The Queen's Vow: A Novel of Isabella of Castile

by C. W. Gortner

  “She is very ill. The physicians don’t know what is wrong. She keeps getting weaker. She was always up before anyone else, always the last to retire; she ran our entire court. And as my father has grown increasingly blind, she helps him with all his affairs. But Papa says she collapsed a few days after I left and now she’s asking for me.”

  I could see the struggle on his face as he tried to contain his sorrow. I wanted to embrace him, comfort him, but that would have been most improper; as it was, I shouldn’t be alone with him at all, even though Beatriz and Andrés de Cabrera were somewhere nearby, lending us the illusion that we were chaperoned.

  “I am so sorry,” I finally said. “Losing a loved one must be very hard.”

  He nodded, the bones of his jaw clenching under his skin. He turned to me. “You lost your father; you know better than most the pain it can cause.”

  “I was only three when my father died. I scarcely knew him.”

  He regarded me with unsettling focus. “Are you always so honest?”

  “I’ve never found a reason to be otherwise.”

  “Then you’ll not take my advice to heart, about the need to dissemble at court?”

  I paused, considering. “I do not like to lie.”

  “I did not mean you should lie. But you also mustn’t be so direct about your feelings, not here. It is not safe, nor wise. There are dangers here that you do not understand.”

  “Are you telling me you know my brother’s court better than me?” I said. I intended to put him in his place but as I heard myself speak I realized how naïve I sounded. He knew I’d been raised far from court; and that he, a prince of our ancestral foe and sometimes ally, had a perspective that, by reason of my upbringing, I lacked.

  Yet he didn’t seek to assert his superiority or take offense at my words. Instead, he leaned to me and said in a hushed voice, “This unrest over the succession is only going to worsen.”

  “Why would you say such a thing? My brother has an heir. Surely that is not cause for unrest.”

  He looked at me with almost painful reluctance. “You know what I mean.”

  “Yes,” I replied dryly. “It would seem we’re back to unseemly rumor again.”

  “It is not just rumor. Many of Castile’s nobles are deeply discontent with the king and his choice of an heir. They do not trust Beltrán de la Cueva or the queen; they believe the right to inherit belongs to your brother Alfonso—”

  I cut him off. “I’ve heard this before. Would you subject me to it again?”

  “Forgive me.” He reached out and grasped my hand. I let out an involuntary gasp. “But I must warn you before I go,” he said, “for it affects the very future of these realms.”

  “And did your father, King Juan, instruct you to convey this message?” I asked.

  He flinched. “I would never be my father’s mouthpiece. I only want to help you, so you may protect your throne.”

  “Throne?” I repeated, with some asperity. “Which throne do you refer to, pray? My niece is princess of Asturias, Castile’s heir; should anything, God forbid, happen to her, my brother stands next in the line of succession. He will wed, sire children of his own. They will rule after him. I shall never be queen.”

  “But you will! It has always been my father’s most earnest desire that you and I should wed. You will be queen, Isabella—queen of Aragón, my wife.”

  I stared at him.

  “It is a good match,” he added, his fingers tightening on mine. I’d never felt such warm hands. “I know Aragón is smaller and not as powerful or as rich as Castile, but we have many blood ties. We can bind our realms closer together, restore peace between them.” He paused, gazing at me. “What do you say? Would it not please you to marry me?”

  Of everything he might have said, this was the one thing I was not prepared for. Meeting his ardent gaze, I managed to utter, “But you are a boy, I a maiden—”

  “No!” His voice rose. “I am not a boy. I’ll be thirteen next year; I’ve been knighted, bloodied my sword in Aragón’s defense. In my kingdom, I am already a man.”

  It was a boastful claim, the very sort I’d expect from someone like him. Yet as I looked down at our entwined hands, they seemed to be separate strands of silk from the same skein—mine so white and slim, his square and brown, yet both of near-equal size, with the same unblemished texture of our shared youth.

  Why did he evoke such feeling in me? He was blunt and arrogant, too forthright for all his advice about dissembling. I hardly knew him at all. But if I was honest with myself I couldn’t deny that envisioning him as my spouse was not unappealing. All my life I’d been told that one day I must wed for the good of Castile. I never thought I’d have a say in who I would marry but that didn’t mean I did not wonder what kind of husband fate had in store for me, that I did not nurture the same dreams as any other girl. Our world was full of old, fat kings; it was only normal that I should be drawn to the promise of this brash young prince.

  But of course I wouldn’t tell him that. I would never compromise myself. He was leaving today for his kingdom. Who knew when, or even if, I’d ever see him again?

  I withdrew my hand. “Fifteen is the marriageable age for an infanta in Castile. If you want an answer, come back then and I shall give it—after you’ve petitioned my brother the king for my hand,” I added, preempting him. “Now, let’s not spoil the rest of our time together.” I smiled, to ease the look of wounded pride on his face. “Come, let’s walk more. You can tell me about Aragón. I’ve never been and I would see it through your eyes.”

  He lit up at the invitation, launching into a detailed account of his homeland as we strolled, his voice resonant with pride as he described its domains, which spread from the rich lands of northern Huesca to the azure waters of Valencia in the south; he made it all come alive, so that I could see the imposing serrated mountains of Aragón changing from violet to blue under glacial Pyrenean winds, the deep gorges that hid valleys so lush that fruit trees grew wild, and arid steppes where herds of cattle and sheep grazed. I saw the walled capital of Zaragoza at the mouth of the Ebro River, its lacy Aljafería Palace and the alabaster altarpiece of the famed Basilica; and the merchant city of Barcelona, inhabited by the wild Catalans, who begrudged Aragón’s dominion over them. I tasted the stew made of crabs believed to prevent illness, and the famous pata negra ham served in the city of Teruel. I learned of the Aragonese people’s courageous fight against the ceaseless encroachment of the vulpine French and of their centuries-long struggle for control over the distant, sun-baked realms of Sicily and Naples.

  “At one time, we had most of southern Italy under our rule,” Fernando said. “We had the duchies of Corsica and Athens, too. We were masters of the Mediterranean.”

  I was familiar with the breadth of my native kingdom of Castile and León, naturally, but he mesmerized me with this revelation of Aragón’s holdings abroad, where enterprising seafarers sought riches in distant lands, hauling back coffers of spices, gemstones, and silks, as well as the coveted mineral alum, for which merchants paid fortunes, used to fix dyes in cloth.

  “You’re like the Romans,” I breathed. “You have an empire.”

  “And we fell like them too!” He laughed, showing off a gap between his front upper teeth that I found inexplicably charming. “You see, our treasury has never been as full as our ambitions, and maintaining such far-flung holdings takes money—lots of it.”

  He paused, turning somber. “And since the loss of Constantinople to the Ottoman Turk, we face a grave threat from the infidel. That conquest leaves all of Europe vulnerable. This is how the Moor first overtook us centuries ago; it could happen again. The Turks could use Granada as a gateway, just as the Moors used Gibraltar.”

  I shuddered at his vision of the infidel swarming in a dark wave over us, even as I marveled that he could know so much, about so many things. I’d never given any thought to the cataclysmic fall of Constantinople, one of Christendom’s most venerated citie
s, though it happened two years after my birth and had shaken our faith to its core. My knowledge was limited to illustrated histories of Castile, to troubadour poems and romantic parables such as The Book of Good Love. I’d never looked at our world as Fernando did, from a vantage that did not make us the center but rather a piece of its entirety. The very act of hearing him left me exhilarated, as though I stood on a galleon plying foam-flecked waters toward uncharted shores….

  Fernando sighed. “And now with that spider Louis XI threatening Aragón’s northern border we must maintain a ready army. Troops also cost money, more than you can imagine. The nobles won’t summon their retainers without coin, and vassals won’t fight without adequate rations. My mother was the best organizer we had; she knew exactly how to economize at court so we could …” His voice faded. He looked away. “I can’t believe I just spoke of her as if she were already gone.”

  “I’m certain you did not mean it,” I said.

  He returned his gaze to me. “It’s too easy to forget my pains with you at my side.”

  I paused. We’d reached the arched cloisters that circled the palace; without realizing it, we’d walked twice around the entire garden. When we first entered it I had thought it large, a veritable maze. Now, with his words swimming in my head, it felt cramped, a man-made creation of idealized hedges, unnaturally pruned trees, and symmetrical paths that went nowhere.

  “Isn’t that your friend?” he said, and I looked toward the cloisters to see Beatriz seated on a stone bench next to Cabrera. He was gesticulating, talking with more animation than I’d yet seen him display, while she gazed at him in silent, rapt attention.

  Fernando chuckled. “Some might say he’s too old for her, but she seems not to mind.”

  I immediately bristled at his innuendo. “Whatever do you mean? Don Andrés de Cabrera has been nothing but kind to us. I hardly think he has any designs on …” But now it was my turn for my words to drift away as I looked closer and noticed the manner in which Beatriz held herself, a definite coquettishness to her cocked head and wider-than-usual stare, as though Cabrera was the most fascinating man she’d ever met. Though I stood in plain sight, only a few paces away, she had not even noticed me.

  I stifled a giggle. It did look as though she was entranced by him….

  At my side, Fernando breathed, “I must teach you to dance.”

  My mirth evaporated. “Dance? But we danced only last night. I know how to do it quite well, thank you.”

  “Oh, you do, yes, beautifully, but you don’t know any of the dances of Aragón. You must learn one so you’ll have something to remember me by.” He grasped me by the hand before I could protest, steering me toward the tiled area near the fountain.

  I tried to pull away. “No,” I said, and I heard a frightened breathlessness in my voice. “Someone … anyone could see us.”

  “Who?” He chuckled, glancing over his shoulder to the cloisters. “They wouldn’t notice if we fired a cannon. Come, it’s only a dance.”

  “No, really; I mustn’t. Not here, in the garden. It’s … it’s not proper.”

  He went still, his gaze fixed on me. “Do you always take yourself so seriously?” he asked. Though his question could have been offensive, I knew at once by his tone that he didn’t intend it that way. He was honestly curious.

  “Of course,” I replied, with a defensive lift of my chin. “I’m an infanta of Castile. I must always remember that.”

  He arched a brow. “Always? Can’t even an infanta have fun now and then?”

  “I hardly think dancing in the garden can be deemed—” I started to retort, but he ignored me, humming under his breath as he paced to the tiled area. He assumed position.

  He had gone mad. He was actually going to do it. He was going to dance.

  “This dance,” he said, raking his hair from his brow, “is one the peasants perform after the harvest, to celebrate nature’s bounty.”

  And a peasant dance, no less, of pagan origin! I should walk away. This was unseemly. He was unseemly. But I couldn’t. I remained locked in place, riveted by his sturdy, confident body as he threw back his shoulders, arms akimbo, and with a loud trill from his lips, leapt up and crisscrossed his legs in swift, razor-sharp precision.

  “It symbolizes the sheaving of the wheat,” he called to me, as he swirled about, while still executing the amazing kicks and leaps. “Come! I’ll show you.”

  He held out a hand, beckoning. I couldn’t believe what I was doing even as I moved toward him. There could be courtiers watching us from the palace windows, scandalized; anyone passing through the cloisters might see. By now, I was certain Beatriz had been alerted and was at this very moment watching, openmouthed, as I reached for Fernando’s hand and felt his hot fingers enclose mine.

  He was sweating, his grin wide. “Those skirts will trip you,” he said, raising an eyebrow at my gown.

  I froze.

  He leaned to me. He whispered, “Be brave, Isabella.”

  My throat had gone dry. With a few deft movements, I bent over, gathered up my trailing skirts and tied them to the side of my calf in a knot. I looked at him.

  “You’ve done that before,” he said, his gaze roving with unmistakable insolence over my ivory-hosed ankles. I did not like my bony ankles; they made my feet look too big.

  “Contrary to what you may think about pampered infantas,” I replied, with enough tartness in my voice to bring his eyes back to mine, “I did grow up in a working castle, with livestock. Mud and muck were a daily hazard. And I have few dresses to spoil.”

  He bowed, moving next to me, one arm sliding about my waist. “It’s easier than it looks,” he murmured, so close I could smell the salt of his skin. “Just follow me.”

  At first, I almost fell, so fast and sudden was his leap, followed by that complicated leg movement. I clumsily managed it the second time, to his clap of encouragement; then, as he again hummed his wordless tune, which reminded me of the piping of goatherds on a windswept cliff, he took my hand in his, turned me so we faced each other, and said, “To the beat of three, we leap together, kick, swivel, and do it again.”

  “Impossible,” I said, as I braced myself, closing my eyes to better catch the nuance in his tune. When I heard the lilt and felt the pressure of his fingers tighten, I caught my breath. I jumped, kicking my legs back and forth. As we touched the ground, I turned with him so quickly my headdress almost flew off. And then I lost all sense of myself, of what was proper and what was not. With my blood beating in my ears, I heard my laughter burst from me like a long-captive bird set free, and we did it again.

  Then we stood panting, hands entwined, as the water in the fountain splashed its applause. The throbbing in my ears subsided as Fernando met my gaze. A cloud drifted overhead, veiling the sun. In the interplay of sudden shadow and light I saw how he might appear years from now, in adulthood, when his cheeks grew more angular, his brow broader, but still with those lively eyes and that exuberant air. I had the sense that however how old he became, his smile would never change.

  “You’re blushing.” Removing his hand, he lifted it to my face. “You’ve such fair skin, white as the moon….”

  I did not move. I let his fingertips graze my skin, welcoming the tendrils of heat he sent spiraling through my veins, until everything inside me tingled.

  A cacophony of bells rang out from the cathedral, heralding midday and sparing me a response. Behind me I heard a clatter of footsteps. Fernando stepped back. Turning, I saw Beatriz hustling to me, her reddened cheeks making her look as flustered as I felt. Cabrera stood by the bench, a bewildered expression on his face. Could it be they had not seen us, so engrossed in each other that only the bells had alerted them to propriety?

  “My lady, please forgive me.” Beatriz dipped into one of her awkward curtseys. “Time got away with me. Are you finished walking? Have you been waiting long?” Her questions were hasty, but I detected the mirth in her voice, indicating that while she may have been other
wise entertained, she had indeed seen us.

  “No,” I said, wondering if my delight was as transparent as hers, “not long….” As I spoke the haze of the dance dissipated, like scented smoke or a lovely dream. I wanted to grasp it in my hands before it slipped away, encase it in nacre, a rare pearl. For a moment, I felt as though I hadn’t an obligation in the world, a single worry or fear or doubt.

  For a moment that was quickly escaping me, I had been free.

  “I’m afraid we must go,” I said softly to Fernando. “We are due to hear Sext and then we must change for the banquet. Will I see you in the hall later?”

  “I regret to say, no,” he replied. “My servants must be wondering where I’ve gotten to; we were due to leave long before Sext. The trip to Aragón will take at least two days.”

  “Oh.” I forced out a smile, despite my disappointment. “Thank you. It’s been a delight, cousin. I do hope we will meet again.”

  “As do I, my infanta.” I did not miss the emphasis he placed on “my” as he bowed over my hand. Beatriz jabbed me; I shot a glare at her. Fernando said to her, “My lady de Bobadilla, a pleasure,” and she curtsied, simpering, “An honor, Your Highness.”

  He looked into my eyes. “I will write.”

  And before I could utter a word he strode back through the garden toward his rooms, as though he’d trod upon the unfamiliar winding paths a hundred times before.

  I watched him disappear into the palace; I had to curb the urge to call out to him, to tell him he was right. I had liked the dance, very much.

  “He pleases you,” Beatriz said.

  I nodded, feigning nonchalance. “He’s rather entertaining, for a boy.”

  “He won’t be a boy for long. And he’s bold, for one so young.”

  “Indeed, and you appear to have enjoyed your chat with Don Cabrera.”

  I took satisfaction in watching her flush deepen, even as she tossed her head and said with a flippant air, “Cabrera? Bah. He means nothing to me.”