not be sent away as long as Don Abravanel has any influence at court.
I am embarrassed to be acting so silly. I shake off the dirt that clings to my skirt and stare at the ground. “We were just playing a game,” I say.
“And an excellent one at that, it would seem,” one of the men replies.
Something about the way Judah Abravanel looks at me pierces to my core, as if he knows all my secrets. I look back and see he is still watching as Elizabeth makes an embarrassed withdrawal and drags her sister and me back inside the palace.
***
That night, I lie awake, reviewing what I know about the intense man in the garden. I interpret for my father when they meet privately, and I know that Don Abravanel was one of the late King Duarte’s most important advisers, raising money and lending his own treasure to help finance Henry’s expeditions and the failed military campaign in Tangiers. As a reward, Don Abravanel is a wealthy man, granted by the king a house and land in the nearby town of Queluz.
He is proud of my father’s new work, accurate far into Africa and more detailed to the east than any atlas before it. “We should limit ourselves to what we actually find,” he said one day, tapping the side of his head and looking at me. “Knowledge. That’s the key to conquering fear. And fear is the greatest enemy of man.”
Judah Abravanel has a home where they light candles, where they sing special songs on Shabbat afternoons—precious things I have lost. Christians keep their distance from Jews on the streets, but I always try to pass as close as I can, hoping to catch their words. Often I know they are near before I see them, as if a force in the air connects us.
I know why I can’t get my mind off him. I have drifted too far and too long from what my mother taught me. I am a thirteen-year-old girl who lives in a Christian world. I should accept that. Still, I find no rest until the night has crept all the way to dawn.
***
“‘The Child of the Sea remained fifteen days in that castle, where the damsel tended to his wounds, and then, though they were hardly healed, he departed.’” Elizabeth traces her fingers over the words in Amadis of Gaul .
“He was very brave,” Beatriz says solemnly.
“But such things have to be done,” Elizabeth says. “If a maiden needs to be avenged, any good knight is obliged to do it.” Her eyes drift away dreamily. “Even if it costs him his life.”
I look out the window. It’s a week after Easter, and I am in the private compartment of one of the royal barges, heading up the Tagus River toward the Convento de Cristo at Tomar. The day is warm, and the curtains flutter as the scent of blossoms wafts around us. The oars creak as twenty or more rowers strain against the current, but the only other sounds are the riotous calls of birds and the occasional buzz of a dragonfly that has left the riverbank to investigate the brightly colored barge.
So much has changed in the two weeks since Eleanor had her baby. People had been waiting to see if it was a boy, for if so, he would be second in line to the throne, and Eleanor would be harder to get rid of. Luckily it was a girl, baptized Juana, and quickly forgotten.
Only a few days later, Pedro became the new regent, appearing with great fanfare next to Prince Afonso for Easter mass in the cathedral. Now Pedro and Elizabeth’s father João are taking Afonso for a ceremonial stay at the headquarters of Prince Henry’s Order of Christ at Tomar, and their families are coming with them.
Elizabeth hands the book to her sister. “‘He thought of his lost love,’” Beatriz reads, “‘and said to himself, “Ah, child without lands and without lineage, how dare thou fix thy heart upon her who excels all others in goodness, beauty, and parentage? I, who know not who I am, must die without declaring my love.”’”
Elizabeth sighs. “Wouldn’t it be nice to be loved like that?” She lies back on the ornate upholstered couch
I am embarrassed to be acting so silly. I shake off the dirt that clings to my skirt and stare at the ground. “We were just playing a game,” I say.
“And an excellent one at that, it would seem,” one of the men replies.
Something about the way Judah Abravanel looks at me pierces to my core, as if he knows all my secrets. I look back and see he is still watching as Elizabeth makes an embarrassed withdrawal and drags her sister and me back inside the palace.
***
That night, I lie awake, reviewing what I know about the intense man in the garden. I interpret for my father when they meet privately, and I know that Don Abravanel was one of the late King Duarte’s most important advisers, raising money and lending his own treasure to help finance Henry’s expeditions and the failed military campaign in Tangiers. As a reward, Don Abravanel is a wealthy man, granted by the king a house and land in the nearby town of Queluz.
He is proud of my father’s new work, accurate far into Africa and more detailed to the east than any atlas before it. “We should limit ourselves to what we actually find,” he said one day, tapping the side of his head and looking at me. “Knowledge. That’s the key to conquering fear. And fear is the greatest enemy of man.”
Judah Abravanel has a home where they light candles, where they sing special songs on Shabbat afternoons—precious things I have lost. Christians keep their distance from Jews on the streets, but I always try to pass as close as I can, hoping to catch their words. Often I know they are near before I see them, as if a force in the air connects us.
I know why I can’t get my mind off him. I have drifted too far and too long from what my mother taught me. I am a thirteen-year-old girl who lives in a Christian world. I should accept that. Still, I find no rest until the night has crept all the way to dawn.
***
“‘The Child of the Sea remained fifteen days in that castle, where the damsel tended to his wounds, and then, though they were hardly healed, he departed.’” Elizabeth traces her fingers over the words in Amadis of Gaul .
“He was very brave,” Beatriz says solemnly.
“But such things have to be done,” Elizabeth says. “If a maiden needs to be avenged, any good knight is obliged to do it.” Her eyes drift away dreamily. “Even if it costs him his life.”
I look out the window. It’s a week after Easter, and I am in the private compartment of one of the royal barges, heading up the Tagus River toward the Convento de Cristo at Tomar. The day is warm, and the curtains flutter as the scent of blossoms wafts around us. The oars creak as twenty or more rowers strain against the current, but the only other sounds are the riotous calls of birds and the occasional buzz of a dragonfly that has left the riverbank to investigate the brightly colored barge.
So much has changed in the two weeks since Eleanor had her baby. People had been waiting to see if it was a boy, for if so, he would be second in line to the throne, and Eleanor would be harder to get rid of. Luckily it was a girl, baptized Juana, and quickly forgotten.
Only a few days later, Pedro became the new regent, appearing with great fanfare next to Prince Afonso for Easter mass in the cathedral. Now Pedro and Elizabeth’s father João are taking Afonso for a ceremonial stay at the headquarters of Prince Henry’s Order of Christ at Tomar, and their families are coming with them.
Elizabeth hands the book to her sister. “‘He thought of his lost love,’” Beatriz reads, “‘and said to himself, “Ah, child without lands and without lineage, how dare thou fix thy heart upon her who excels all others in goodness, beauty, and parentage? I, who know not who I am, must die without declaring my love.”’”
Elizabeth sighs. “Wouldn’t it be nice to be loved like that?” She lies back on the ornate upholstered couch
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