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

by C. W. Gortner

  “Arrest me, then.” I returned my gaze to Villena. “But before you do, you must tell me before these lords what I am accused of; even the lowliest serf in Castile deserves that right. By the terms of the treaty I signed with His Majesty, it was agreed I would not wed without his consent, yes, but that he in turn would not force upon me a marriage not of my choosing. He broke our arrangement first by seeking alliance for me with Portugal. Therefore, I suggest we submit our disagreements to the Cortes and let them decide.”

  Villena’s feline eyes turned to slits. “There will never be an assembly of the Cortes while the king lives,” he hissed. “Never! You’ve forfeited your right to call yourself heiress of Castile. If you dare embark on this marriage with Aragón, it is doubtful how long you may live. The king will not tolerate sedition. Unless you obey, you will pay for the consequences of your actions, as will every man who supports your unseemly defiance.”

  I blinked. His spittle had struck me in the face. Meeting his burning eyes, I said, “You will one day have cause to regret those words, my lord marquis.”

  I walked purposefully to the far doors. Villena shouted at me, “You are the one who’ll have cause to regret, Doña Isabella!”

  I did not turn back. I heard Carrillo bark, “Get out now, before I slice the fleas from your fur,” and then the ensuing uproar, a clash of dissent that could not, fortunately, escalate past heated words, seeing as the admiral’s retainers were there precisely to impede it.

  The moment I closed the door behind me, I sagged against the wall, my heart hammering. Inés came to me, cloth in hand. “Here, let me clean your face.” As she dabbed the marquis’s spit from my cheeks, I heard the muted clamor of the admiral’s men escorting the king’s delegation out. Moments later, Carrillo banged the door open; he was flushed, furious, and all the more invigorated for it. The man seemed to thrive on discord.

  “That royal catamite dared to warn me that he’ll return with an army to tear down these walls. Hah! I’d like to see him try. Those high and mighty lords all looked as though they wished the earth would swallow them whole.” He gave me an admiring grin. “You’ve won the day. You showed them what a true ruler is.”

  “I’m not a ruler yet.” I looked past him to where the admiral stood on the threshold, his expression far less enthusiastic. He understood the situation we faced; he knew as well as I did that this time, we could not afford to disregard Villena’s threats. When he next came, he would indeed have an army and a warrant for my arrest.

  “I can’t delay anymore,” I said, looking back at Carrillo. “I must send word to Fernando. Whatever else he does, he must come to me before it is too late.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Night hung sultry over the indoor patio, where lemon-scented torches burned to discourage insects. I paced the arcade-enclosed square, unable to sit indoors.

  After nearly two weeks, I had finally received word that Fernando was on his way. He’d slipped over the border between our realms with a few trusted attendants, all disguised as common carters. Cárdenas, whom I’d sent to Aragón with my letter, was among those who accompanied him. Thus far, Fernando had eluded Villena’s patrols; I knew this because the count of Palencia had sent a missive that my betrothed safely reached that castle. Fernando departed the next evening for Valladolid, taking advantage of the cover of the night, and over the last two days we’d heard nothing more.

  Castile crawled with royal informants. Enrique had given Villena full permission to ransack the treasury and hire as many spies as he could, to ensure that Fernando never made it across the border. But Andrés de Cabrera and my spirited Beatriz had refused the marquis access to the alcazar, even though their actions branded them traitors. Thus thwarted, Villena began bribing funds from the less scrupulous grandees in exchange for flagrant offers of land and castles. Now he had hirelings stationed on every road and in every township, all on the watch for the prince of Aragón and his entourage.

  Of course no one was searching for a carter and muleteers, Ines assured me, but I envisioned the worst. Princes could let themselves be known by any number of unwitting actions—the use of gold in a place where base copper was the rule; a careless request to a servant, when he should have had none. Even the way he walked and talked could reveal his superior rank. If Fernando let his guard down even for a moment, and one of Villena’s men noticed, it would be the end of him, of us. Villena had the king’s order to arrest Fernando for entering Castile without leave, with intent to marry a princess forbidden to him.

  I paused in my restless ambulation, lifted my gaze to the moon, high in the star-spangled night sky and wreathed in cloud. The horrible heat of summer had not abated, though it was already October. The tawny Castilian wheat—essential for our bread—had withered; everyone was predicting widespread starvation. As if that were not enough, the Black Death had erupted in Ávila and Madrigal, killing hundreds. I’d sent for news of my mother in Arévalo but had not heard back, which only increased my fear that she and her elderly attendants would suffer from lack of supplies, due to the plague shutting down vital commerce. Portents abounded, prompting market-square prophets and doomsayers to take to the streets to herald the beginning of the Apocalypse.

  God, they claimed, was displeased.

  It couldn’t be because of me, I kept telling myself. I did not embark on this marriage for my own selfish purposes and I had not asked Fernando to abandon Aragón for me. No, I had asked him to come because we were out of time and options; only he could help me save Castile. Together, we would be that much stronger and better equipped to withstand Enrique. My half brother could cry treason all he wanted, but once Fernando and I were wed, it would force Enrique to seek terms, lest he find himself at war with both the rebellious grandees in Andalucía and the entire kingdom of Aragón.

  And yet guilt gnawed at me. Fernando had left behind a sick, old father and a horde of French soldiers clamoring to devour his realm. He risked his very freedom, perhaps even his life, to honor my request. Had I been too impetuous? Perhaps I should have waited, manned the walls of my palace and dug in like a mole to withstand winter. Villena was indolent, for all his bombast; he’d hardly have roused himself to besiege me with the months of bitter cold so near….

  Around and around the patio I went, circling in my own personal purgatory. I’d even written a belated letter to Torquemada, begging him for guidance. He had reminded me of what he’d imparted the night we met in Segovia:

  Much will be demanded of you. You must rely only on the conviction of your faith, knowing that even in our darkest hour the Almighty does not abandon us.

  Inés appeared in the arcade, out of nowhere. “My lady,” she said, “he is here.”

  I paused, staring at her as if she spoke nonsense. “Who is here?”

  “The prince. He is in the sala. They arrived a few minutes ago. He is asking for you.” She recovered my gossamer wrap, left crumpled in a corner. As she draped it about my shoulders, I passed my hands over my disheveled coiffure in a daze.

  “You’ve been bitten,” chided Inés. She wet her finger, cleaned the smear of blood from my throat. “I told you to use the oil of lavender when you’re outside at night. Skin as fair as yours attracts mosquitoes.” As she spoke, she guided me into the palace. My heart was beating so fast I felt as though I might faint. Suddenly we were at the doors of the sala; the flickering light of the candelabra dazzled me.

  I paused, blinking.

  There were several figures in the room—men with goblets in hand, as well as Doña Vivero and a cluster of her women friends, all talking in groups. The house dogs sprawled on the tiles near the hearth. I noticed Carrillo, red-faced, blustering to the recently arrived papal nuncio; nearby, I saw with relief, was my dear Chacón, who had gone to meet Fernando halfway. With him was intrepid young Cárdenas, his face tired as he sat on a window ledge and petted one of the hounds. He looked up; as his wide grin broke across his face and he stood, the hall’s occupants turned as if on cue to r
egard me.

  They bowed low. I remained frozen on the threshold, as if the expanse of floor before me had become an impassable sea. The admiral stepped forth with a broad-shouldered man in a leather doublet and thigh-high, mud-spattered boots. His forehead was ample, offset by tousled chestnut hair; his sun-bronzed complexion so dark in the room’s dim light that at first I mistook him for a Moorish guard, the type Enrique liked to keep about him. For, while he wasn’t tall, he exuded undeniable power; his muscular body moved with a confident stealth that reminded me of Enrique’s leopards.

  As he came before me, I caught a hint of mirth in his eyes, which, by some alchemy of the light, gleamed like sun-shot amber. His hand was strong, veined; I felt its callused warmth as his fingers grasped mine. He raised my hand to his lips. The shadow of a beard patterned his cheeks; it felt rough against my skin.

  “What?” he said, so low only I could hear him. “Do you still not remember me?”

  I saw the boy now, shining out of his expressive eyes, but in my anxiety and worry, in the anticipation leading up to this moment, I’d somehow forgotten that years had passed. He was a man of seventeen now, not that audacious youth who’d proposed to me in the alcazar garden.

  “I … I didn’t recognize you,” I heard myself say.

  “So it seems.” His smile widened, revealing his slightly crooked teeth. “Now that you do,” he said, “do I please?”

  “Yes,” I whispered. “You do.” His fingers tightened over mine, as though he sought to impart a secret, letting loose a cascade of sensation inside me.

  “As do you, my Isabella,” he said. “You please me, very much.” His smile widened. “I have our dispensation. My father and Carrillo got it for us only a day before I left Aragón.”

  “Dispensation … yes, of course. Thank you.” I was barely paying attention, all too aware of the others watching us; of Inés’s soft giggle and Cárdenas’s proud stare, as if he’d carried Fernando here on his back. But they were part of a vague backdrop I barely registered; the sounds of their presence muted, like the susurration of a distant river.

  Though we stood in a crowded hall for this first public meeting, witnessed by dozens of eyes and ears, it was as if Fernando and I were alone in our recognition that without each other, life could only be an incomprehensible labor.

  “They’re waiting for us,” he said, rupturing the spell.

  I nodded, withdrew my hand from his. Together we turned to the hall and everyone raised their goblets. They drank a toast, began to applaud. The noise rushed over me in a deluge, so loud that I swayed. I felt Fernando’s hand come to rest on the small of my back.

  I knew then that, no matter what the future held, with him at my side, I could face anything.

  OVER THE NEXT four days the palace seemed to explode with cheer, as the banns went out and loyal grandees and their retinues came from all over Castile to attend us. Fernando and I couldn’t find the time to be alone, surrounded as we were every minute, but now and then, as the days progressed, we’d catch each other’s eyes across the crowded hall and in those moments the intimate knowledge that we had at last found each other passed between us, warming my entire being.

  On the eve of the wedding, Inés and I frantically worked to put the finishing touches on my gown. Money was in short supply, as always, and we had spent the past few days wearing out our eyes and fingers as we sewed my raiment.

  The door opened. At first, I was so tired I thought I must be dreaming when I saw Beatriz walk in. Then, as she stood there with her hands on her hips, a broad smile on her face, I slowly came to my feet. I was stunned. I hadn’t expected her, not at this late hour. I knew the situation in Segovia was extremely tense, with Cabrera caught between Villena’s exigencies and his habitual lifelong loyalty to his royal office. I had assumed Beatriz would not wish to risk more enmity falling upon her husband by attending my forbidden union.

  As I took her in my arms I whispered, “You shouldn’t have. It’s too dangerous.”

  “Nonsense,” she scoffed. She drew back. “As if Villena and the entire royal guard could have stopped me! I wouldn’t miss this for anything.” She was rounder, rosy-cheeked; while still disarmingly beautiful, she had a new serenity about her. Marriage evidently suited her. She unfastened her cloak. “Now, give me a spare needle and let me help you. Ines, look at that sleeve—it’s a mess! Did no one teach you to properly hide a seam?”

  We sat up all night, laughing and sharing confidences, as we had in our childhood. The months of separation dwindled and vanished, until I clasped her hand and confessed, “I could not imagine this day without you,” and rare tears glistened in her eyes.

  She helped me dress that morning, just as she had so many times before when we were young girls. She wove silk flowers in my waist-length hair and arranged the gossamer, gold-threaded veil. She and Inés accompanied me into the hall and stood behind me as I joined Fernando, who’d been titled king of Sicily by his father especially for the occasion. Carrillo read aloud the papal dispensation sanctifying our marriage within the degree of consanguinity, but just before my turn came to recite the vows I froze in a moment of paralyzing panic.

  What was I doing? I was defying my king, threatening everything I cherished. I risked being branded a traitor, endangering my very future as heir—and all to marry this man I did not know.

  Sweat broke out under my azure brocade gown. Fernando stood rigid beside me in a high-collared matching doublet trimmed in gold; as though he sensed my doubt, he slid his gaze to me. And he winked.

  Relief washed over me, cool as rain. I had to repress the urge to laugh as the nuptial rings were slipped on our fingers and we made our way to the open balcony overlooking the courtyard. People had been gathering there since dawn, with banners and bouquets of autumn flowers. When we appeared, they waved them at us, men hoisting children on their shoulders to better see us, wives and daughters clasping hands, gnarled widows and grandmothers peering upward and smiling.

  “Their Royal Highnesses Isabella and Fernando, prince and princess of Asturias and Aragón, and king and queen of Sicily,” trumpeted the heralds.

  The sky arched over us, a vault of unbroken cerulean; the air was redolent of roast meat from the banquet being laid out inside the palace hall. I gazed upon the hundreds of anonymous faces beaming at us, their tribulations momentarily set aside in their zeal to share our moment of joy, and euphoria swept through me.

  “We do this for them,” I said, “to bring them justice and honor. To give them peace.”

  Fernando chuckled. “Yes. But there will be time enough to care for them. Today, wife, we do this for us,” and before I realized his intention, he turned me to him, and in full view of our court and future subjects, he kissed me with unrestrained passion—our first real kiss as a married couple.

  His mouth was warm. He tasted of an indefinable spice and the tang of claret. His body was chiseled, incredibly strong; his arms enveloped me like muscular wings, sheltering and all-encompassing, making me want to melt inside their embrace. I—who had never before experienced that urgency of the flesh which poets so often exalt—felt such heat inside me that I let out an involuntary gasp. Again he chuckled, only this time his mirth was saturated with unmistakable intent, and I felt him harden where he pressed against my thighs.

  When he finally drew back, his kiss still tingled on my lips and the entire room seemed to sway. From outside came lewd whistles and hearty applause.

  “You’re blushing,” he said, and I bit the inside of my lip, hard, forcing myself to feel the pain rather than my searing desire. I glanced over at the spectators in the hall, all of whom, including the servitors and pages, had paused to watch us.

  “Must everything we do be witnessed for posterity?” I muttered.

  Fernando threw back his head and laughed—a bold, hearty laugh that made me wonder at his apparent indifference to propriety. Again, I was reminded of the fact that he was still a stranger to me and I breathed deeply, pushing my mis
givings aside. He was a man, and men liked to display their prowess, both on the field and in the bedchamber. It was only natural that he’d want to stake his claim on me.

  And I couldn’t deny that I enjoyed being claimed as his.

  As we moved to our garland-festooned dais, I met Beatriz’s knowing eyes. I wished I could sneak off with her. All of a sudden I had a thousand urgent questions. From the way Fernando had kissed me, I was certain he had carnal experience, and I didn’t want to prove a disappointment, though exactly how I might evade this possibility eluded me. It was disconcerting. I was required to be a virgin; indeed, it was this one aspect that princes prized above most others in a bride. Yet now I found myself worrying that I’d not be able to properly satisfy my prince in the ways he might have become accustomed to.

  My appetite vanished, despite the rich platters of roast piglet, duck, and heron drenched in plum and fig sauces. I kept looking at Fernando’s square hands as he cut into his meat or raised his goblet. Though he abstained from wine, opting instead for cider, he displayed a healthy appetite and he laughed boisterously at Carrillo’s insistent muttering in his ear (the archbishop, as our most esteemed advisor, sat to his left) and smiled at everyone who approached the dais to offer felicitations. He didn’t appear as though he were contemplating our upcoming nuptial night with any trepidation, while in my head it loomed large as a shuttered gatehouse into an unknown world.

  During the last course, however, before the dancing began, I suddenly sensed a shift in his mood. Setting his goblet down, he turned to me. His regard was so direct, so sober, in a hall where the flushed faces of our guests testified to their liberal intake of wine, that I thought for a moment I’d done something to displease him. I couldn’t think what it might be; I’d been as occupied as he was, entertaining the grandees at my side with small talk and feigning interest in every anecdote or remark thrown my way.