we know they’re doing their job unless we verify it ourselves? Same with the people, and for us to move forward, our citizens need to move forward as well.”
Another good thing, one that would help the entire country. “You’re right. Not everyone will be able to afford it, but it should be an option.”
“You could take charge of the project.”
Yzabel’s knife clattered on the plate.
He trusted her again. He wanted her opinions, her expertise. Again. She should be elated, not hurt, not fighting the twisted pain in her heart.
“If that’s not something you want to do…”
“No, I do.” She pushed herself to smile. “But why me?”
“You were tutored by the same scholars as your brother Jaume, were you not?” Denis wiped his fingers on a slice of bread before eating it. “Men of all faiths were invited into your home for their expertise—you were raised in the breast of theology and culture, and you won’t hold someone’s beliefs against them if their hearts are in the right place. I can think of no better person.”
Her face heated at the compliment, and she looked at her betrothed from under her eyelashes, hoping to find desire in the wake of her flush. To feel that odd flutter in her stomach, or the urge to seek his touch.
There was nothing beyond the warmth of friendship.
A Curse of Roses Page 19