I knew the alcazar’s history. During the glacial winters in Arévalo, Beatriz and I had entertained ourselves reading aloud from the Crónicas, which related stories of the kings and queens who had lived and died within these walls. Like Castile’s other fortresses, the alcazar of Segovia had been built as a Moorish stronghold before it was wrested away during the Reconquista. I’d expected to feel awe inside the historic castle where my ancestors had dwelled. What I did not anticipate was the sudden emotion that overcame me, like the awakening of something dormant in my blood. I had to focus my eyes on the dais at the hall’s end, with its empty throne, to keep from gaping as Beatriz was.
Carrillo approached us and told Beatriz to step aside. He took me to the dais. The courtiers drew back, staring at me for what seemed an impossibly long moment before heads lowered in deference. I could almost hear their thoughts—“Here she is, the half sister of the king”—and fought to ignore the sensation that I was being appraised by hungry predators. I caught sight of Mencia in her scarlet gown, standing close to the marquis of Villena. When his smile bared teeth, I looked away to the tables set against the walls in preparation for the evening banquet, each weighted with jewel-rimmed platters sprouting minarets of Andalucían oranges, cherries from Extremadura, sugared almonds, dates, figs, and apricots—a veritable orchard of delights, piled with such abundance it seemed almost sinful, a profligate waste.
Carrillo bowed before the dais, declaring in his booming voice, “The Infanta Isabella!”
I curtsied to the floor, hiding my discomfiture. Why did he address an empty throne?
Then I heard a soft voice inquire, “Can this be my little sister?” and I peeped up to see a large man in black, reclining nearby on a mound of silk tasseled cushions, a plate of delicacies at his side, attended by a veiled figure in a gown. Lined up directly against the wall behind him stood a regiment of Moorish sentries, sheathed scimitars at their hips, their pantaloons and turbans making them look as if they’d just arrived from Granada.
“Majestad,” I murmured.
My half brother Enrique rose. The last time I’d seen him I had been a child and had not marked how tall he was. Now he seemed to loom over me—an odd, misshapen man, his head, crowned with a red, Moorish-style turban, seeming too large for his gangly body, his shaggy gold-red mane falling in lank strands from under his turban to his concave shoulders. He wore a black-and-gold embroidered caftan; I glimpsed the curling tips of red leather slippers on his strangely dainty feet.
I stared at him, forgetting myself. I’d heard it said he resembled my father but I barely recalled the dead king who had sired us and searched in vain for any familial resemblance.
“You … you are pretty,” said Enrique, as if he’d not considered my appearance until this moment. I met his mournful amber-hued eyes, slightly protuberant and heavy-lidded. With his flat nose, rounded cheeks, and fleshy lips he was not comely; only his impressive height lent him distinction. And while tunics in the Moorish style were part of every Castilian’s wardrobe, especially useful for keeping cool during the summer months, my mother had only allowed us to don such garb in the privacy of our rooms. I could imagine what she’d say if she had been here, to see the king dressed like an infidel on our first night at court. But Enrique’s timorous smile beckoned me closer; as I leaned to kiss his hand, adorned with the signet of Castile, he suddenly pulled me into an awkward embrace. He smelled musky, like an unwashed animal. Sensitive as I was to odors, I did not find his unpleasant, though I supposed it was not how a king ought to smell.
“Welcome, sister,” he said. “Welcome to my court.”
Around us the courtiers broke into fervent applause. Enrique kept my hand in his as he turned with me to face the hall. “Where is my brother the Infante Alfonso?” he called out, and from within the throng of courtiers my brother emerged, hand-in-hand with a sturdy youth. Alfonso was flushed, a telltale sign he’d been imbibing undiluted wine—something forbidden to him until now. Evidently whatever regrets he’d had at leaving our home behind had been subsumed by the excitement of our new surroundings. I didn’t see Don Chacón anywhere, either, though usually he was not far from Alfonso’s side.
“Look who’s here, Isabella.” Alfonso nodded toward his companion. “It’s our cousin Fernando from Aragón. We’re sharing a room, though all he’s done so far is ask about you.”
Fernando bowed before me. “Your Highness,” he said, a tremor in his voice, “this is a great honor, though I doubt you remember me.”
He was wrong; I did remember him, or at least I knew of him by name. He was the last person I’d expected to find here, at my half brother’s court, however.
Our families shared Trastámara blood through our ancestors, but enmity and rapacity had led Castile and Aragón to wage war against each other for centuries. The kings of Aragón zealously guarded their smaller, independent realm, constantly at odds with France and suspicious of Castile, though never enough to disdain alliances of marriage, in the hope of one day putting an Aragonese prince on Castile’s throne.
A year younger than I, Fernando was, like Alfonso and me, born of a second marriage, in his case between his father, Juan of Aragón, and Juana Enríquez, daughter of the hereditary admirals of Castile. Fernando was also heir to Aragón since his older half brother had died several years before. While I was acquainted with the facts of Fernando’s family and his bloodline, I’d not heard anything particularly interesting about him or his kingdom; indeed, I knew almost nothing other than the fact that in my childhood, his ever-scheming father, King Juan, had proposed Fernando as a spouse for me.
As I now gazed upon this prince who was my distant cousin, I thought he had a disconcertingly attractive countenance, with a strong nose and clever mouth, and shining brown eyes fringed in thick lashes that any woman would envy. His left eye was slightly smaller, with a peculiar slant to it that lent his face an impish cast. He was short yet robustly built for his age, and his thick dark hair was straight, cut bluntly at his shoulders. I was especially taken by the olive cast of his complexion, turned bronze by the sun. I imagined he spent most of his time outdoors, like my brother, but while Alfonso shone pale as alabaster, Fernando looked almost swarthy, like a Moor, his person exuding irrepressible vitality. Though they couldn’t have been less alike, I did not wonder that my brother and he behaved as if they were old friends, for in spirit they appeared to have much in common.
I started as I realized his gaze was equally intent on me. I said softly, “How can I remember you, cousin, when we’ve not actually met until now?”
“I’ve heard so much about you,” he replied, “I feel as though we’ve known each other our entire lives.”
Though he was only twelve—a boy, in truth—for some inexplicable reason, Fernando of Aragón left me strangely breathless.
At my side, Enrique said, “Fernando has come to help us celebrate the birth of my daughter. He’ll be standing in for his father tomorrow, as King Juan suffers from cataracts and could not make the journey. It is my hope we can look forward to a newfound rapport between our realms. There’s been too much strife, though we share the same blood.”
“Indeed, Your Majesty,” said Fernando, without taking his gaze from me. “Rapport we must have, now that the French spider knocks at our gates.”
“Foreign policy from the mouths of babes,” exclaimed Carrillo with a guffaw. But Enrique replied somberly, “He speaks the truth. Neither Aragón nor Castile can afford war with Louis of France. Peace, indeed, we must have.”
Fernando turned abruptly to me. “Will Your Highness dine at our table?”
I faltered, looking at the king. Enrique smiled. “I don’t see why not—” he started to say before his voice cut off, his entire posture stiffening.
Curious, I followed his gaze.
A woman was gliding toward us, her head held high. Courtiers lining the aisle to the dais dropped into obeisance as she passed. She moved with rhythmic grace, a ruby-and-gold belt girdling he
r slim hips, the hem of her ivory velvet gown encrusted with jeweled tracery. Following behind her were the women who had tried to attend me earlier in the casa real.
I didn’t have to ask who she was. I too bent my knees into a deep curtsey.
“Enrique!” chided Queen Juana. “I had no idea our guests had arrived. Why did you not send word? I was just seeing our pequeñita to sleep.” As she spoke, she bestowed a dazzling smile upon Alfonso, who went red as flame, before turning her attention to me.
Never had any woman looked less as if she had just been at an infant’s bedside. In fact, it was almost impossible to believe she’d ever given birth. She was slender as a wand, impeccably coiffed, her lustrous dark auburn hair coiled at either side of her face, threaded with seed pearls. She had a flawless complexion highlighted by powder and rouge. Her eyes in particular were stunning, black as onyx and wide-set, her lashes thickened with kohl to enhance their luster. She looked like a perfect piece of painted statuary.
“Rise, my dear,” she said. “Let me see you. So grown up,” she purred. “Why, you’re practically a woman. And here we expected a little girl in braids.”
As she kissed my cheek, her cloying scent of attar of roses smothered me. I flinched and started to draw back; her stare cut through me like a blade, cold appraisal in her eyes.
The sound of pages dragging the tables forth for the meal intruded; Enrique said, “We were just discussing our seating arrangements. Isabella wishes to dine with her brother and Fernando. I did not see any reason why she shouldn’t—”
“Absolutely not,” interrupted Juana. “She must dine with my ladies, as is proper. You did say she’d be under my care, yes?” She extended a long-nailed hand to Enrique; he recoiled. “Stop that,” he muttered. She shrugged, taking me by the arm to steer us to the nearest table.
“Wait,” Enrique said.
She paused.
“I believe Isabella and the infantes should dine with me tonight.”
“But Beltrán de la Cueva is dining with you tonight, remember? You promised—”
“I know what I promised. But I am the king; I am entitled to change my mind. Beltrán de la Cueva is a subject. Let him dine with my other subjects, as is proper.”
I felt her fingers dig into my arm. “Enrique, is that wise? You know how quickly Beltrán takes offense and you did promise to show him favor tonight.”
“I don’t care if he takes offense.” Enrique replied stonily, but I had the impression he did not relish confrontation of any sort, much less with his wife. “My family is here for the first time since I took the throne. They’ll dine with me tonight. I command it.”
She let out a terse laugh. “Why, yes, of course! No need to command, my dear. But there’s hardly room on the dais for all of us. Would you have us dine on cushions like Moors?”
Enrique’s voice hardened. “I said, Isabella and the infantes. You may eat wherever you like. That way, you can save a place for Beltrán de la Cueva, whose dignity you are apparently so intent on preserving.”
She froze. I could not tell if she was horrified or enraged.
“I’ll dine with Her Highness,” piped Alfonso. “That way, she can be near family, too.”
Enrique glanced at Alfonso. “You’ve been well brought up, my brother. If Her Grace agrees, then by all means, dine with her.”
Alfonso looked eagerly at the queen. All he saw was a woman in distress; he was too young, too inexperienced to perceive what was painfully clear to me. She had borne a child after years of barrenness yet Enrique treated her without any respect or affection. Was it true then, what Beatriz had told me on the ride to Ávila? Was there doubt at court about the child’s paternity? Did even my own half brother doubt the child was his?
“How can I resist such gallantry?” She smiled with brittle coquetry at Alfonso before she flicked a hand at her women and they proceeded to the nearby table.
As the sentries removed the throne and set up a table on the dais, I glanced at the archbishop. His bushy black brows were knotted in a scowl, his stare fixed on the queen as she ostentatiously sat my brother at her right side, flanked by the ladies. The open contempt in his stance startled me; for a second, his jovial mask had slipped and I glimpsed something hard and much darker beneath it.
“If Your Majesty will excuse me,” he said, turning to Enrique, “I have some urgent business to attend to.”
My half brother gave an absent nod. Carrillo inclined his head to me and without another word strode away. I couldn’t help but think his sudden departure was due to his obvious dislike of the queen; I stared after him, not hearing Beatriz sidle up to me until she whispered, “I’ve something I must tell you.”
“Not now,” I said. “Find Don Chacón. I don’t know where he is and Alfonso should not be left alone with the queen and her ladies for too long.”
I took my seat on the dais beside Enrique, and Fernando took his place at the king’s opposite side. I found I was trembling. It must be fatigue and hunger, I decided; by this hour in Arévalo I’d have long since dined, recited my devotions, and retired. But as the first courses of roast boar in artichoke hearts and venison sautéed in a Rioja sauce were set before us, I could barely eat a full bite. All my attention was focused on covert observation of the queen, as she consumed goblet after goblet of wine until bright pink punctuated her face; she was leaning to Alfonso, caressing his cheeks and murmuring in his ear. At the table next to them, the marquis’s brother Pedro Girón sat alone, tearing into a haunch of venison with his bare hands. Bloody juice ran down his chin as he gestured brusquely for a refill of his goblet. Villena was nowhere in sight. Had he followed Carrillo out?
“This must all seem very strange to you,” said Enrique suddenly, and I started, turning in my chair to face him. “All this excess: I’m told you did not have nearly as much in Arévalo. Indeed, I understand you, your brother, and your mother have led a frugal life.”
“Yes, we did. But we managed well enough. Frugality can be a blessing.”
“And I notice that you prefer water,” he said, glancing at my goblet, which I’d covered with my hand to stop the page with his ubiquitous decanter. “Do you not drink wine?”
“Wine often gives me a headache, even when I dilute it.” As I spoke, I saw Fernando lean in, looking past Enrique at me with disquieting intensity.
“I too dislike wine,” said Enrique. “I’ll only drink it on state occasions. There is much clean water in Segovia; it comes from the sierra, fresh and cold. It used to flow through the aqueduct during Roman times but now the aqueduct is in disrepair. I’ve always meant to have it fixed.” He paused, gnawing his lower lip. Then he said abruptly, “I wish to apologize to you. I did not see to you or your brother’s welfare as I should have. It’s not that I did not care. Being a king … it’s not what you’d think. I understand our father so much better now than I ever did when he was alive.”
I met his gaze. “What do you mean?” I asked softly.
“Our father once told me, he wished he’d been born common, so he wouldn’t have to bear the weight of the world on his shoulders.” Enrique gave me a sad smile. “I often feel the same these days.”
It was a very strange thing for a king to say. Monarchs ruled by divine right; they were answerable to God. Being born to such a position was a great privilege, not a curse one should wish away. All of a sudden I thought of the last time I’d seen Enrique, the odd smile on his face as he’d watched me kiss our father, his eager incline over the moribund body. Had I only imagined it was eager? What if he’d been anxious, instead? To a child, one can look much like the other and Enrique did not seem like a man who had ever desired to be the center of attention.
“That is why I am glad you’re here,” he went on. “Family should be with each other and we’ve had so little time together. You agree, don’t you? You are happy to be here?”
Without realizing what I was about to do, I set my hand on his. My fingers looked white and delicate against his hirsu
te, freckled skin. “I am happy to see you. And Segovia is beautiful. I just need time to adjust. As you say, all this is still quite new to me.”
I saw Fernando nod, his approving smile bolstering my confidence. For some reason I cared about his opinion. I had the feeling he expected nothing but the best from me.
“What can I do to make you feel more at home?” Enrique sounded troubled. “It’s your mother, isn’t it? You did not want to leave her. You miss her.”
I hesitated, unsure what to say. I did miss the comfort of my little room in Arévalo; I missed the dogs barking at night, the clatter of servants setting the table in the hall under Doña Clara’s baleful eye. But did I miss my mother? I honestly could not say.
“I offered to bring her here as well,” Enrique told me, his voice anxious, “but Carrillo advised me against it. He said she’d exert too much influence, as mothers often do, and that Alfonso must learn to stand second in line to the throne now.”
I did not betray my alarm at his words. Did my mother know she might have been invited to court? Or had Carrillo misled her because he had his own, hidden reasons for separating us from her side?
I met Enrique’s eyes. There was no guile there, only an earnest desire to please; and all of a sudden I wanted to tell him everything. He was my father’s firstborn; we were brother and sister, family. We should protect one another, not be used against each other like pawns on the archbishop’s chessboard.
But I didn’t know what to say. Later, I told myself. I would tell him later, should anything happen. No, before anything happened. Surely I would hear of any plots; Alfonso would be their centerpiece, and Carrillo would require my brother’s cooperation. Alfonso would tell me; he would not betray Enrique any more than I would.
The servants removed our soiled knives and trenchers, set down silver bowls of rose water for us to clean our fingers and linen serviettes to dry them. From the gallery, musicians struck up viols and lutes; as music floated over the assembly, courtiers abandoned their seats and servants rushed in to dismantle the tables, clearing the floor.
The Queen's Vow: A Novel of Isabella of Castile Page 7