“You know he’s been waiting for the chance,” Aldonza muttered, so low Yzabel barely heard. “He’s set on his pure-blooded heirs.”
Her tired eyes drifted to Denis’s mistress, who stabbed her needle on the aida cloth with furious intent. Noted the other woman’s generous forms, straight brown hair that gleamed gold in the light, a dainty nose, pouty lips thinned into a line. Noticed the full roundness of her belly, thick with a child to come. Another bastard for Denis, who might take the throne if Yzabel never delivered.
Yzabel should be angry at the two of them for fornicating under her roof. Should demand Aldonza stop now, tell her to seek Denis no more. But what right did she have? When she looked at Aldonza, it was obvious why Denis would want the court lady. Aldonza wasn’t as beautiful as Fatyan—no one was, really—but she was still beautiful, and Yzabel hated how effortless it was to recognize it.
She’d never been attracted to men. All her life, she’d looked at beautiful women and think the heat in her face came from admiration. She’d have spent her entire life thinking that way if Faty hadn’t come along.
The regret ate at her, a pulsing pain in her rib cage that never went away. If only she’d reacted with patience and kindness instead of anger and fear.
It was clear now that she would never love Denis in the way a wife should love her betrothed. But Aldonza might. Yzabel had never delved into her betrothed’s affairs, but perhaps it was best she did.
Did Denis love Aldonza, or was she yet another pastime, nothing but a warm body willing to do anything for her king? And, as important, did Aldonza love Denis, or were there underlying motives in her affections? Did Aldonza think about her sins when she was with him, and she loved him so much she didn’t care? Or did she let him have her way with her because he was her king, and to deny him could bring catastrophe upon her?
“Is he worth it?”
Aldonza’s shoulders stiffened into a straight line. “Pardon?”
“Denis.” Yzabel slowly raised her head. “Is he worth the sin it brings upon your soul?”
The room took a collective breath. Aldonza took her hands to her heart. A hint of fear widened those big, light brown eyes framed in long dark lashes and worry rounded her parting lips. “M-My princess, I don’t know what you mean.”
Any other time, Yzabel would’ve looked away and let the matter rest. But she was done ignoring what happened around her.
“Answer me, Aldonza.”
“I…” She looked to the other ladies around them, all of which conspicuously looked only at their own cross-stitch. Finally, she gave up with a sigh. “Since when have you known?”
“Since I arrived in Portugal.”
Someone coughed—Yzabel thought it was Violeta. “Told you she wasn’t stupid.”
“Why did you not say anything?” There was genuine confusion in Aldonza’s small voice, softening Yzabel’s own.
“My silence doesn’t make it less of a sin on your part,” she said. “So, I ask again, is he worth the stain on your soul?”
A peep trembled from Aldonza’s mouth, tears shimmering in her eyes. “I’m…I’m so sorry,” she whimpered. “He said you didn’t care, that you encouraged him to seek others, I…”
For two ugly heartbeats, Yzabel considered letting the other woman keep on apologizing, let her feel the shame her own sins had brought on her.
Kindness is a choice, she remembered hearing, remembered saying. And you must choose it every time.
“I’m not asking because I’m jealous.” Yzabel knelt before Aldonza, took away both hands covering the other woman’s face and held it in hers. “I’m asking because I want to know if you love him. Do you? Or do you allow him simply because he’s your king, and you have no choice?”
“No, I…” A sob racked with shame. “I know it’s a sin to be with someone who’s promised to another, but—”
“But you love him,” Yzabel completed.
“I do. Forgive me, but I do.” Her head hung low, her breath shook. “It happened, and once it was there, I…I was too weak to deny it.”
It happened. Yzabel’s feelings for Fatyan had just happened, too. One moment they’d been mist, something intangible, the next a flame that couldn’t be put out, not even with a torrent of denial and the pain of the lash. She hadn’t asked for it, hadn’t willed it into existence.
But even if it was indeed love, they could never be. The Lord forbade any carnal pleasure that wasn’t suffered in the name of procreation, and two women couldn’t make a child.
“Aldonza.” Yzabel cradled the woman’s wet cheek, gently turning it to face her. “I’m not the one who needs to forgive you. It’s you who must forgive yourself, you who must bear the cross of tainting a betrothal, and in the future, a marriage. If that’s something you can live with, then you’ll face no hostility from me.”
At least, Yzabel didn’t say, your desires aren’t unnatural.
Aldonza shook her head. “I don’t deserve such kindness. I…” She inhaled deeply. “I harbored ill wishes toward you. I wished your womb would sour and for your moon’s blood to never come. I wished—”
“Hush. It’s all right.” Yzabel embraced her—a clumsy effort, with Aldonza sitting, but she managed. “Thank you for loving him in all the ways I can’t.”
Aldonza’s love for Denis was improper.
But Yzabel’s love for Fatyan was worse than that. It was unholy.
She had to keep reminding herself of that. Eventually, it’d become true.
“You really are a saint,” Aldonza said when they parted.
“I’m truly not.” Yzabel sighed, wishing people would stop calling her that. No saint would’ve yielded to debauchery. Sinking to her knees, she placed a hand on Aldonza’s stomach. “What are you going to call it?”
A beautiful smile sent her way. “Afonso if it’s a boy. Maria Afonso if it’s a girl.”
Yzabel snorted, much to the room’s shock. “I swear he’s set on naming all his children the same thing.”
“He really is.” Aldonza laughed.
Yzabel went back to her seat feeling lighter than before. After tea was served with honey broas and almond gadanhas, she excused herself for a nap. Matias shadowed her yawning steps, always close ever since Denis had seen fit to give him Vasco’s position. Nights were the only time she was free of his constant scrutiny.
Hard to believe he’d come out of Brites.
“Have you talked to your mother?” she asked. “Did she arrive well? Where is she staying?”
He stopped, standing with his feet planted wide, his hands behind his back. “The king had me escort her to our family house, where we lived before she came to work for you.” His thick brows pinched together. “We didn’t speak a word. I’m done with her ilk.”
“What ilk is that, caring mothers who don’t tolerate tantrums?”
“People who’ve made pacts with the Devil.” His frown deepened. “You’ve seen what she can do, the charms she weaves. That is not a holy power.”
“Any gift is holy if used for holy purposes.”
Matias took a step forward, looming to intimidate. She had to crane her neck to look at him. “Brites is not the kind mother you think she is.”
“Or maybe you’re a difficult son.”
A shake of his head. “You’ll see, my princess. When I catch her, you’ll see.”
Disturbed, Yzabel pivoted away and headed back to her chambers. It was Matias who’d been following her last night, Matias that the crows had steered her away from, and like a dog with a bone, he wouldn’t give up until he caught her. And Brites…
She had to warn Brites soon.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Mistake
Yzabel crashed into her bed, eager to catch a couple of hours of rest before supper. It should’ve been easy, given the exhaustion that sickened h
er to the stomach. Yet, regardless of how hard she tried to empty her mind, how desperate she was for slumber, when she closed her eyes, there was Fatyan. She would always be there, in the space between breaths, in the silence between words, in the darkness of every blink—and the more Yzabel tried to forget her, the sharper the memories became.
When sleep did come, it was with dreams of Faty. Of her hands, of her kisses, of their bodies pressed together. Then she turned into Denis, leaving Yzabel cold. He leaned down, told her to relax, then asked, “…dinner and supper?”
Yzabel’s eyelids fluttered. “Hmm?”
“I asked why you skipped dinner and supper,” Denis’s very real voice said.
“I overslept,” she moaned from the bed. “Can you please ask one of the maids to bring me something?”
“In a moment.”
The click of the latch speared her chest, blew the laziness from her eyes. She sat up, gut twisting, “Denis?”
He looked at her with condemnation in his eyes. “Did you hear about the bread?”
She gave him a most innocent blink, as confused as she could make it. “What bread?”
“The bread that showed up this morning. In the churches. The hospice. The poorest houses.”
“I don’t care for the accusation in your tone,” she snapped back, immediately regretting her outburst. Part of her had been expecting this; it was the reason she’d spent the night with Denis before going out in the first place.
“It sounds like something you’d do,” he pointed out. “Like something you’ve done.”
“You told me to never use the crown’s money without asking for your consent first. Have I asked you for more dinheiros than usual?”
His voice turned grumpy. “You have not.”
“Was I not with you last night?”
“You were.”
“Then how could I have time to give away all that bread?” She meant to sound as curt and as annoyed as she did. Theatrics went a long way into selling her half lies. She hadn’t been using the Crown’s money, hadn’t been using anything other than wildflowers and the Holy Spirit.
Denis’s lips trembled and his gaze narrowed—but he didn’t press further. “Matias says it’s his mother. That he saw her do it.”
Yzabel resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “He would say anything to earn your favor. He’s thrown his mother to the wolves before, remember?”
“He acted in the right.”
She bit her lip, not wanting to fall back into this argument and lose the current one. “My point is, he is obsessed with his mother and her…practices. It makes him believe things that aren’t true.”
“Someone did put that bread where it was,” Denis stated. “It might’ve been a one-time incident, but I have a feeling it’s not.”
Yzabel kept her expression blank. “Why are you saying that as if it’s a threat?”
“I was stating a fact.” He opened the door again, looking over his shoulder one last time. “I’ll tell someone to bring you dinner. Rest.”
While she waited, Yzabel washed her face, tied her hair back. Tonight, she’d have to pick flowers as she went—there were plenty in the wild terrain between the poorest houses. Brites lived near that area as well, in a small brick house with a roof of red tiles. She’d spoken often of living there before Yzabel’s mamá sent for her, after which Brites had packed her bags and moved to the other side of the peninsula with her son. The house had been abandoned, waiting for Brites to retire, or for Matias to start a family.
Dinner came as migas with braised pork, of which she ate the former and gave Lucas the latter.
When the church bells tolled midnight, Yzabel stole into the night.
The first street went by in a quick dash, and she stuck her back to the wall as she peeked around the corner. Farther down, the torches of the ducal palace cast a hazy halo on the mist, the guards underneath undoubtedly ready to react at the smallest noise.
Giving them a wide berth, Yzabel veered right, to the plaza where the fair took place every Saturday. Past the dark tavern, already closed and empty, then the Church of São Francisco, kneeling behind the bushes around the building when heavy steps sounded nearby. Lucas tensed, ready to jump, and she placed a quieting hand on his head, knelt to hug him close.
The patrol passed, and she was on the move again, sticking to dark streets on the way down. Moonlight illuminated her footsteps, and quietude dominated the air save for an occasionally barking dog, or the faraway voices of guards chatting.
Her path narrowed with the streets, slowing her pace to a crawl. Hiding spots became harder to find, and Yzabel found herself curling in the shadows, sure her heaving breath and pounding heart would give her away to the passing guards. But the heavy rain smothered the sound of her steps, the dark night shielded her from view, and she managed to avoid any detection.
Finally, she hit the untamed fields close to the wall and began to pick as many wildflowers as she could—mostly estevas, but some pansies as well—then set out to deliver them. The lack of sleep must be affecting the gift, making it harder to turn the flowers; her sight began to blur and twist, and she leaned against the wall, taking deep breaths to steady herself. She pressed on, even as the nausea sent her stomach roiling and coated her tongue with the bitterness of bile.
Tumbling feet drove her shoulder against the wall. Clutching her dress, Yzabel closed her eyes for one moment, steeling her mind and body to keep on pushing through. The light drizzle stuck her hair to her face, and Yzabel kept to empty streets, hanging back in dark corners when voices traveled near her, hearing them talk about the witch they looked for.
“It’s supposed to be Matias’s mother—the one who used to attend the princess?”
“Poor boy. Having to turn on your own flesh and blood…”
Yzabel stopped hearing them over the sound of her gnashing teeth. The crows returned, she noted with relief, sweeping the skies over her as she emerged from her hiding spot by the fountain. She wished Brites still worked for her, so she’d keep her former maid safe from mean gossip and ill wishes. She wished Fatyan was there, too, for no reason other than she wanted to curl up against the Moura again, to fall asleep and wake to her warmth, to hear her encouraging words that left no room for doubt.
Warning Brites was but one reason Yzabel had to see her. She placed a hand on her chest, over the hard lump of the stone—through layers of cloth, it heated beneath her fingers as if saying, Ask her about me.
The weight of Yzabel’s desires slowed her feet, made her second-guess her every choice. Her confusion spread to poor Lucas, who whined questioningly as he regarded her from down an empty street before pounding across the cobblestones and disappearing into the mist.
She followed him toward the poorer district, where the houses were smaller, some clustered together, others far apart, each home with its own sound. One was racked with the coughing of many people; another had a crying baby and desperate mother trying to console him; another had the hushed whisper of children, and their father shouting for quiet. And all of them had empty sacks under their sheds, hoping for another visit from the person who’d given them bread the night prior. So much poverty clogged Yzabel’s throat and dragged down her heart. And this was just Estremoz. How many more, in other cities? In other countries? She was trying to do good, but…it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.
And these people… They left her gifts, too, small things such as woven baskets, embroidery, small soaps, bundles of herbs. The gifts they could spare, to pay back a single act of kindness. Yzabel smiled as she held an embroidered towel to her chest. Leaving it behind felt like spitting on generosity, but she must. They had need of these precious things. She did not.
Would they be gifting her if they knew it was their princess leaving them bread, and that she was not as holy or as saintly as everyone believed?
Yzabel
reached into her skirts for a pansy, transformed it into bread, and placed it in the waiting sack. Her lungs seemed to want to scramble out of her chest, as no amount of air she gulped could sate them. Wet skirts whipped at her legs with lashes of burning cold, and her head swelled and spun with dizziness.
As she made her way to the houses dressed in red, Yzabel prayed her symptoms were of exhaustion, perhaps a bad cold, and not the plague. Back against a tree, she used the time it took for her dog to drop off the first parcel to turn another loaf. The magic heated her a bit as it worked through the flower, stilling her trembling fingers while still-warm bread formed in her palm. She quickly wrapped it in the linen strips she kept in her skirts, ran to another tree that was closer to the next house.
A couple more left. Then she could go to Brites, whose house was farther up and closer to the outer city walls.
“There’s bread over here!” a man’s voice cut through the mounting wind. “Find whoever’s leaving it!”
Carefully, she looked over her shoulder and around the trunk. The hazy lights of torches moved in the fog not too far off, and Yzabel’s entire body froze as she ransacked her head for what to do. If she went to Brites’s house or hightailed back to the castle, someone might see her, and the ensuing commotion would wake the slumbering citizens. For now, her only choice was to hide, and the best place to do so was among the red-curtained houses.
From the branches above her, the cry of a crow sounded a warning. Lucas returned to her side, and Yzabel didn’t wait any longer. She wrapped the spare linen strips around the lower half of her face and took off toward the nearest pigpen she could hide in, hitting the dirt road between a cluster of homes as more voices emerged behind her. Her hold on her skirts slipped, her remaining flowers falling, fabric catching around her hurried feet, and down she tumbled into the mud. She made to quickly stand, ignoring her aching limbs and pounding head.
“Lucas, draw them away,” she commanded, throat scratching with every desperate lungful. Her dog left as she hopped over the short wall and crawled into the empty shelter.
A Curse of Roses Page 22