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

by C. W. Gortner

  I nodded, shivering. What was so important that the prior of Segovia’s oldest Dominican monastery should want to see me in the middle of the night? It was so cold I could see my breath like frost, my footsteps echoing eerily as I moved toward the elaborate wooden choir. Votive candles flickered before Our Lady of Sorrows, catching the crystalline tears on her flesh-colored cheeks and the glint of the gold dagger hilt protruding from her velvet-swathed breast. The scent of old incense permeated the air, a rich, smoky fragrance that not even the chill could dispel.

  I almost failed to see the figure waiting in the shadows, his long veined hands folded across his white robe, his black cloak falling from his stooped shoulders. He was thin and tall, with an ascetic’s ageless angularity. His brooding eyes were of an unusual gray-blue hue, offsetting his broad flat nose and thin lips. As he inclined his tonsured head, his voice issued low and cultured—the voice of a man of strict restraint, who has dominated the unruliness of the flesh.

  “Your Highness, I am Fray Tomás de Torquemada. It is an honor to meet you.”

  I drew my cloak closer about me. “I was told you wished to speak to me?”

  He nodded. “Forgive me; you must be cold. Come, we can sit by the candles. Though their light is feeble, the proximity to our Holy Mother will warm you.”

  I perched beside him on a pew. He was silent for a long moment, his eyes fixed on Our Lady’s grieving face. Then he said, “I understand you’ve lived in Segovia for almost two years now without a private confessor. However, when I offered my services, I was denied.”

  “Oh?” I was taken aback. “I did not know this. No one told me.”

  His gaze shifted to me. He did not blink. Power emanated from him, even in his stillness. “How could you? I petitioned the king. But he was not concerned with the welfare of your soul. Quite the contrary, judging by his actions; yet despite all their attempts, it appears you have held steadfast against their corruption. Your heart is pure.”

  I did not feel the cold anymore. I felt … recognized.

  “Yet your trial is hard to bear,” he added. “You are young, untried; one of lesser faith might have given in by now, surrendered to licentiousness and luxury, succumbed to temptation, even if it meant losing God’s grace.”

  I looked at the marbled floor. “It … it has not been easy,” I said softly.

  “Indeed. And yet you must stay pure, for much will still be demanded of you. You must rely on the conviction of your faith, knowing that even in our darkest hour God does not abandon us. You must trust that He will not suffer a false king to rule over Castile.”

  I looked up. The blues of his eyes were lit as if by inner flame. It was the sole sign of emotion in a face otherwise schooled to sculptural impassivity.

  “How do you know this?” I asked. “How can you know?”

  He sighed. “Doubt is the Devil’s handmaiden, sent to lure us into perdition. Enrique IV has forsaken his own throne; he hides away even as his realm falls prey to godlessness. Our Church is riddled with rot; monks and nuns abhor their holy vows in pursuit of worldly sin; heretics are free to practice their foul rites; and the infidel raids our southern lands with impunity. Discord and anarchy flourish, for our people are like sheep without a shepherd. The king knows all this and does nothing to abate it. He has turned his face from his duty and embraced his own weakness. And now he would set a bastard over us, usurping the succession of the one who can bring us salvation. Whatever else you think, my infanta, never doubt that the king is doomed.”

  I’d only ever heard my mother speak like this of Enrique and a part of me resisted it, for I didn’t want to see my own half brother in so tarnished a light. Yet despite my efforts I recognized in Torquemada’s stark appraisal my own sense of Enrique as a lost soul, a man unable to bear the burden of his crown.

  “He is still my king,” I said at length, “appointed by God and our Cortes to rule. Would you have me disavow my solemn duty to him as his sister and subject?”

  Torquemada raised a brow. “I would have Your Highness do only what your conscience dictates. Your brother the infante fights to save Castile from damnation and God will strengthen his arm. But while he fights with the sword, you must fight with your will, for they would soon send you far from this realm. The queen has entered into secret negotiations to wed you to her brother, King Afonso of Portugal.”

  “Afonso!” I exclaimed, before I could contain myself. “But he’s a widower already! And he has a son by his first marriage, an heir. How can such a union benefit me or Castile? I’ll be his second wife; whatever children I bear will have no rights unless his first son happens to die and …” My voice faded as the realization sank in. “The queen: She is determined to exile me.”

  “She’ll certainly try,” Torquemada said. “She must invalidate your claim to the succession first, for with you out of the way, few will dare deny her bastard child. Yet you are the true daughter of Castile; in you runs the ancient blood of kings. And should your brother Alfonso fail, you must be prepared to take up his banner, for you are next in line to the throne. God needs you here.”

  I looked at my hands, twined in my lap, then back at him. “What can I do?” I whispered. “I have no power. The king can wed me to whomever he wants. He’s warned me as much. My future, he said, is in his hands.”

  Torquemada’s eyes glittered. “You are not without power. That is why I am here: to remind you of who you are. Tonight, I will absolve you of all prior oaths, so that you may live henceforth in virtue, following only the dictates of your heart.”

  He knew I had sworn an oath to uphold Joanna; that I was bound by filial duty to obey my king. Yet, like me, he knew Joanna might not be legitimate, that even as my half brother plunged Castile into chaos to uphold her claim, he too doubted her right to the throne. I had suffered endless doubt, questioning myself and everything around me. Was this austere man the answer to my prayers? Had God sent Torquemada to me to show me the truth?

  I slipped from the pew to my knees, my hands clasped before me.

  “Bless me, Father,” I said, “for I have sinned …”

  Tomás de Torquemada leaned close to hear my confession.

  I EMERGED FROM the cathedral to find the moon skulking behind icy clouds. Beatriz and Cabrera hastened to me from the portico. I thanked Cabrera, promised I’d keep this meeting a secret, and returned with Beatriz to my rooms.

  As we tiptoed in, I almost laughed aloud when I realized a weight had been lifted from me; I no longer felt afraid. I did not care if Mencia or Juana herself discovered I’d disobeyed them. I had been relieved of the turmoil that had gnawed at me since Alfonso declared himself king. I even felt hunger, for the first time in weeks; I was ravenous for simple hearty fare, like the food I used to enjoy in Arévalo.

  I embraced Beatriz. “I know this was your doing,” I said, “and I love you all the more for it. You are my dearest friend. Should you ever wish to ask my leave to marry, you shall have it, by my solemn word.”

  She drew back. “Marry? Desert you? Never!”

  “Never is a very long time. Now, do you still keep that bread and cheese in the window seat? If so, go fetch it.”

  She rushed to retrieve the food; we sat in bed and ate to our heart’s content, whispering and scattering crumbs for the mice that scampered in the corners. She did not ask me for any details of what had transpired in the cathedral, and I did not offer any.

  But we both knew I was prepared for battle.

  MY CALL TO arms came a few months later.

  In that time, I’d endeavored to spend fewer hours in the chapel and more in the alcazar library—an astonishing, neglected room with a high scarlet-and-azure vaulted ceiling and shelves crammed with ancient texts, tomes, and folios. I lamented my rudimentary education; I’d never had occasion to master Latin or Greek, the languages employed by scholars, and was thus barred from reading many of the books. What I could find in our Castilian vernacular I devoured, including the statutes of Alfonso X, the ki
ng who had been known as El Sabio, for commissioning his famous Partidas, which were the basis for our current legal system. I also read other translated works from King Alfonso’s time, including Arabic fables and his Mirror of Princes, a multivolume treatise instructing monarchs in the ways of proper governance.

  In between fevered bouts of reading, I was drawn again and again to a brass spherical globe of the known world standing in a corner, its glimmer dimmed by dust and age. I was mesmerized by its depiction of the Ocean Sea—a vast space of water which no man had dared to cross. Many believed nothing existed past the edge of the Ocean Sea, that terrible monsters lurked in its depths, waiting to hurl unsuspecting ships into a void. But others believed unknown lands existed far beyond our own. Tales of these distant shores and of the adventurers who sought them fascinated me; I couldn’t read enough of the chronicles of Marco Polo, who had opened a route to the Orient, now lost to us since the fall of Constantinople, or of the Portuguese prince known as Henrique the Navigator, who had funded intrepid expeditions to Africa.

  When I read of these valiant men willing to risk everything for the promise of discovery, I forgot I sat alone with a musty book, an inexperienced girl who had never even seen the sea. I lost all sense of self and time, and became a man forged of salt and driftwood, permeated by spindrift and attuned to the siren’s call, with endless blue all around me. Such books proved to me that we have courage inside us we do not recognize until we are put to the test; their words roused in me a fervor I hadn’t known I possessed.

  By the time Enrique returned to Segovia, following another confrontation with the rebels, I felt I was ready for anything he might demand of me. But as soon as I was called into the Sala de los Reyes, where the gilded statues of our ancestors looked down imposingly from their niches, I espied the lean figure of Villena at Enrique’s side.

  Then I realized how little of the world I truly understood.

  I stared in disbelief at Villena’s sardonic face, his entire person perfumed and disdainful, as though he hadn’t spent the last twenty-six months agitating rebellion in Alfonso’s name. I was astonished that he still lived. Treason such as his deserved death.

  Enrique appeared uncomfortable as I curtsied before him. After asking how I fared, he blurted, “We’ve found the means to end this infernal conflict.”

  “That is good,” I answered, keeping my tone reserved. I pondered his use of “we.” If he and Villena were no longer at odds, was the war over? If so, where were Carrillo and Alfonso? I focused on ensuring that my expression remain impassive, despite my confusion, having finally understood the value of the advice Fernando had given me on the night of my arrival to court.

  “We are relieved by Your Highness’s cooperation,” drawled Villena, “for you are instrumental to our success.”

  I kept my eyes on Enrique, who shifted on his throne. He shot a glance at Bishop Mendoza; the bishop looked pained, unable to meet my eyes when Enrique ordered, “Tell her.”

  Mendoza cleared his throat. I had taken a wary liking to him, ever since he tried to calm Queen Juana during our confrontation following the revelation of Alfonso’s complicity with the rebels. Though he was Mencia’s brother and a senior member of one of Castile’s oldest and most rapacious noble families, Mendoza was, by all accounts, devoted to his office, a man of piety and reserve who had always treated me with respect.

  “We believe …” he began. Discomfort creased his brow. “That is to say, we think … it nearing Your Highness’s birthday, and with the revenues of the towns of Trujillo and Medina del Campo to be delivered to you upon your fifteenth year, as stated in King Juan your late father’s testament, that it would be incumbent for you … that is, for us, to—”

  “God’s teeth,” spat Villena. “She needn’t be treated as if she has a choice!” He turned to me. “The king would end this crisis. He proposes two matches—one between his daughter, Princess Joanna, and the Infante Alfonso, to be ratified upon the princess’s fourteenth year, and another between yourself and my brother, Pedro de Girón. These marriages will bring accord and …”

  The roar in my head drowned out his voice. I recalled Pedro de Girón as he’d been the last time I saw him, a leering giant with his sword, swinging at Beltrán de la Cueva as if the blade were nothing but a toy.

  Enrique averted his eyes from me as I said haltingly, “I … I will not give my consent.”

  Villena let out a crude laugh. “You are mistaken if you think we need it.”

  I lifted my chin. “By the same will that bequeaths those towns to me on my fifteenth birthday, my father ordained that the Cortes must grant its approval before I wed. Has the Cortes been consulted about this proposed match with your brother, my lord?”

  Silence fell. Torquemada had told me this in anticipation of the Portuguese alliance; now I wielded it in the desperate hope that a man like Girón would never gain the Cortes’s approval to wed me, no matter how powerful or wealthy he was.

  Enrique gaped at me. Villena snarled, “Who has she been talking to?” He spun to Mendoza. “Is it true? Do we need the Cortes’s approval to wed her?”

  Mendoza regarded me pensively. “I believe she is indeed correct. By the terms of King Juan’s will, the Cortes must approve any proposed alliance that involves the infantes. Even His Majesty had to request it when he sought to marry his second queen.”

  “It cannot be! You told me this could all be done without fuss,” Villena hissed to Enrique. “We agreed: I gain the mastership of Santiago and the marriage for my brother, and you get Alfonso. I abandoned Carrillo for this! Now he and his rebel wolves are baying for my head, and this chit of a girl dares stand in my way?”

  “I am an infanta of Castile,” I reminded him. “Did you think to barter me like cheap coin for your vanities?”

  “Enough.” Enrique was trembling. “I told you, you must do as I say.”

  “You asked me not to do anything to force you to act against your conscience,” I said, “and I have not. Yet now you ask me to go against my own conscience, to violate the terms of our father’s testament so my lord the marquis can have a title he is not entitled to, one which by all rights belongs to my brother, the Infante Alfonso.”

  Enrique’s mouth worked. He stared at me as if he suddenly didn’t know who I was. Then he said, “How dare you? You do not rule here. I can’t bear this anymore. You and your brother. Carrillo. The grandees. All of you want me dead, so you can take everything I have.” His voice increased, growing shrill. He lunged to his feet. “I will have peace! And if it means you must wed Girón, then you will!”

  I stood immobile, horrified. His eyes bulged, his hands curled before him like claws. I started to protest again but before I could utter a word, he bellowed, “Get out!”

  Behind me, the hall doors banged open. Footsteps raced toward me; I couldn’t move, frozen by the hatred and fear that I saw twisting the king’s face. All the bravery I thought I had found in the library, all the daring and strength, seemed to desert me as I realized that he had lost all control of himself. He was desperate, capable of anything.

  Beatriz tugged at my sleeve. “My lady, please. We must go.”

  Spittle flecked Enrique’s chin. He stood there, glaring at me, and I forced myself not to take my eyes off him. I had to engrave this moment in my memory, so that I would never again weaken, never doubt or forget that in the end, it was he who had forsaken me.

  “You will do it,” he said. “You will marry Girón. If you do not, you will regret it.”

  Those were the words I needed to hear. I curtsied, sinking almost to the floor.

  Villena sneered, setting his slender hand on Enrique’s shoulder. The king shuddered. I was reminded with a cold jolt of the moment from my childhood, when I’d seen Constable Luna do much the same to my father.

  I knew then, without a doubt, that nothing could save Enrique from his fate.

  CHAPTER TEN

  We were ordered to the alcazar of Madrid—a cramped stone fortres
s with suffocating staircases, crumbling battlements, and mildewed walls. Despite its adequate furnishings, it was devoid of the lavish embellishments of Enrique’s beloved Segovia, to which he’d devoted all his attention and money. The king let it be known via a circular posted throughout Castile—intended, no doubt, to test the rebels’ sincerity toward the proposed peace—that I’d been moved to Madrid for my own protection, the freedoms of the court being not conducive to an impressionable virgin about to be wed.

  The queen, forced to move with me, now disdained my presence and forbade me from seeing Joanna. Even Mencia stopped pretending she was supposed to serve me, and Beatriz and I were left to the mercy of a chambermaid named Inés de la Torre, whom Mencia employed to spy on us. But out of pity or necessity, or perhaps both, Inés allowed herself to be bribed to our side instead, content to fetch our food, turn down our beds, and clean our rooms for a few extra coins and then deliver to Mencia only the most banal reports of our activities.

  I was severed from everyone and everything I cared about—save Beatriz. Desolate over my impending marriage and her own separation from Andrés de Cabrera, one evening she seized the old bread knife and cried, “If that monster dares touch a hair on your head, I’ll plunge this blade into his black heart!”

  I had to laugh, reminded of the time when she’d claimed she wanted to lead a crusade. “Come now, you know that dagger barely slices our cheese. We cannot fight like knights if we have no swords.”

  “Then, what can we do? Wait to be bartered off like slaves to Moors? Because you have to admit, being Girón’s wife is tantamount to slavery.”

  “I did not say we should not fight. We just need other weapons,” I said, echoing Torquemada. “Like lions, we must use our hearts.”

  “Lions also have teeth,” she grumbled, but she joined me at the makeshift altar we’d set up, with a small marble image of the Virgin of the Sagrario, patroness of La Mancha, who hears all our sorrows.