I love you, Yza.
The glow of magic swirled in the palm of her hand, and she wished the Holy Spirit had given her the power to reverse the hourglass of time.
At least she could’ve told Fatyan she loved her back.
And even then, what good could’ve come of that? Adultery was adultery regardless of gender, and to tarnish the marriage bed was sin.
Denis tarnished it all the time; he sinned all the time without reprisal from God. Should his seed never take in Yzabel’s womb, his adultery would provide him with an heir, the country with a king. His sins had a purpose; Yzabel’s didn’t.
Gooseflesh prickled her skin as she dried herself by the fire. Her white mantle draped over her shoulders, Yzabel bade Lucas goodnight and walked the candlelit hall to her betrothed’s room. The nightgown’s silk was as heavy as iron, the nerves thick in her throat, in her quickened breath.
She’d been only ten when her marriage was arranged, and as such, her parents had insisted she stay with them until she was the age of consent. But then her papá had died, and she’d been able to buy two and half years with her family before her brother shipped her off to fulfill the seven-year-old contract.
Before she’d left Aragon, her mamá had pulled her aside, and said, “Give him a son as quickly as you can. Even if you have to get started before your wedding is officialized.” Rancor had lined Mamá’s face, and Yzabel understood that this was the same advice she had once been given. Women could be intelligent, they could be kind, but more importantly, they had to be fertile.
Denis had never tried to touch her, and she’d convinced herself that it was good; that Denis’s lack of interest in her would keep her out of the marriage bed—and, consequently, from the birthing bed’s likely possibility of death.
If she hadn’t ignored her duties, if she had faced her fear of copulation, then maybe her affections would’ve already been taken when Fatyan had come into her life.
In her chest, her heart hardened, her resolve stiffened. The marriage bed might be painful, but how could she complain, when every other woman had to go through it? She’d never gone cold, or in need of clothes, and while she’d experienced hunger, it had never been due to a lack of food at her table. Compared to the commoners, she had it easy.
But the pain wasn’t what she feared. If it were, her arm wouldn’t be heavy as she raised it, her mind wouldn’t be racing.
What she truly feared was that she could no longer deny that her body craved women instead of men, and that she couldn’t effectively pretend otherwise. But she had to do this before she went out to deliver bread. Questions would undoubtedly arise once loaves showed at people’s homes, and spending the night with Denis would be a foolproof alibi should those questions turn her way.
Breath in. Breath out. Yzabel knocked on her betrothed’s door.
“Come in.”
She crossed the threshold, that invisible barrier between them as tall as the Pyrenees. “Am I interrupting?”
Denis looked over his shoulder. He sat at the desk, a candle shining light on the papers spread across the surface. “Yzabel. What are you doing here?”
Surprise widened his eyes, stretched his face. Yzabel walked up to him, the map on his desk drawing her attention. Denis moved over to let her see it.
“You’re planning to increase the pine tree forest in Leiria?”
“Yes. The way I see it, it’s pointless to pursue conflict with Castela. We’ve been playing tug-of-war with them for so long, and now that relations are stable, I wouldn’t strain them unless I had no choice. But”—he pointed to the blue part of the map, the ocean beyond Portugal’s western shores—“there may be a way for Portugal to grow that does not involve the Iberian Peninsula. But I don’t know yet. We have bigger concerns, such as our own stability. I might leave the plans for a future king. Our son, perhaps.”
Swallowing her indecision, she undid the knot of her mantle, brought the nightshirt over her head. There she stood, naked and shivering, waiting, unable to meet his eyes until—
A hand on her chin, lifting her face up. “We’re not married yet. You don’t have to do this now.”
“I know,” she said without wavering. “But we’ll be married soon enough.”
Denis’s gaze burrowed deeply into hers for a long moment before he asked, “Are you sure?”
Yzabel made herself hold his attention, to appreciate the firelight dancing on the harsh angles of his face. “Yes.”
Denis kissed her then, his beard scratching her skin, his hands heavy on her hips. Yzabel fought the urge to squirm, reminded herself to open her mouth to his seeking tongue. Things that had come so natural in that brief time with Fatyan were forced with Denis, but Yzabel had to endure it. This was the cost of her privilege, the cost to be able to change people’s lives. He tasted of wine and something acid, bitter to her palate—she told herself it could be worse, that at least she liked and trusted Denis despite all his flaws. That he could’ve been less patient, more forceful, but he’d respected her instead.
Then he touched her chest, and she couldn’t help it—she cringed.
That hadn’t happened when Faty had done it; then Yzabel had leaned into it, wanting more, needing more—
Denis stopped, looked at her with a frown. “Yzabel, if you don’t want this—”
She tried to shake Faty from her head. “No. This needs to happen. It has to.”
He sighed, but he took her to the bed with exploring hands. His weight dipped the mattress, his thin beard scratched at her face, and she decided it best to just close her eyes and let him take the lead. But as his mouth moved to her neck, down her body, it was Fatyan’s lips she imagined. It was Fatyan’s hand between her legs. It was Fatyan beneath her eyelids, touching her, kissing her. All of it felt so irrevocably wrong, made even more obvious by the fact she had to keep thinking of Faty to get through it.
Yzabel couldn’t hold the tears back any longer, wiping them as they escaped, hoping her betrothed wouldn’t see them, that he’d ignore them, that he’d just do whatever and get this over with. On Denis’s brow, a frown began to form, and it was with consternation on his mouth that he said, “This isn’t happening.”
He rolled off her, leaving her looking at the canopy of the bed in a state of dazed shame. Something really was wrong with her. Wrong with her body that, even after being under the betrothed God had given her, ached for someone else’s touch. Wrong with her heart, who decided to pledge itself to another woman, to pine for a love that could never be.
“I’m sorry,” Yzabel said, pulling the sheets up to cover herself and dry her tearstained features. “Something… Something’s wrong with me, and I can’t—”
Wordlessly, Denis picked up her nightgown and mantle where she’d forgotten them on the floor and handed both to her. As she haphazardly put them on, he sat beside her, seriousness in his worried gaze, the crackling of the flames the single sound passing between them.
“We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” he said, breaking the silence at last.
“That’s not what you said a month ago.” Yzabel’s hands fisted the sheets, knuckles white and trembling. “And you were right. For the throne to be secure, for this country to be secure, I will need to give you an heir.”
“That had more to do about your state of sheer malnourishment than with children. Nothing else seemed to bring you to your senses.” He sighed. “You’re healthy now. That’s what matters. Well…” His tone stayed calm, if a bit embarrassed. “I’ve got bastards aplenty.”
“Bastard children can’t inherit the throne, Denis.”
“They can if I legitimize them.”
Her pride should’ve been wounded at such statements, and yet Yzabel couldn’t find anything within herself but relief for the way out he presented her with. Still, it was unfair of her to take it, unfair for her to ask so much, unfa
ir of her to put this burden on another woman. “You and I both know that won’t go over well with the gentry.”
“If you want me to force myself on you, I can. But neither of us will enjoy it, and I know that if I do it, you’ll end up resenting me until you die.”
He spoke with such softness and understanding her tears turned to hot frustration, her chest withered with worthlessness. “I don’t deserve such kindness. Or patience.”
“Ai, Yzabel,” he said her name in a breathless cuss, complete with a palm to his forehead. “I’ll be here whenever you want to try, but I will never force you. Not to mention the main reason I’m marrying you is because it’ll bring much-needed stability. Anything happens to you and I have to contend with your brothers threatening war.”
A statement that should’ve reminded her of her value served to humble her instead. It was chance that she’d been born into her family, chance that she had enjoyed great privilege and would enjoy it still simply because her brothers were kings of Aragon and Majorca.
“More than that,” his voice softened, and the warmth of his hand spread over her left hand. “I wouldn’t be able to find another wife who’d make as good a queen as you.”
That was what thoroughly undid her, and Yzabel almost blurted the whole truth out. Denis deserved to know that she would never desire him, he deserved to know her heart belonged inside a stone, but humiliation stuck to her tongue and stitched her lips shut. She couldn’t stand to stay under the understanding in his brown eyes or the comfort of his words when she still had truths she couldn’t share.
Yzabel turned her hand so it was palm to palm against Denis’s and squeezed. “Thank you,” she said, wiping her tears as she bolted from the bed. “I’ll leave now. I’m sorry I’ve made you waste your time.”
She was halfway across the room when Denis called after her, “You can stay, you know.”
It touched her that he offered, and her stilling feet pivoted her to look at him. But she still had work to do tonight, something she was desperate to throw herself into. “No, it’s all right. You have work to do. I don’t want to keep you.”
“You make my work better. I would discuss some more things with you.”
“Oh.” Yzabel didn’t deserve his confidence, not when she was still hiding truths from him. But she couldn’t turn it away, not when he offered it like an olive branch. “All right then.”
That night, they debated as equals, without volatile passions to muddle their thoughts or decrees.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Discoveries
Both Yzabel and Denis could barely keep their eyes open when they bade each other goodnight. With barely a sound, she padded back to her rooms, where she changed into a dress of long skirts and stuffed it with the flowers she’d picked in the afternoon. Fatyan’s stone was back around her neck with its cozy weight, the magical lull throbbing against her heart.
Although relations between Portugal and Castela were tense, these were mostly peaceful times, and the patrols were scarce in the streets. If she remained vigilant, she could avoid them, as well as any detection. Steeling herself with a deep breath, Yzabel climbed over her bedroom window, Lucas jumping after her. Together, they slid across the grass of the small hill and hit the paved roads with nothing but moonlight illuminating her path.
Under the drizzling rain, Yzabel clutched her cloak, sent Lucas ahead, waiting in a dark corner as her dog checked the streets for late-night wanderers. He’d return if the way was clear, bid her to follow him to another street if it wasn’t. After clearing the more affluent area, she began to stop at every door. As swiftly as she could, she picked estevas from her skirts—she’d been practicing with them for days now—and turned them to bread as easily as she did the roses. In fact, she could turn any flower to bread now, and although it miffed her, she couldn’t figure out why pork would become estevas, but estevas wouldn’t become pork, she took her victories where she could. If bread was all she could make out of blossoms, then she’d make as much as humanly possible.
She turned the esteva into a loaf and wrapped a linen strip around it. Her original idea had been to leave the bread by the door, but with the ever-changing winds, she wasn’t confident the rain wouldn’t ruin it, even with the added shelter of the beirais. Fortunately, the people stored their wood outside, under small sheds next to their homes, so she left the bread there, certain it’d be safe from the willful weather and found whole in the morning. Under the arches of each church, she left a dozen loaves, and more in the hospice.
Then, there was the matter of the windows and doors clad in red. They needed food more than anyone else, yet Yzabel couldn’t risk getting too close to them even if the odds of catching the disease were low when not directly exposed to a contaminated person’s skin. She had come too far, had too many things left to do, to leave a potentially fatal illness to chance.
Dogs, on the other hand, were immune, and she’d trained Lucas well enough to deliver a package. Yzabel took shelter under whichever tree was closest to the red houses and called Lucas to her side. On her knees, she wrapped a second string of linen around the bread and held it in front of her dog’s snout. “Take this and put it under that shed.”
Tail wagging, Lucas bolted off. Without her sentinel, Yzabel leaned against the bark, tension tight in her shoulders as she carefully listened for the sound of voices or footsteps between raindrops and whistling branches. Were she to be caught, at best, she wouldn’t be recognized, and would have to contend with the guards’ interrogation; at worst, she’d be brought back to Denis and face his interrogation. Neither was an outcome she could afford. A regular girl could not have a possible justification for such late an outing, much less a princess.
Unease built in her bones as she repeated the process for the other plagued houses—six of them in total. On the fifth, Yzabel thought she saw the mist darken and shift, and on the very last one, while she hid next to an empty pigpen, the sound of boots squelching in the mud chilled her ears.
She’d been seen, and now she was being followed.
A peek wasn’t needed to know someone was skirting the pigpen and coming her way. Keeping herself low, Yzabel took one step to the right for every one she heard to her left. Heart in her throat, she made herself breathe slowly, through her nose. From the corner of her eye, she spotted her dog, returning from his task. All Yzabel had to do was nod toward the man, and at once, Lucas jumped.
Caught unawares, the man fell backward into the pigpen with a shocked scream and Yzabel launched into a run. She found herself veering right, down the road—halting briefly when she spotted a light on, then crawling under the window to avoid detection, hitting her chin on the pavement when her hands slipped on wet cobblestones. She dashed to the closed doors of São Francisco’s Church, past the plaza, turned left to the last road parallel to the wall.
Crows swooped down, cawing loudly. Yzabel recognized them as the flock she’d been feeding, momentarily stunned until she recalled that crows weren’t only highly intelligent, they were loyal. She’d treated them well, and now they tugged at her sleeve, telling her to move on, their urgency evident. She began to gather herself, shifting her grip on her skirts. The sound of boots hitting stone echoed in the street. A step. Another. Lucas howled to the mist at her left—a warning that someone came from that direction.
The crows circled around, swept past her. Yzabel didn’t wait—she ran, turning the corner, then another. Somewhere in the vicinity, the flutter of many wings. A man’s voice shouted in the next street over. She didn’t stay to find out who it belonged to.
Yzabel didn’t stop running until she was safely back in her chambers. Wet to the bone, she tossed her cloak aside, then closed the window after Lucas had joined her inside.
She’d done it.
The thrill beat fast in her chest, and her throat was sore from running in the rain, but she’d given so much bread away,
without spending a dime. Come morning, almost everyone in town would have a loaf at their door, and many more waiting for any who asked their parishes.
Yzabel laughed, effervescent with joy, with the incomparable feeling that was fulfilling one’s divine purpose.
And she had no one to share it with.
Her tears changed from jubilant to bitter. Vasco should’ve been here to see this. Brites, too. And so should Fatyan.
It wasn’t fair that it was her absence that stung the sharpest.
…
Yzabel managed to stay awake during the early morning, busying herself with writing letters to prospective teachers for the University. She wrote to her brother Jaume in Majorca, her tutors in Aragon, to the Bishop of Ulisbuna, then began drawing plans for classes and budgets for construction until the bell rang for midday mass. For an hour, she listened to Padre António’s sermon, a rosary between her intertwined hands.
After the choir boys finished singing a joyful hymn, she joined Denis and the court in the Great Hall for lunch, then followed the ladies-in-waiting to their afternoon embroidery session.
A good princess spent time with her peers, and Yzabel had avoided these women for far too long. But as it turned out, focusing on cross-stitch and gossip after a sleepless night and a full lunch proved to be more challenging than Yzabel had thought. Her head began to sink, her eyes to close, and a yawn was leaving her mouth before she could attempt to contain it.
“Long night, Your Highness?” Violeta giggled. “Have you finally met the king’s mighty sword?”
She still couldn’t understand why any woman would voluntarily submit herself to it. Or how she could enjoy it to perdition. Faty had brought her more ecstasy with a single kiss than Denis had with his everything.
A Curse of Roses Page 21