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

by C. W. Gortner

  AFTER SEXT, WE returned to our rooms and hastily changed into our court gowns. As we returned to the alcazar, I mentioned to Beatriz that I could see how we’d need a more extensive wardrobe, given the amount of functions we apparently were expected to attend. But the idea of asking Mencia de Mendoza or the queen for assistance, especially after I’d so impulsively turned it away already, was not pleasant to contemplate.

  “Perhaps we could ask Andrés—I mean, Don Cabrera—for his mother’s help,” Beatriz said. “She’s been so kind to us. I’m sure she’d be happy to oblige.”

  I nodded. “Indeed, and maybe she can also help us make the gowns. With the right patterns, I can do well enough. Your stitches, however, are about as hopeless as your curtsey.”

  She scowled. “As if anyone cares what I wear.”

  “Don Andrés de Cabrera seems to,” I replied.

  She set her hands on her hips with an indignant air. “Are you going to tease me about him all day? If so, please let me know now so I can ignore you.”

  “Such a temper you have.” I kissed her cheek. “Forgive me. I promise, I’ll not mention it again.”

  “Good. For there’s nothing to mention: I found him entertaining, is all.” She winked at me and we both choked back our giggles as we entered the hall, the floor strewn with rosemary-scented rushes crunching under our feet.

  I made my way to the dais, where Alfonso was already seated beside Enrique and the queen. Juana’s snide regard as I breathlessly assumed my seat made me think I’d best watch my time more accurately from now on. Thus far, I appeared to always be running late.

  The queen wore a purple velvet gown designed solely to display her perfect cleavage; clasped about her throat was a shimmering diamond-and-pearl necklace that caught the light with fiery luster. Catching me staring at it—for I’d never seen such magnificent jewels—she touched it knowingly and purred, “Do you like it?”

  “It’s very beautiful.” I did not add that it also looked incredibly expensive.

  “A token from Enrique, to celebrate our daughter’s birth.” She cast an indulgent smile at the king before she returned her gaze to me. The cordial exasperation in her tone barely masked her contempt. “Isn’t that the same gown you wore last night? Isabella, my dear, you really must allow me to see to your wardrobe. You should appear as befits your rank at all times. This isn’t Arévalo; at court, appearances are very important.”

  It was as though she had thrown cold water on me. How did she know I’d just been worrying over this very issue? For a moment, I remembered how Fernando had looked at me as we danced in the garden, the admiration in his eyes. He hadn’t seemed to care what I was wearing.

  Enrique gave me a timorous smile. “Yes, Isabella, do let Juana help you. She knows all the latest fashions.”

  “And,” she added, with a hint of malice in her honeyed voice, “I can also give you some of my older jewelry to wear. Every princess must have pretty jewels, yes?”

  I averted my eyes. “Your Highness is most kind. I’d be honored.”

  “Of course you would.” She turned her attention to the hall as servitors entered with the first dishes. I assumed she and Enrique must have settled whatever differences they’d had the day before, because she laughed and whispered with him as if nothing untoward had occurred. I also noted that her handsome dance partner from the previous night, Beltrán de la Cueva, dined with her ladies and was paying conspicuous attention to Mencia de Mendoza. In the light of day, he was even more striking, his rich azure doublet slashed in the Italian style, the sleeves and collar of his shirt peeping through gores rimmed in tiny diamonds. But the queen acted as if she didn’t see him at all and I soon became preoccupied by Alfonso’s unusual silence.

  Finally, I asked him how his day had gone.

  “Fine.” He jabbed a piece of roast venison with his knife.

  “You don’t sound fine.” I eyed him. “What’s wrong? Are they making you study too hard? If you want, I could ask Archbishop Carrillo to let me help you—”

  His voice flared. “You don’t understand anything, Isabella. You’re just a silly girl.”

  Enrique glanced at us. I tried to force out a smile, though I was hurt by my brother’s unexpected attack. He’d always been carefree, rarely given to moods. All of a sudden he seemed like a stranger and I found myself fighting back a horrifying surge of tears. The last thing I wanted to do after being called a silly girl was to cry like one.

  “Now, Alfonso,” said the king, betraying that he’d overheard us. “I’m sure Isabella is just concerned for you and—”

  A loud bang of the hall doors preceded the marquis of Villena, accompanied by his gigantic brother Girón and six of their retainers. As they stalked toward us, the hiss of Girón unsheathing his sword sounded like a serpent in the sudden silence.

  Alfonso went rigid; under the table, I felt him grip my knee. Enrique likewise froze on his throne. When the grandees came before the dais, the queen let out a frightened yelp and Beltrán de la Cueva leapt from his chair.

  Villena smiled. Girón swerved on the queen’s favorite, narrowly missing him with the broad swing of his sword.

  “Whoreson,” spat Girón. “Get one inch closer and I’ll skewer you alive and feed you to my dogs.”

  Cueva was unarmed; no courtier by law was allowed to bear weapons before the king. He stood panting, realizing too late his mistake. Girón made a menacing gesture. As Mencia and the ladies scrambled out of the way, Girón delivered a resounding blow to Cueva’s face with his fist that sent the favorite sprawling across the table, cutlery and goblets and platters smashing to the floor.

  The queen wailed. The Moorish sentries rushed from the wall, scimitars in hand, to form a barrier before the dais. Enrique gripped the armrests of his throne.

  “What … what is the meaning of this, my lord marquis?” he quavered.

  Villena pointed to Cueva, who was sodden with spilt wine and food, his face already showing a massive bruise. A weeping Mencia helped him to his feet. Courtiers had backed away, some of them running to the far doors as though they anticipated a conflagration.

  Villena’s voice rang out. “You’d give that prancing fool the mastership of Santiago, the highest military order in Castile. After everything I have done for you, you’d accord him an honor that by all rights belongs to me!”

  “How dare you—” shrieked Juana but she was cut off by Enrique.

  “You forget yourself, lord marquis. I am king here. I honor whomever I please.”

  “Honor who pleases your Portuguese whore is more like it,” said Villena. Icy hatred gleamed in his yellow-green eyes as he and Enrique stared at each other. There was history between them, tortured and shared—history I knew nothing about. But I could not believe any grandee, no matter how offended, would dare behave like this before his sovereign.

  “She’s not yours,” Villena said. “That babe you have made your heir is not yours. I thought you didn’t know, but now I see you do. You must, for only a knowing cuckold would bestow titles on his wife’s man-whore.”

  “Yes,” added Girón, spraying spit as he eyed the sentries, his fist clenching his sword as if he longed to lunge at the impassive Moors. “You can hide behind your infidel filth all you like, but in the end God’s truth will prevail!”

  For a terrifying instant I thought Enrique would order his sentries to cut the marquis, his brother, and their men down; but he only stood there, trembling, his bewildered expression revealing he couldn’t believe any of this was happening.

  “Do something,” Juana hissed at him. “Arrest them. They are lying; it is treason.”

  “Is it?” said Enrique coldly. She recoiled. He looked at Villena. “You have my leave to depart this court if you no longer agree with my policies. But let me warn you, treason will not be tolerated, no matter how righteous you may think the cause.”

  “I’ll remember that,” said Villena. With a mocking bow, he turned and made his way out. Girón brandished his
sword again at Cueva, whose bruised face drained to sickly white. Then the marquis’s brother trudged out, barking lewd comments at a group of terrified court women huddled by the doors.

  The sentries remained in position; Enrique uttered something in their native tongue and they retreated in unison, like well-trained hounds. I had no doubt that if he had ordered it, they’d have killed Villena and Girón without hesitation.

  Juana swept from the dais, her ladies rushing to join her as she left the hall. Standing dazed and alone, Cueva looked imploringly to Enrique, who turned away. Only then did I notice Archbishop Carrillo bustling into the hall from a side entrance, concern visible on his florid features, Cabrera and several of the palace guards in his wake.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, “I’ve just been informed. It’s an outrage! Villena goes too far. May I—”

  Enrique whispered, “Take them away.”

  Carrillo motioned. “Come, my children. Quickly.”

  Alfonso and I stumbled from our chairs; Beatriz emerged from the watching courtiers to join us. As Carrillo led us out, I saw Enrique crumple upon his throne, burying his face in his hands as though he’d been delivered a mortal blow.

  In the passageway, Carrillo directed Cabrera to take us to our apartments. “See that they stay inside tonight,” he said, and something in his voice, a dark edge, made me look at Alfonso, standing by the archbishop and his guards with a frightened cast on his face.

  Cabrera began to herd us away; I heard the clanking of the sentries’ armor as they moved with Carrillo and my brother in the other direction.

  Then Alfonso cried, “Isabella!” and I reeled about. He ran to me, throwing himself into my embrace. “I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I didn’t mean it. You’re not silly. It’s just that I … I am so scared.”

  “Why? What is it, Alfonso? Why are you afraid?” As I spoke, I looked past him to where Carrillo stood impatiently, hands at his hips, his white robe flowing to his booted ankles, slightly parted to reveal a black tunic underneath, his broad waist encircled by a leather belt thicker than my arm, from which hung a sheathed sword.

  He also was wearing a weapon at court. A man of God, garbed like a warrior. I had the sudden image of him roaring with bloodlust on a battlefield, swinging his broadsword as he cut off heads, and my heart started to pound.

  “Stay here with us,” I said to Alfonso. “Please, don’t go with him.”

  My brother shook his head. “I cannot. I promised I would do my duty. I’m sorry, Isabella.” He kissed me gently and returned to Carrillo. I stood still, as the light from the high windows filtered in dusty shafts around me, watching the archbishop set his arm across my brother’s shoulders like an oak beam, guiding Alfonso away.

  I wanted to run after them, make Alfonso swear to me that he’d not do anything to risk his life.

  But I already knew that nothing I said or did could change what would occur. He was right: I was only a silly girl, without any influence; without any power to decide the course of our lives.

  At that moment, I knew it would be a long time before I saw my brother again.

  TWO DAYS LATER, as Beatriz and I huddled in our candlelit room and listened to the leopards in the king’s menagerie snarl in discontent, Cabrera came to us with news.

  “Archbishop Carrillo has left court. He took the infante with him, claiming your mother entrusted Alfonso to him personally. The king has issued a demand for their return but no one knows where they’ve gone. Carrillo has many holdings, much support among his vassals. He could be anywhere. I’ll do everything I can for Your Highness, but….”

  “I must also fend for myself,” I finished, forcing myself to smile. With Carrillo and my brother gone, this gentle man and Beatriz were my sole friends at court.

  Cabrera reached into his doublet, removed a folded parchment. Silently, Beatriz slipped on her cloak. “We’ll leave you alone to read it,” she said, following Cabrera out.

  I stared at the missive for a long moment before I broke the wax seal bearing the bars of Aragón. I slowly unfolded the crisp paper.

  It was just six words:

  Be brave, Isabella. Wait for me.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  As spring gave way to fiery summer, word spread throughout Castile, carried by vendors to outlying provinces and cities, where goodwives scattered it like seed among vassals, who hastened to convey it to the lords in their castles. By autumn, everyone had learned of Alfonso’s abrupt exit from court and of the marquis of Villena’s rebellion, which made the doubts surrounding Princess Joanna’s legitimacy gossip for public fodder.

  I did not hear from my brother or Carrillo, nor did I dare send any letters. Though I dwelled in my apartments in the casa real, where I disposed of a small household, paid for by the king and overseen by Doña Cabrera, I was closely watched, my freedom circumscribed. Any excursion I wished to take outside the gates required both royal approval and the appropriate escort of guards.

  Beatriz informed me of all the court gossip; through her, I learned that Villena and several other grandees had gathered in the northern city of Burgos, from which they had issued the declaration of an alliance formed in defense of my brother’s rights. The threat of civil war loomed over Castile like clouds awaiting the first roll of thunder, and not a day went by that Juana was not overheard haranguing Enrique to send an army against the rebels.

  She did not mind her words even when I was present one morning, seated in a corner of her rooms, trying to make myself as small as I could.

  “Carrillo is behind this,” she cried to my flustered half brother. “He has found his instrument of revenge and he intends to use it against you. You should never have let him take Alfonso away. You should have stopped it while you had the chance!”

  “Juana, please.” Enrique stood before her with his red wool turban crunched in his hands. “Alfonso is only a child. How can he possibly pose a threat to—”

  “That child, as you call him, could turn this entire realm against us! God in Heaven, are you so blind that you cannot see the truth? Villena and Carrillo are at the head of this so-called alliance; they schemed together to make a scene at court so they could steal Alfonso away. You must put an end to their treason before it’s too late!”

  Bowing his head, Enrique muttered that there was no evidence of treason and thus there was nothing he could do. Then he shot me an apologetic glance and promptly fled to his forest refuge of El Pardo in Madrid, as he so often did, leaving me behind to contend with his queen’s thwarted rage.

  “I’ll not abide aspersions cast on my daughter, who is Castile’s rightful heir,” she declared, stabbing her ring-laden finger at me. “If Carrillo dares join that parcel of traitors in Burgos, it will cost him his head—and your brother’s, too. I’d pray extra hard if I were you, for I’ll see every last one of them dead before they take my child’s inheritance!”

  I shuddered at her threats, even as I felt embarrassed for her. She strode about in her garish gowns, arms akimbo, swearing vengeance in language as crude as any tavern maid’s. Her very vociferousness, her insistent display of the cradle at every court event, where the poor babe cried and coughed as the soot from the torches trickled onto her coverlets, seemed to me the bravura of a coward in a gale.

  Everywhere I turned, courtiers gathered to whisper; everywhere Juana looked she must have seen the same. Even Beltrán de la Cueva’s betrothal to Mencia de Mendoza had not quelled the gossip; on the contrary, everyone now said if his title as master of Santiago had not been reward enough for his efforts in the queen’s bed, marriage into the powerful Mendoza clan must certainly be, seeing as he was nothing but an upstart with only his good looks to commend him, while Mencia was the noble-born daughter of a grandee.

  Juana’s reaction to this sordid speculation was to force my outward compliance, as though my public humiliation could bridle wagging tongues. She made me walk behind Joanna at every function to emphasize my lesser standing at court and sit and dangle silver rattles ove
r the cradle for hours in her rooms while she played dice with her women. I soon realized that while she might badger everyone in public about her child’s rights, in private she cared nothing for little Joanna. Not once did I see her hold the babe if there wasn’t an audience present, and Joanna always grew fretful when the queen was near, as if she could sense her mother’s indifference. I pitied the little girl and tried to give her my affection, even as I sensed a trap slowly closing in around me.

  In April of 1465, I quietly celebrated my fourteenth birthday. It was now one year since I’d seen my brother. The blooms of the almond trees scattered; the earth soaked up Castile’s fervent sun, and Joanna took her first tentative steps, graduating from cradle to lead strings. As soon as the weather turned warm enough, Beatriz and I began to steal away to the gardens whenever we could, eager to escape the stagnant court and the queen’s sour face.

  Joanna cooed and scuttled about on fat feet, trying to grab fistfuls of butterflies as her nursemaid held her upright in her reins. We went to view the sleek spotted leopards in their walled enclosure, a perfect replica of their native habitat, right down to the dismembered deer haunches buzzing with flies under drifts of leaves. After Joanna exhausted herself and her nursemaid rocked her to sleep, we sat under the arcade on the stone benches, chatting about inconsequential things.

  Cabrera often joined us. He’d been true to his word, keeping watch over me as best he could. He saw to it we always had enough candles and extra covers for our beds, and his mother oversaw my rooms and acted as my honorary matron, assisting us with our wardrobe, for despite the queen’s promise she’d not provided me with a single gown and we soon outwore the few we’d brought. In those tense days, I came to look upon Cabrera as a surrogate uncle, with his broad tanned forehead, intelligent brown eyes, and his trim figure always impeccable in unadorned black velvet. He was friendly but never forward; he had consummate tact. But I did not fail to notice how Beatriz flushed whenever he addressed her and how his eyes, in turn, lingered on her. She had turned seventeen, a strikingly beautiful and exceedingly independent young woman. I sensed she returned Cabrera’s affection, even if she couldn’t yet admit it. I did not tease her or pry, as I’d promised, but the thought that she might have found love was one of the few joys I had, and a coveted gift I could only hope to one day find myself.