Cris took a shaky breath. “‘The attempted regicide happened on the fourth day of His Majesty's visit to the north of the country. He traveled on an open Landau, accompanied by the queen and the Duke of Braganza. They arrived at Vila Nova around four in the afternoon. The city's proud people carried flowers and rosemary boughs, crowding the village square in front of the cathedral. When the driver stopped for the queen to distribute coins, the first shot exploded. Chaos ensued. The shooter discharged two more times before he was taken down. But the attempt had not ended. According to the king's guard, a second offender awaited on the cathedral's belfry. With uncanny aim, he shot, missing the king by an inch. A witness affirms a blond man hastened away from the tower after the second shooting. The Count of Almoster was seen by one of the king's guards. The count has extensive military training. One of his former commanders, Antonio Fontes, affirmed he doubted any other officer could have taken that rifle shot.’"
Pedro gripped the armrests, trying to keep afloat. Fontes had accused him? For all his godfather's morality, he knew how to pierce a man in the back.
Cris shook his head and ran a hand over his disheveled hair. "Why are these journalists speaking such calumnies?"
Pedro pressed the sides of his temples. "Can't you see? This is not a writer’s work. Ulrich's speech made no sense back in Salgueiro, but now I understand the plan. To incriminate me of regicide. What has he accomplished by eliminating our servants? He killed my alibi."
Pedro's blood flow returned, and with it, vertigo. He had survived this far by protecting his flanks, by never allowing the enemy to break his front, by attacking first. And yet, Ulrich had burst through his defenses and cut his retreat.
Cris gasped and lowered the paper slowly. "There is more. Here it says... the king's brother was killed in the shooting."
Cold seeped into Pedro’s chest. Fernando could not be dead. He fisted his hands and shut his eyes. Why would providence spare Braganza? Only because his former aide-de-camp was the best man Pedro ever knew, the last who deserved to die young? Pedro knew too well no benevolent fate ruled the world.
Cris placed a hand over his shoulder. "I know he was your friend. It is all right to grieve."
Pedro shook away his touch, hardening his gut. "Read the rest."
"‘The Royal Guard is searching for the count. The population is incensed by the attack. The king returned to Oporto, where the Duke of Braganza will be buried—'"
Jair crashed inside the studio, his face ashen. "Sir, there are soldiers on the bridge."
Cris lowered the paper, desperation twisting his expression. "Pedro, what will we do?"
Do? Pedro had a perverse curiosity to let this farce reach its bitter end. “What would the Duke of Titano say if his heir died a traitor?”
“When will you stop giving a damn about what the duke says? Will you play into Ulrich’s hand and go to prison just to ruin Father’s legacy?” Cris’s voice cracked.
Pedro stared at his brother’s wide eyes. If he was arrested, Cris could be implicated as well. And the girl. Ulrich’s worlds rang inside his head like a death knoll. The slave trader would not rest until he eliminated any potential witnesses.
Pedro stood and strode to the door. "How many, Jair?"
"At least twenty, sir."
Cris pulled his hair, panting. "If they block the bridge, we are locked here."
"We will use it as an advantage. Jair, tell the leader I'll parlay in the gatehouse."
Jair nodded and left to do his bidding.
Cris grabbed Pedro's arm. "Are you sure it's wise?"
"The guard must see me. They'll believe I'm barricading myself here."
Cris's eyes widened, and he wrung his hands. "But they will siege the coudelaria. Wait us out. The food can only last so long. Then they will arrest you and—"
"We won't stay here. I'll lead us out through the scarps." Pedro alone knew the mountain passes through the forest. If they reached the Douro River and Barca D’Alva, they could board the yacht and evade pursuit.
"It's madness. We'll break our necks."
Now wasn't the time for Cris to question his authority. "Enough."
Pedro moved past him and reached the narrow portico of the gatehouse.
Jair guarded the door, his face set in granite, and reached for the doorknob. "The leader refused to enter alone. Brought another red jacket."
Pedro crossed the threshold. Cris followed him inside and closed the door. The square room was spartan, a table in the center, one door leading to the bridge, the other to the coudelaria's inner courtyard. A single window gave scant light, and time and mildew had blackened the walls. Smelling of dampness and stale sweat, it was the opposite of the opulent interior grounds. The officer who had come to arrest him shifted his weight from side to side.
Gabriel. Why was he not surprised?
