At first I thought the plague had affected this part of Castile. Rumors of the dreaded sickness had always prompted us to bolt Arévalo’s gates and remain inside until the danger passed, so I did not know what it actually looked like. When I ventured to ask why these people looked so miserable, Villena said, “They’re starving, like all their kind. Laziness is the disease of the campesino. But these are not times of plenty; taxes must be paid. Those who do not—they know the price they’ll pay.”
He motioned to a nearby gibbet, where a decaying body festered. “We do not tolerate sedition in Castile.”
Girón guffawed. I stared in disbelief. “But we’ve just ridden through acres of untended land. Why can’t the poor plant there and earn their keep?”
“Your Highness has much to learn,” said Villena coldly. “That untended land, as you deem it, belongs to the grandees. It is for their pleasure, not for some peasant to tear up with his hoe and oxen and parcel of snotty brats.”
“All that land? It all belongs to the nobles?”
Before Villena could reply, Girón spat, “It should be more. We wouldn’t have to use our own retainers to guard these rat-hole towns had we not been forced to compromise, because the king said we received their rents.” He hit his chest with his fist. “I said no, let them fend for themselves; but I was outnumbered by those cowards on the Council.”
I felt heat rush into my cheeks and turned from his contemptuous face. Beatriz arched her brow at me, as if to say these were matters we could not possibly understand. But I understood. I remembered what my mother had said of the grandees’ unquenchable greed and of my half brother’s willingness to do anything to keep them at bay. She had not exaggerated; evidently, the kingdom had been given over to them.
Never had Arévalo seemed as distant as it did in that instant. I almost cried out in relief when I finally caught sight of the dusky eastern ridges of the Sierra de Guadarrama in the distance, framing Segovia’s sunset-lit spires. The city lay draped in hill-cuddled splendor behind fortified walls, carved by the Eresma and Clamores rivers, and guarded by the proud alcazar on its promontory. As we approached one of the five city gates, I saw scaffolding covering the thrust of the alcazar’s oblong keep, the Torre de Homenaje.
Villena said, “My lord the archbishop has prepared lodgings for you in the casa real near the alcazar.” He sighed with dramatic weariness. “With the king’s habitual restoration projects and the grandees’ retinues, I regret there is no extra room in the castle itself.”
I hid my relief, even as I noticed Beatriz’s pursed lips, betraying disappointment that we’d not lodge in the very center of the court. I was tired from the journey and my troubled thoughts. Unlike her, I preferred to collect my thoughts in a place apart, before we were thrust into court life.
We entered the clamor of a city twice as large as Ávila and three times as populated. The streets were narrow, cobblestoned or mud-packed; the ringing of our horses’ shoes echoed against the close-set buildings as Beatriz and I rode behind Alfonso. Villena, Girón, Chacón, and the retainers surrounded us. The smells of horse droppings, smoke, cooking food, foul tanneries, and forgers mingled in the dense air; it took all my concentration to keep Canela from prancing nervously at the din of shouting passersby. The retainers opened a path before us, using halberds to disperse anyone who impeded our way. Some of the townsfolk stopped to stare as we rode past, whispering to each other behind their hands.
What were they saying, I wondered; what did they see? An adolescent girl whose hair was coming loose under her veil and a young boy, the grit of the country under his nails—that’s what they must see: two innocents, brought into a world where they did not belong.
I glanced at Villena. He rode with ease, his gold-edged cloak wrapped about him, his chin lifted as if to avoid the stench of the street. As though he sensed my scrutiny he turned his pale yellow stare to me. We rode under a stone-lace Mudéjar gateway into the royal palace, where Carrillo waited in the courtyard, a frown worrying his brow.
“You’re late,” he said as we dismounted. “His Majesty has asked that the infantes attend him tonight.” He gave me a hasty smile. “My dear, you must be quick. We’re expected in the alcazar within the hour.”
“I hope we have time to bathe,” I whispered to Beatriz. She started to whisper back when a thin man of medium stature emerged from the palace. He wore a simple black velvet doublet of mid-length and impeccable cut, slightly flared at the waist to show off his elegant legs in embroidered hose. Bowing before us, he spoke in a courtier’s modulated voice. “I am Andrés de Cabrera, governor of the alcazar of Segovia. I have the honor of escorting Your Highness to her apartments.”
He immediately made me feel at ease. With his solemn features, receding hairline, and deep-set brown eyes, he reminded me of Pedro de Bobadilla, Beatriz’s father, though Andrés de Cabrera was many years younger. Beatriz also reacted to his presence, her face brightening as she said, “We are most grateful for your assistance, Don Cabrera.”
“It is my pleasure. Please, come this way.” It was only then that I realized Alfonso wasn’t with us. I glanced past the servants collecting our belongings to see Carrillo taking my brother in the opposite direction. Carrying Alfonso’s personal coffer, Don Chacón trudged obligingly behind.
Fear coiled in me. “Where is my brother going?” I asked. Though I tried to sound calm, I heard the ragged edge in my voice.
Cabrera paused. “His Highness has his own rooms, of course.” He offered me a gentle smile. “Do not worry, Your Highness. You’ll see him at the banquet.”
“Oh.” I forced out a chuckle. “Of course, how silly of me.”
It made sense; Alfonso must live as befitted his rank now that we were at court. He’d no longer be just a few doors away; we could not meet up at a moment’s notice. But the suddenness of our separation clung to me as we moved away from the palace and into the labyrinthine casa real next door, Beatriz close at my side. We passed under fluted arcades that opened onto citrine patios, our heels clicking on the polished floors of jasper and emerald-tiled salas dripping in painted alabaster lace. After the noise of the city, the silence was luxurious, enhanced by the diamond-clear trickle of water in unseen fountains and the soft rustle of our skirts.
I was doubting that I’d ever be able to find my way around this place on my own when we entered a spacious room with fluted windows—framed by carved wooden jalousies—that opened onto an expanse of garden. From somewhere nearby I heard the muted roar of a beast and gave a start. “What is that?”
Cabrera smiled again. “His Majesty’s leopards; they must be hungry. It’s almost time for their feeding.”
“Leopards?” echoed Beatriz, in astonishment. “The king keeps wild animals here?”
“Only two,” said Cabrera. “And I assure you they’re well caged and fed. In his forest lodge of El Balacín in the foothills, he has many more lions and bears, as well as big strange birds from Africa, and an assortment of other creatures. His Majesty is a great lover of animals; here, he usually oversees the leopards himself, but tonight that duty falls on me.”
“And does he use these animals to hunt?” I asked, wondering how close these exotic leopards were to my rooms. “I’ve heard he is quite fond of hunting.”
Cabrera frowned. “On the contrary, His Majesty rarely hunts and never with his own animals. He abhors bloodshed; he’s even forbidden the corrida in Segovia.”
“No bullfights?” Beatriz glanced at me; she had heard Villena tell Alfonso that Enrique wanted to show him the pleasures of the hunt. Apparently, the marquis had misled us. It made me wonder what other untruths he and his uncouth brother had told us, though I was secretly pleased to hear that Enrique disliked bullfights. I did, too, intensely; I had never understood how anyone could find delight in the blood and pandemonium of the arena. Though I’d been raised in a rural area where animals were regularly slaughtered for sustenance, it seemed unnatural to me to turn a creature’s suffering into a cr
owd-pleasing spectacle.
“Are Alfonso’s rooms far from us?” I asked, unclasping my cloak.
“Not too far,” answered Cabrera. “His Highness will reside in the alcazar, which is rather crowded at the moment. My lord the archbishop thought it best if you resided somewhere more private. However, if you do not care for these rooms, I could try to secure apartments closer to the infante’s. Alas, they will be smaller. All the large rooms are currently occupied by the grandees who have come to see the new princess.”
“No,” I said, “do not trouble yourself. These rooms suit me fine.”
He stepped aside as two men brought in our clothes chests and set them on the tiled floor. “You’ll find a basin of fresh water and cloths on the stand by the window, my lady. I regret that a hot bath is impossible, given the hour, but tomorrow I’ll have one drawn for you.”
“That would be lovely.” I inclined my head. “Thank you. You are most kind.”
“No need to thank me, my infanta. It is my honor to serve you. Please, do not hesitate to call upon me should you require anything. I am at your disposal.” He bowed. “You, too, my lady de Bobadilla; I am, of course, also at your service.”
As he left, I was amused to see Beatriz flush. “Such a nice man,” she said, “but I didn’t tell him my name, did I? How did he know?”
I didn’t answer her. I was not thinking of Cabrera, whom I sensed was someone we could trust, but of Villena. “Beatriz, why do you think the marquis misled us? First he said the king was a master of the hunt, which isn’t true according to Don Cabrera, and then he said there were no rooms for us in the alcazar. Such petty lies; I hardly see the point.”
“Petty on the surface, perhaps.” She unlaced my outer gown, removing it to leave me in my hose and shift. “But he won Alfonso’s attention with the first lie and effectively separated him from us with the next. And Cabrera also said that Carrillo had decided to lodge you here, for privacy’s sake. Might it not be less for privacy and more because he too wants to keep you and Alfonso at a distance?”
I did not relish this astute assessment. As I went to wash the grit from my face and throat with the lavender water in the basin, leaving Beatriz to rummage through the chest for my gown, I pondered what else I knew. If Carrillo and Villena sought to keep Alfonso and me apart, when they knew my brother and I had grown up together, it was either out of cruelty or for more sinister motivations. We’d just arrived; did they seek to draft Alfonso into their schemes already? And were they working together?
I took up a towel, about to tell Beatriz my thoughts when a clamor came from outside. Before I could move, the door flew open and a group of women swarmed in.
I had not undressed in front of anyone save Beatriz since my tenth year. Not even Doña Clara had dared intrude on me without knocking, and I stood dumbstruck as the women flittered into the chamber like fantastical birds, their words unintelligible to me in my stunned state. My new court gown, made from the green velvet bought in Ávila, was snatched from Beatriz and passed around. One of the women made a disapproving cluck. Another laughed. As their mirth penetrated my ears, Beatriz grabbed the gown from them.
“It is new,” I heard her declare, “if you please, and of course it has matching sleeves. I was just looking for them when you so rudely barged in.”
She glared. I focused on the women. My breath caught in my throat.
They all were young, dressed in gowns unlike any I’d ever seen, with low-cut bodices that almost exposed their bosoms and frothing skirts of glittering fabric, their cinched waists enhanced by a multitude of dangling silk purses and ornaments. Their hair was curled into elaborate coiffures concocted with flimsy veils, combs, and threaded pearls or coins; their mouths were rouged, their eyes lined in thick kohl. Some had a decidedly dusky cast to their complexions, denoting Moorish blood; the ones Beatriz faced were dark-eyed beauties with milky skin and sharp white hands.
The lady whom Beatriz had taken my dress from—green-eyed and clad in curve-hugging scarlet—shrugged. “Está bien. If this is all the Infanta Isabella has, we can make do.” She turned to me with an apologetic air. “I’m afraid we’ve no time to find a suitable gown but we can fetch accessories to make this one more appealing.”
My voice issued hoarse. “And who … who might you be?”
She paused, as though no one had ever asked her such a question before. “I am Doña Mencia de Mendoza, lady-in-honor to Queen Juana. I am here for whatever you require.”
I nodded, gathering my composure as best as I could, considering I was standing barefoot in my stockings and chemise. “I don’t require anything at the moment, thank you. There’s no need for any fuss.”
Mencia de Mendoza widened her eyes. “It’s no fuss. The queen sent us specifically to attend you. It is her express desire that you be well cared for.”
“The infanta is in my charge,” said Beatriz. “I assure you, she’s very well cared for.”
“Your charge?” Mencia laughed. “But you’re hardly out of the nursery yourself!”
“I am fifteen,” Beatriz said. “Out of the nursery long enough to know my duty, my lady. As Her Highness just informed you, we do not require anything.”
Mencia’s smile faded; her black-lined eyes narrowed.
I said quickly, “My lady de Bobadilla and I are most grateful to Her Grace, but I’ve no desire for accessories; my tastes are simple. And I’m unused to so many attendants and would prefer that my lady de Bobadilla serve me alone, if you please.”
Mencia’s expression did not betray further displeasure, though I detected tartness in her voice as she executed a curtsey. “As Your Highness wishes.” She glanced pointedly at Beatriz. “You should become accustomed to being part of a larger household; you’re under the queen’s care and Her Grace likes to surround herself with women of culture.”
With these words, she herded the others out, leaving Beatriz and me alone.
“The nerve!” Beatriz fumed, turning to the chest. She found the sleeves and proceeded to dress me as I stood immobile. “Who does that Mencia de Mendoza think she is? Women of culture—did you see the paint on her face? Harlots wear less. Oh, if Doña Clara were here she’d have a fit. Can it be the queen lets women like those attend her?”
I repressed a shudder as she laced up my outer gown and affixed the draping sleeves lined in velvet. “She’s not just any woman,” I said. “The Mendozas are one of the noblest families in Castile; Mencia is the daughter of a grandee.”
Beatriz snorted. “Is that so? Well, I’ve never reprimanded a grandee’s daughter before.” She turned me around. Taking a brush from a case, she stroked my waist-length, chestnut-gold hair to a rippling sheen; my hair was one of my secret vanities, though I had tried to subdue it, having been advised by the nuns in Santa Ana that a woman’s tresses were Satan’s ladder.
“There.” Beatriz stepped back. “Let’s see what Mencia de Mendoza has to say now. I vow there’s not a girl at court with skin as unblemished or hair as golden as yours.”
“Vanity is a sin,” I reproached with a smile, as she changed into her own sedate black gown, coiling her hair at her nape moments before a rapping at the door preceded Carrillo.
At the sight of him, I straightened my spine. Though I knew he would look after us as promised, for our welfare was bound with his, I had no doubt he’d manipulated my mother into conceding our release, promising something he had no right to offer. He was a powerful man, ruthless; and we were now beholden to him. I must be careful, in both my actions and my words. I must feign acquiescence so I could better watch over my brother. Fortunately, I had the feeling Carrillo didn’t expect anything else from me anyway.
He regarded me. “I was informed that you disdained the attentions of the queen’s own ladies, though they were sent here to attend you. Is this true?”
“Why, yes.” I injected concern in my voice. “Did I make a mistake? I hardly saw the need for ten to accomplish what one can do just as well.”
&nbs
p; Beatriz shot me a sarcastic look but Carrillo, to my relief, only let out an indulgent laugh. “You certainly weren’t raised at court; that much is clear. Doña Mencia complains that your clothes are fit only for the poorhouse but I think you look rather charming, even if the gown’s style is a little outdated.”
“It was made by my mother. I am proud to wear it.”
“Good.” He nodded vigorously. “Pride is good, though not too much of it, eh?” He wagged his finger, encircled by its gold ring. “We don’t want you starting out on the wrong foot.” He winked at Beatriz. “And you apparently excel at protecting our infanta and making enemies, little Bobadilla. Exercise more care with whom you insult, yes? Doña Mencia holds the queen’s favor and I don’t have the time or inclination to arbitrate feminine quarrels.”
“Of course,” I said, stopping Beatriz’s protest. “It will not happen again, my lord.” I set my hand on his arm. “I believe I am ready.”
With a smile, I let him lead me out to my first meeting with the king.
CHAPTER SIX
Within the great sala, countless beeswax tapers melted above us in hanging iron candelabra, lighting up the gilded stalactites of the ceiling, which shimmered like an iridescent sky. Along the upper edge of the walls, painted statues of Castile’s early kings frowned; below their pedestals hung wide tapestries of wool and silk, the vivid hues reflecting like liquid across the polished floor. The air throbbed with conversation, with laughter and firefly flashes of brilliantly clad courtiers, everything scented by myrrh and perfume and incense.
The Queen's Vow: A Novel of Isabella of Castile Page 6