Pedro opened the arched portal, expecting a moldy, dark interior, but heavenly light bathed the nave, pouring from a rosette-shaped window over eight meters high. The acute silence weighed on his ears. A profusion of chrysanthemums laded the air with a mournful perfume.
Count on medieval architecture to turn a man of his stature the size of an ant.
Unwilling to stay longer than necessary, Pedro strode to the third line of pews. He cupped his hand and tapped the wood until he found a hollow spot. With a folding knife, he removed the lid, uncovering a leather satchel. A quick perusal revealed documents, maps, and photographs.
Pedro had folded it under his arm and turned to leave when the light changed, illuminating the end of the cross-shaped cathedral. Pedro recognized it at once. The final resting place Dom Pedro had built for himself and the love of his life.
Pedro tensed. He should go away. Had he not endured enough sentimentality in the past few days to last him a lifetime? Still, his legs took him to them.
On opposite sides of the altar, Dom Pedro and Inês rested under a shaft of milky light. The air was brisk, with a trace of rosemary, and strangely rarefied. Her image rested above the grave's lid, serene, surrounded by angels, a crown atop her head. The effigy had a haunting quality, art that had stood the test of centuries, a Gothic beauty that made the most stoic of souls glimpse the power of love found and lost.
Pedro turned to the king. Like Inês, his image lay atop the marble coffin. But unlike her, he had his eyes open, gazing at the heavens. His expression was melancholy, anguished even.
Pedro sighed heavily. "Was it worth your eternal peace, this love?"
Standing behind Dom Pedro's tomb, Pedro could see Inês’s grave. Dom Pedro had demanded it this way, so on judgment's day, the first thing they would look at would be each other.
And Pedro had his answer.
"She saw you, didn't she? The only one who did? Your precious Castilian girl, your haven among a court that didn't understand you."
Circling the grave, he trailed his hand over the carved symbols, images, and inscriptions. A rosette stood below Dom Pedro's feet—the wheel of life. Pedro traced the inscription above it.
Until the end of time.
Eighteen scenes decorated the spaces. Their fateful meeting, their chess games, and the birthing of their sons. When he arrived at the last one, his chest constricted painfully. Her death sentence. Anger burned in his stomach and traveled to his chest, so acute it fisted his hands, and a roar thundered out of his throat.
"Why didn’t you fight for your Inês? Why didn’t you marry her and make her your queen when you had the chance? Instead, you worried about politics, intrigues, locked in the shadow of a father who didn’t love you."
The statue didn't answer.
"Why wait until her death to make her your queen?Agora não adianta,Inês é morta. It doesn’t matter now. Inês is dead."
Beneath the heavenly light, Pedro felt bare. All he had constructed in his life was this—a monument to regret.
The villa seemed deserted. No bells of her voice or the dog's bark to greet him.
Had Anne left again?
Pedro pushed the thought away. She had promised to stay, and Anne was loyal. Still, the twenty hours without seeing her had dragged like a century.
Midway to the kitchen, Pedro found the housekeeper. "Where is she?"
The woman twisted her apron. "The poor dear moped about the house, pallid. I've shoved her outside to enjoy the sun and the water, Your Excellency."
Pedro strode through the French doors. His pulse jugged erratically as he navigated a path through bougainvillea and sage bushes. The ocean glittered in his line of sight. His heart thrashed against his ribs as if wanting to get out, to be the first to see her.
Pedro took offhis boots and stepped into the sand, forcing himself to walk when his legs wanted to run. The beach extended a mile in both directions, protected by a cliff.
Dante and Beatriz clasped hands by a checkered cloth spread on the sand. Were they together? He would have to speak with the condottiere later.
Following their gazes, Pedro found her.
Anne faced the horizon, the ocean reaching her thighs. The sun caressed her skin, glowing over her glorious hair. A breath he was unconscious of holding went out from his chest.
Dante cleared his throat. "All is well, sir. We had some—"
"Leave us."
