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

by C. W. Gortner

  I had not heard from Fernando again, though I’d poured out my fears to him in a spontaneous letter, which Beatriz dispatched in secret. At first, his silence hurt me more than I had expected. I thought we had shared something unique, a kinship he treasured; he had said he would write, yet thus far I had only his one brief note. I was ashamed that I had been so forward with him, that I had let him affect me so much that I’d confessed more of my inner thoughts than I might otherwise have done. But I must have shown my disappointment somehow, for one day in early June Beatriz came to me in the gallery to declare, “I’ve just spoken to Cabrera about the situation in Aragón. I’m afraid to say, it’s not good.”

  I looked up, startled, from the book in my hands. “What is wrong? Is Fernando …?” I couldn’t finish. I actually couldn’t even begin to imagine it.

  Beatriz gave me a contemplative look. “I thought as much. You’ve been moping about for weeks since we sent that letter.”

  “I have not,” I retorted at once, but of course I knew I must have been. Otherwise, she’d never have gone so far as to question Cabrera in order to obtain some news for me. I sighed. “You’re right. I was worried.”

  “You had reason to worry.” She sat beside me, her voice subdued. “He’s gone to war, Isabella. The French have invaded those contested borderlands of Catalonia; apparently, Aragón and France have been dueling over the right to those territories for years. Fernando is leading the army because his mother is still very ill, and his father will not leave her side. Plus, apparently, King Juan is—”

  “Going blind,” I interrupted softly. “We heard he had cataracts, remember? It’s why Fernando was here for the christening, in his father’s stead.”

  She nodded. “Yes, you see? It’s not that he’s forgotten you. He’s fighting for his kingdom. That is why he has not written back. But I’m certain your letter arrived, and I’m certain that he will respond, as soon as he is able.”

  I bit my lip, looking down, away from her knowing gaze. “We must pray for his safety,” I murmured. “He is so young, to be at war….”

  “Indeed, and while we’re at it, we should offer up a few prayers for you, as well.”

  “Me?” I lifted my gaze sharply. “Why would you say that?”

  She sighed. “Because Cabrera also told me that the king has arrived unexpectedly from Madrid and has asked to see you.”

  “Me? Do you know why?” My anxiety coiled like rope about my throat, cutting off my breath. I’d not seen Enrique in months; he avoided the court whenever possible, preferring to remain far from the queen and her remonstrations.

  “I don’t know why. Cabrera wants to tell you himself.” She stood and retreated to the gallery entrance. Andrés de Cabrera stepped from the shadows, bowing low.

  “Your Highness, please forgive me. I do not mean to intrude, but I … I felt you should be warned. The queen is in a rage. Enrique met with Villena and his league a few days ago, unbeknownst to her. They gave him an ultimatum and …” He paused, as if uncertain whether to continue.

  “Whatever it is,” I said, “I must know. I cannot walk into the lion’s den unprepared.”

  “Yes, of course. You must. It seems Villena demanded that His Majesty sign a document which officially declares the princess Joanna is not his. Villena also demanded that Beltrán de la Cueva be stripped of all rank and the mastership of Santiago conferred on Villena himself….”

  I stood still, waiting, my breathing shallow.

  “His Majesty refused to sign,” he went on. “Instead, he asked that all grievances be settled through a special gathering of the Cortes. Villena agreed, but as soon as the king left he went back on his word.”

  Everything around me grew distant, blurred.

  “He marched with his army to meet Carrillo, your brother, and your mother in Ávila. They deposed the king in effigy before a crowd, crowning Alfonso in his stead.” Cabrera met my eyes. “His Majesty is beside himself. Circulars have gone out in Alfonso’s name. Many strategic cities, including Zamora and Toledo, have declared in Prince Alfonso’s favor. We are at war, Your Highness: civil war. Castile now has two kings.”

  The world went black. I felt my knees give way; I might have fallen had Beatriz not rushed over to take me by the arm. She guided me to the window seat, where I sat and closed my eyes, praying for strength.

  Here it was at last, the moment I had been dreading since Carrillo took Alfonso from court.

  With my heart in my throat, I went to the royal apartments. I found them submerged in shadow, curtains drawn against the light. Enrique sat on a chair under his cloth of estate, his head lowered. Behind him stood Beltrán de la Cueva, clad in gold and scarlet. His eyes stayed fixed on me as I approached; standing nearby was Pedro de Mendoza, bishop of Sigüenza, Beltrán de la Cueva’s new brother-in-law—a slim man with the same keen dark eyes as his sister. He was considered the most ambitious ecclesiastic in Castile after Carrillo.

  Enrique looked up at me, pushing strands of his dirty shoulder-length hair from his face. His eyes were red-rimmed, sunk in shadow; he seemed to have aged years, his cheeks gaunt under an unkempt beard. I smelled his musty odor as I knelt before him.

  “Your Majesty,” I said softly, “forgive me.”

  Enrique let out a sigh. “So, you already know.”

  “Yes. Don Cabrera told me and I am stunned. I never expected my brother to become involved in this terrible affair. But I am sure he is innocent. He never meant to offend you.”

  “As if we believe that,” said Juana. I had not seen her in the shadows of the alcove and I turned, startled, as she stepped forth. She was dressed in a dramatic black-and-silver gown that cleaved to her figure, her topaz eyes livid, her hair wild about her shoulders. “So meek and pious on the outside,” she sneered, “so charitable, like a little nun. But I know better; you’re a viper at heart, just like your brother. Better you’d both been strangled at birth.”

  “Juana, basta,” said Enrique. “I called for Isabella so I can hear what she has to say.”

  “Why?” The queen shook aside Bishop Mendoza’s restraining hand. “What can she possibly say that will make any difference now? Carrillo and Villena have defied you; they’ve gathered an army and crowned Alfonso as king in your place. She will plead for her brother’s life, of course. You must not heed her. You must imprison her until the time comes to marry her off to some foreign prince, so she can cause no further mischief.”

  My mind reeled. I still found it impossible to believe that Alfonso would willingly seek to vanquish our brother, who, for better or worse, was our anointed king. But as I heard the menace in the queen’s voice, I knew she would not rest until she saw my brother dead and me sent far from my home.

  “Juana.” Enrique enunciated carefully, in a terse voice I’d never heard him use before. “Alfonso is not my enemy. Yes, he did wrong in letting them set a crown on his head, but I was told the matter went far beyond his limited ability to control it. Evidently he had to go through with it, for fear they might otherwise do him harm. I will find out later who exactly is to blame for this, but for now I wish to ascertain what my sister Isabella thinks.”

  His emphasis of my status as blood kin didn’t go unnoticed. The queen threw up her hands in a fury, whirling to Mendoza. “See? He does not listen to me! He does not consider me worthy of counsel, yet he’d heed this—this mealymouthed creature, though she no doubt is in league with her traitor-brother. I warned him this would happen, but he said no, they’re my family, they love me, they will never harm me. Let Carrillo care for Alfonso and Isabella can stay here at court. Well, look at how that worked out! Look at how his loving family serves and obeys their king!”

  “Enough!” Enrique barked. “Out, all of you. I would be alone with my sister.”

  Beltrán de la Cueva went to Juana and led her out, but not before she cast a vicious glance in my direction. Mendoza murmured, “Be gentle with her, my lord. Remember, she is still an infanta.”

  Then I w
as alone. I could not look my half brother in the eye as he left me there on my knees, in silence; before this moment, he’d refused to allow any ceremony between us. I had never felt the danger of my situation as acutely as I did in that moment. I feared I’d be thrown into a prison cell while an army was dispatched to kill Alfonso. I’d be disgraced, our name dishonored. Alfonso would go down in history as a rebel traitor to his half brother, and I’d find myself either forced to take the veil or wed abroad, sent from Castile forever.

  Then Enrique sighed again—a drawn-out sound of such sorrow that I looked up. His protruding eyes were wet with tears; his voice quivered as he said, “Swear to me that you knew nothing of this. Swear to me you did not participate in this infamy by word or deed.”

  “I swear,” I whispered.

  He regarded me for a long moment. “She wants me to imprison you. She says you and Alfonso are the spawn of a she-wolf who has always wished to see me dead. Is it true? Do you want your brother to be king of Castile in my place?”

  My throat closed in on itself. I could not tell him of the years of poison heaped on him by my mother or of my own conflict as his sister, torn between love for Alfonso and loyalty to my king. I searched for a response but found only roaring emptiness, until without warning I heard myself say, “You are my sovereign lord, anointed by divine right to rule. I would never dare question God’s will.”

  He flinched, as if my words were barbs. “It seems you’re not quite as innocent as they say. Even you recognize who has rights—and who does not.”

  I regarded him. I scarcely felt the ache in my knees as I watched him rise, pace to the window. He drew aside the drapes, flooding the room with the stain of a dying afternoon sun. “Do you think she is mine?” he said suddenly.

  Fear surged in me. “She …?” I echoed, though I understood what he asked.

  He did not look at me; his voice was low, as if he spoke to himself. “Juana vows she is but I’m not convinced. I never was. And if I’m not certain, how can I ask others to be? How can I plunder my own flesh and blood for a child who may not be mine?”

  A mirthless chuckle escaped him. “All it takes is one time, she said. And we had it, that drunken night with Beltrán, which is when she believes she conceived. But there were two of us that night in bed with her. How can I know whose seed took root?”

  He turned back to me; I saw the torment on his face, the doubt. He did not know the truth any more than I did; he did not know what to believe. As my breath burned for release in my lungs, he bowed his head. His next words were so hushed that I almost didn’t hear them.

  “But of course none of it matters. Because of what our brother has done, now I must wage war for her sake.” He lifted his gaze to me. “And Alfonso may die for it.”

  “Please,” I said, “please, do not harm him. He is only eleven. He doesn’t understand the gravity of what he’s done.”

  Enrique nodded. “No, of course not. How could he? That is why I wanted him at court with me; I thought if he came to know me, he’d think twice before he betrayed me. This is my fault as much as anyone else’s. I let Carrillo take him even though I’ve known for years that the archbishop despises me and would do anything to see me overthrown, including using my own brother as his weapon. But Alfonso still did it. He let them set a crown on his head, a crown he has no right to wear.”

  He lifted his hand, indicating I could rise. “Is there anything else you wish to say?”

  My voice was ragged; I could no longer disguise my anguish. “I beg you, my lord, do not go to war yet. Let me go to him. I’ll return to Arévalo, send word from our mother’s house. He will come. I know he will, and I will persuade him to repent. I will bring him in person to court to beg your forgiveness on his knees, before everyone.”

  He shook his head with regret. “I know you would do as you say, but I’m afraid it’s too late. I will not see you punished for your brother’s misdeeds but I do command you to leave the casa real for rooms here in the alcazar. Beatriz can still serve you but your household will henceforth be overseen by Mencia de Mendoza, who will ensure your continued compliance. Do you understand me? Your future is in my hands, Isabella. You must not do anything to force me to act against my conscience.”

  I assented, lowering my face, my tears threatening to break free.

  “And you’ll have no further communication with your mother. She is to be deprived of Arévalo and sent to reside in a convent. I do not trust her anymore. She has abetted these treasons of Carrillo for too long.”

  He extended his hand. I leaned over it, kissed his signet ring. I got to my feet and backed away, step by step, until I found myself in the corridor. Then I was moving with Beatriz, past the knowing looks of courtiers who turned to each other to whisper even before I had passed.

  Whatever Enrique might feel for me as a sister, I was still under suspicion of treason, and desperately afraid.

  CHAPTER NINE

  In the alcazar, I took up residence in apartments linked by a short passageway to Juana’s. Paneled in gilded wood and tapestry, with floors of alabaster tile, their luxury belied the fact that they were a prison. I no longer enjoyed spontaneous escapes to the gardens or visits to the cathedral; I wasn’t allowed anywhere without an escort of women, hand-picked by the queen and headed by Mencia.

  Every day they threatened me with reminders that if I should be found abetting the rebels in any way, I’d be thrown into a dungeon. I might have been flattered that they thought I could be in possession of such power, given my circumstances, had I not been so anxious for news of the war. I knew the king had appointed Beltrán de la Cueva to lead the royal forces and that several of Castile’s nobles, including the marquis of Santillana and the powerful duke of Alba, had answered Enrique’s summons for their vassals to defend him.

  But weeks went by without further word from the outside world, for Juana had all correspondence routed to her secretary. Finally throwing caution aside, I set Beatriz to eavesdropping in the galleries and querying Cabrera. She discovered that the royal army had gathered in Tordesillas by the confluence of the Duero and Pisuerga rivers. A bloody skirmish ensued with the rebels; the king and Alfonso escaped, but many others died.

  Prayer was my consolation. Juana had denied me my own confessor and made me attend Mass with her, where she barely hid her boredom while her women gossiped and ignored the flustered chaplain reciting the service. As soon as Mass ended, she and her ladies would return to flitter about Juana’s rooms to polish and paint their nails, pluck each other’s brows, brush their hair, and try on various veils, slippers, and other baubles which Juana ordered by the dozens from Segovia’s merchants.

  I’d never despised her more than I did in those moments, when she behaved as though men were not spilling their blood in defense of her child—a child she might have conceived in sin.

  Every afternoon after I’d been released from her tawdry displays, I went to the stone chapel in the keep and beseeched God to aid all those who fled their war-torn farms and villages. I prayed for the poor and hungry, the sick and frail, always the first to suffer. I prayed for my mother, evicted from Arévalo; for Fernando, of whom I’d not had news in months; but most of all, I prayed for Alfonso, plunged into danger because of the ambition of others.

  The arrival of winter achieved what my prayers could not, forcing the warring factions to a stalemate. Enrique returned to Segovia, looking gaunt and pale; he barely acknowledged me during the lackluster Christmas festivities, departing the court upon the conclusion of the Feast of the Kings to gallop off to his hunting lodge in Madrid, where he remained, “attended by his catamites and smelly beasts,” Juana mocked.

  Sequestered in Segovia, I grew thin, restless. I had to sit with Juana and her ladies during their silly entertainments, as the queen drank too much wine and danced the night away with gallants in skin-tight hose, making eyes at Beltrán de la Cueva even as he lolled in a chair with his wife at his side. I couldn’t forget what Enrique had said about
how he had shared a bed with Juana and Beltrán. As I watched Juana draw her hand suggestively down some courtier’s muscled arm, her carmine lips parting in invitation, I had to dig my nails into my palms to stop myself from leaping to my feet and marching out.

  As soon as the snows thawed, the war resumed. Beatriz learned from Cabrera that various cities, including Toledo, still supported Alfonso. Toledo was Carrillo’s archbishopric, the oldest and wealthiest in Castile; its stance prompted many of our grandees to side with the rebels. Enrique was losing ground but I lived in daily fear that word would come of Alfonso’s death. In a place deep within my soul I still believed God would strike down those who sought to depose their rightful monarch.

  I began a fast, thinking the time-honored ritual of the holy would offer the comfort I needed. Beatriz implored me to eat, saying I could not afford to waste away, but I drank only water for weeks, until one frigid March night when she abruptly shook me awake.

  With a finger at her lips as a warning, she threw my cloak about my shoulders and led me past the sleeping chambermaid in the passage, through the alcazar into the icy night. Crossing the great plaza we came before the cathedral.

  Cabrera stood waiting. I’d not seen him in months and had missed him. But he did not give me the opportunity to say so; drawing me into the cathedral’s cavernous interior, he whispered, “We’ve little time. The prior of the Monastery of Santa Cruz has asked to speak with Your Highness; he says he has important news to impart. But you must be quick. Should the queen discover I let you meet him, she will deprive me of my post.”