on which she has been lounging for the last hour while Beatriz and I sit in stiff and uncomfortable matching chairs. She lifts her hand, dangling her wrist as if it were a delicate wisp of gossamer. “Take this handkerchief, brave knight! It has rested against my breast all these years, waiting for someone worthy of my love.”
Her face grows somber and she sits up. “I wish I lived then.”
“If you lived then, you’d be dead,” Beatriz replies, a bit too cheerfully.
“I might as well be dead now.” Her voice is suddenly hollow. Elizabeth can be like that, full of cheer one moment and despondent the next. “I’ll end up betrothed to some little boy in an awful place where they don’t speak Portuguese. Or some old man who wants a young bride to make a son because he’s about ready to die and only has daughters.”
The barge is slowing to a stop, and I hear voices on the riverbank. I look out the window and see saddled horses. One man waiting for our party turns toward our barge as we step on the dock. My jaw drops. Diogo Marques? Here? Elizabeth’s eyes dart between Diogo and me. My cheeks are so hot they must be red as coals. I’ve given myself away, I realize with a sinking heart.
Diogo’s expression eventually shows that he recognizes me as the girl who roamed Sagres with hair as wild as her horse’s mane and hands and feet caked with beach sand. After months of acting out fantasies about knights and maidens, part of me believes he should fly to my side and cover my hand with kisses, but instead, he turns away without acknowledging me, and I wonder which of the two things, Diogo’s indifference or Elizabeth’s crazy ideas about love, will be the cause of more unhappy moments for me at Tomar.
***
Elizabeth conspires ceaselessly to maneuver me where I am likely to run into Diogo. I don’t tell her that I see him more often than she knows, for he comes every few days to talk with my father about the new atlas. The western coast of Africa bulges out farther than in previous maps, before dipping sharply to the east. Along the coast, my father has used sailors’ charts to fill in dozens of place names, add islands, and draw bays and inlets on the shoreline.
The interior is mostly blank, and the southern coast of Africa remains a rough line, but Cape Verde and Cape Rosso are marked, as are the Senegal and Gambia Rivers, neither of which seems to have an island of gold. Papa has ended these rivers not far from the coast, but not for long. Diogo’s new commission is to go upstream to see what might be of value there.
“What is of value to me,” Papa says, “is information.” Diogo admires my father for that, and Papa in return likes the dashing young mariner who shows such interest in his work. Diogo is polite to me but no more, asking my opinion about things like the Gold River, Prester John, and the true length of the African coast. “You know as much as anyone else, Senhorita Riba,” he says. That’s what he calls me, making me feel so grown-up that I have to keep myself from looking down ruefully that I still do not have the body to match.
My breasts do stick out a little, finally, and my hips are less bony than they used to be, but I am not beautiful and I am already too tall. Elizabeth’s maids can make my hair and her castoff clothing look quite nice, but even after they’ve done their best, I am hardly worth singling out.
The royal quarters are small at Tomar, and most of the party, including Papa and me, are lodged at the bottom of the hill. On this day, Diogo and I leave my father at the same time for the palace, I to join the princesses and Diogo to meet with the men.
We walk in silence through an arched gateway that opens onto the palace grounds. “I must leave you here,” Diogo says, putting one foot forward and keeping his leg straight as he bows to take my wrist. Time whirls as he brings my hand to his lips. I feel a pleasant stab in my belly, and my head spins with
Her face grows somber and she sits up. “I wish I lived then.”
“If you lived then, you’d be dead,” Beatriz replies, a bit too cheerfully.
“I might as well be dead now.” Her voice is suddenly hollow. Elizabeth can be like that, full of cheer one moment and despondent the next. “I’ll end up betrothed to some little boy in an awful place where they don’t speak Portuguese. Or some old man who wants a young bride to make a son because he’s about ready to die and only has daughters.”
The barge is slowing to a stop, and I hear voices on the riverbank. I look out the window and see saddled horses. One man waiting for our party turns toward our barge as we step on the dock. My jaw drops. Diogo Marques? Here? Elizabeth’s eyes dart between Diogo and me. My cheeks are so hot they must be red as coals. I’ve given myself away, I realize with a sinking heart.
Diogo’s expression eventually shows that he recognizes me as the girl who roamed Sagres with hair as wild as her horse’s mane and hands and feet caked with beach sand. After months of acting out fantasies about knights and maidens, part of me believes he should fly to my side and cover my hand with kisses, but instead, he turns away without acknowledging me, and I wonder which of the two things, Diogo’s indifference or Elizabeth’s crazy ideas about love, will be the cause of more unhappy moments for me at Tomar.
***
Elizabeth conspires ceaselessly to maneuver me where I am likely to run into Diogo. I don’t tell her that I see him more often than she knows, for he comes every few days to talk with my father about the new atlas. The western coast of Africa bulges out farther than in previous maps, before dipping sharply to the east. Along the coast, my father has used sailors’ charts to fill in dozens of place names, add islands, and draw bays and inlets on the shoreline.
The interior is mostly blank, and the southern coast of Africa remains a rough line, but Cape Verde and Cape Rosso are marked, as are the Senegal and Gambia Rivers, neither of which seems to have an island of gold. Papa has ended these rivers not far from the coast, but not for long. Diogo’s new commission is to go upstream to see what might be of value there.
“What is of value to me,” Papa says, “is information.” Diogo admires my father for that, and Papa in return likes the dashing young mariner who shows such interest in his work. Diogo is polite to me but no more, asking my opinion about things like the Gold River, Prester John, and the true length of the African coast. “You know as much as anyone else, Senhorita Riba,” he says. That’s what he calls me, making me feel so grown-up that I have to keep myself from looking down ruefully that I still do not have the body to match.
My breasts do stick out a little, finally, and my hips are less bony than they used to be, but I am not beautiful and I am already too tall. Elizabeth’s maids can make my hair and her castoff clothing look quite nice, but even after they’ve done their best, I am hardly worth singling out.
The royal quarters are small at Tomar, and most of the party, including Papa and me, are lodged at the bottom of the hill. On this day, Diogo and I leave my father at the same time for the palace, I to join the princesses and Diogo to meet with the men.
We walk in silence through an arched gateway that opens onto the palace grounds. “I must leave you here,” Diogo says, putting one foot forward and keeping his leg straight as he bows to take my wrist. Time whirls as he brings my hand to his lips. I feel a pleasant stab in my belly, and my head spins with
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