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

by C. W. Gortner

  This time, my labor was brief, a mere few hours of discomfort. As the midwife set my newborn child in my arms, I thought without doubt she was my most beautiful—a perfect infant in every way, down to the fuzz of reddish curls on her still-soft crown, her milky skin, and her languid amber-tinted eyes. She did not fuss; rather, she was content to lie cradled beside me, as if her abrupt entrance into the world had left her unaffected. Though I should have been disappointed that she wasn’t the boy we had hoped for, a fierce protectiveness overcame me as I held her, coupled with sudden sorrow.

  Like my Isabel, she would grow up, and one day leave for a distant court as a bride. I’d schooled myself not to let my emotions get the better of me when it came to my daughters; unlike Juan, who would stay and inherit our kingdoms, I knew from the start that an infanta’s duty lay elsewhere.

  Still, there was something so compelling about this child, as if the bond severed with the belly cord had not actually separated us. I kept her with me until Fernando tiptoed into my chamber to stand at the foot of the bed, regarding me with a quizzical air.

  “Rumor is you’ll not surrender her to the wet nurse. The ladies are scandalized. They think you’ll nurse her yourself.”

  “She’s not hungry yet.” I peeled back the edge of fleece swathing her face. “Look: she’s fast asleep. She’s been like this since they gave her to me. She’s so at ease, it’s almost unnatural. Have you ever seen a newborn so quiet?”

  He came around the bed to gaze at her. “Her hair is red, like my mother’s.”

  “Then we must call her Juana,” I said, “in honor of your mother.” I craned over to kiss her warm forehead, upon which life had yet to inscribe any lessons.

  “Infanta Juana,” echoed Fernando and he smiled. “Yes, it suits her.”

  “YOUR MAJESTIES, WE must put the edict into effect.”

  We sat in the council chamber of Toledo’s alcazar; outside, a chill evening rain plunged winter’s veil over the streets. It was late. We had just finished another long day of negotiations with our Cortes, comprising thirty-four procurators from Castile’s seventeen major cities. Fernando and I had directed our joint efforts toward the strengthening of our authority, setting into motion an ambitious, years-long agenda for revision of our legal codes and taxation.

  Now, bleary-eyed and fatigued, we faced Cardinal Mendoza and the ecclesiastic committee we’d authorized two years earlier to investigate the allegations of converso heresy in Castile. Beside me, Fernando sat sunk in his chair, his ringed hand at his chin as he regarded with shadowed eyes the stack of papers heaped on the table before us—an assiduous collection of scandalous indictments of priests who had counseled students against the Virgin and the cult of saints; furtive testimonies of neighbors who’d seen friends eat unleavened bread and place coins in the mouths of their dead, like the Jews; reports of converso parents who’d washed away with spit the oil of Holy Baptism from their babes’ brows; even unsubstantiated, horrific rumors of the torture of Christian boys during Holy Week, in mockery of our Savior’s passion. They all pointed to the same, inescapable conclusion.

  “You’re certain?” said Fernando, his voice hoarse from the day’s sessions. “You believe without any doubt that these false conversos subvert our Church and even gain profit by it?”

  “Yes, Majestad.” Mendoza motioned to Fray Torquemada. I tensed in my chair as the ascetic Dominican friar stood, his black robe clinging to his jutting shoulders. He’d become even more emaciated since I’d last seen him, so much so that at first I thought he was mortally ill—a skeletal figure of sinew and bone, without any color in his gaunt face. It seemed impossible he could move at all, malnourished as he was; yet his pale eyes smoldered with undeniable fervor. Here, at long last, was the moment he had awaited.

  I concealed my dread as he began to speak.

  “It is all true,” he said, in his low, passionless voice. “And there is more—much more than even we can imagine. In addition to their secret Judaizing, these filthy Marranos ally with the Jews, extorting loans from good Christians at exorbitant interest and controlling the monies available. Not one Jew breaks the earth or becomes a carpenter or laborer; all seek comfortable posts with the ultimate goal of gleaning profit at others’ expense. Their wealth exceeds the Crown’s. Like the infidel, they dine on gold while many starve.”

  His words were not particularly novel; I’d heard similar disparagement for years in my late brother’s court. But now Torquemada spoke to a new audience; he sought to spark a response not in me but in Fernando. He had studied my husband from afar, with that uncanny prescience he’d once shown me. He’d discovered Fernando’s twin vulnerabilities—fear of rampant heresy and fury at the perennial poverty dogging our heels.

  “You say their wealth exceeds ours?” Fernando straightened. All semblance of reflection was gone.

  Torquemada inclined his tonsured head. “Yes, my king. And by your leave, in sanctioning His Holiness’s edict establishing the Inquisition, we can begin God’s work and separate the pure from the defiled, restoring glory to both our Church and your treasury.”

  “How so?” I said, preempting Fernando. “How exactly will this Holy Tribunal benefit our coffers?”

  Torquemada slid his gaze to me, with uncomfortable intimacy. “The properties of the condemned will revert to the crown, Your Majesty. It was part of the terms you yourself set forth before His Holiness, was it not? You asked that all functions of the Holy Inquisition, from its appointees to punishments exacted, should remain in your hands?”

  I clenched my jaw, resisting the urge to look away. As if time had paused and turned back, I saw myself as I’d been that night long ago when I had first met Torquemada in Segovia—a troubled adolescent with the weight of the world on my conscience. Then he had read my innermost desires, brought me a solace that helped me marshal my strength. Now I was not so sure of him anymore. Since the day he had come to extort a promise from me, while Enrique lay dying, a seed of doubt had been growing.

  Doubt is the Devil’s handmaiden, sent to lure us into perdition.

  “Surely, there can’t be as much wealth as you describe,” I replied, feeling Fernando’s stare on me, almost as intense as Torquemada’s. “And I did not authorize any policies taken against the Jews. Only conversos, I said: only those who have erred in our faith.”

  Torquemada stood quiet, unblinking. I finally looked past him to my confessor, Fray Talavera. He nodded at me quickly, in encouragement. Like me, he’d grown increasingly troubled by Torquemada’s relentless quest to expel the Jews from the realm. Though the commission we had appointed was overseen by Cardinal Mendoza, the friar had slowly come to dominate it with his fiery rhetoric.

  “And what of my educational program?” I went on. “I asked that we send trained and experienced prelates throughout the realm to preach the principles of our faith; they were charged with ensuring that all those who misunderstood or had been brought up in error were gently corrected and returned to our fold.”

  “Indeed, and our prelates did as Your Majesty bade,” said Cardinal Mendoza, clearing his throat. “You’ll find in those papers reports from eighty prelates, all of whom unfortunately concur that these converso heresies are, in the majority, too ingrained to ever be expelled by doctrinal education. In Andalucía, the situation is particularly grievous, with many of the Marranos defiant of or even impugning the Church. Their souls risk everlasting damnation. It is your obligation as God’s anointed monarch to save them.”

  Torquemada said abruptly, “Your Majesty seems to forget you promised to devote yourself to the extirpation of heresy once you became queen. To deny the promise now is tantamount to committing heresy yourself.”

  As I clenched my hands about my armrests, Talavera interjected, “With all due respect, I am Her Majesty’s confessor. I assure you, she’s a devout servant of the Church, who takes these allegations most seriously—”

  “These are not allegations!” roared Torquemada, his voice reverberating
against the wood-paneled walls of the enclosed room. I’d never have thought his lungs capable of such volume; clearly, neither had Fernando, who visibly recoiled. “These are truths!” The friar flung out his hand, his thin fingers curled as if he cradled invisible flames. “To deny it is to deny Christ himself! Better to enter Paradise with one eye than to suffer in Hell with two.”

  I glanced warily at Fernando; he stared at the friar, awestruck. He had his own confessor from Aragón, on whom he relied, but I could tell he felt the hypnotic draw of Torquemada’s conviction. It disturbed me to witness the friar’s force wielded on my husband because in the moment, I realized that I no longer felt it. I no longer believed in Torquemada.

  Fernando spoke: “But we’ve always had conversos in these realms, and they’ve served us well. How can we know who is a heretic and who is not?” As he spoke, he reached out to take my hand, something he rarely did in public. His palm was warm, his fingers reassuring as he squeezed mine. He may have felt Torquemada’s power but he was clearly not going to let himself be swayed by it. His practical Aragonese nature required unassailable evidence before he would act.

  “There are true conversos, sincere in the faith, who abjure those who deliberately practice foul rites,” answered Torquemada, his voice once again placid, as if he hadn’t just shouted before his sovereigns, “and there are those who lie. They cannot be easily distinguished, especially in Andalucía, where they have dwelled so close together for so long. This is why we request that the first Tribunal of the Holy Inquisition be appointed in Sevilla; it is hallowed work, best undertaken by those with stout hearts. However, once we eradicate this evil, God will show mercy. He will pave the road to glory and the kingdom of one—one crown, one country, one faith. He will help you drive out the heretic, the Marrano, and the infidel, so you can build a new world in which Spain reigns supreme and the righteous can rejoice.”

  Fernando sat still. Something in my face must have conveyed my discomfort, for he said, without warning, “The queen and I must seek our own counsel.” Helping me from my chair, he guided me with a hand at the small of my back to the adjoining chamber, where braziers and candelabra were lit to ward off the dark and cold.

  A window with fluted columns offered a sweeping view of the city. In the distance, thrusting high above the steep cobbled streets, was the elaborate tower of the Cathedral of Santa María, the oldest in Castile, founded by Fernando III, scourge of the Moors.

  I stepped to the window as Fernando busied himself pouring wine at the sideboard. I thought of all the holy edifices in my realm, many of which had fallen into neglect during my father’s and brother’s reigns. Were their disrepair and the clergy’s licentiousness to blame for the canker now eating away at our faith? I’d recently issued a decree enforcing clerical celibacy and appointed a commission of bishops to oversee reform of all monasteries and convents, as well as the appointment of new prelates. I’d also coerced the Cortes to set aside funds for the restoration of dilapidated churches, including Toledo’s Church of Santa María, as well as the construction of our new Monastery of San Juan de los Reyes, to commemorate our victory over Portugal.

  “Everything I do,” I said aloud, hearing Fernando come behind me, “I do for the exaltation of God and our country. So why do I feel as though this turmoil has no solution, no answer, no end?”

  “It has an end. It just isn’t the one you want to hear.”

  I turned to him.

  “The time has come, Isabella. We cannot equivocate any longer. As Catholic sovereigns, we must set an example. Heresy can no longer be tolerated in our realms.”

  “Are you so certain this is the way?” I asked.

  “Yes. We are God’s appointed sovereigns. He would not lead us astray.” Fernando leaned in to me, his strong features softened by the candle glow. “It’s our sacred duty, Isabella. You know it and so do I. Sometimes, we must act against our hearts, because it is the right thing, the only thing, to do.”

  I searched his eyes. “If we proceed, our subjects will die.”

  “Only the guilty, only those who refuse to repent. True Christians have nothing to fear.” He caressed my cheek. “My moon, you mustn’t doubt. You always wonder if we do God’s will and I tell you, we do. We can do nothing else. Torquemada is too bold but he speaks like a prophet: one crown, one country, one faith. We have no place for anything less. We are building a new nation for a new age; it’s what we dreamed of, all those years ago. This is our time. And once we purify Castile and Aragón, we’ll turn our sword on Granada. We’ll take up the Reconquista and rid the land forever of the infidel.”

  I wanted to surrender. I wanted to submit to his steadfast belief in our destiny, which never faltered or wavered, despite the odds. I suddenly despised my own frailty, my impractical feminine heart so easily deceived, so fallible, I no longer trusted my own self.

  I whispered, “Why do these false conversos defy us? Why deny God’s truth and condemn your immortal soul? I can’t believe any person would do this willingly. They are misguided; they just need time to understand how they sin, so they can repent.”

  He pulled me to him. Against his chest, I could feel the tempo of his heart. Lost in this sea of doubt, he was the one thing I could cling to.

  “The heretic is a stubborn sinner,” he said. “You mustn’t let their defiance torment you. We are king and queen. Whatever we ordain, we do for the greater good.” He cupped my chin, lifted my face to his. “Let Torquemada assume this task. He can start in Sevilla, show us what he can achieve. If we don’t agree with his methods, we’ll intervene. Though he’ll oversee our new Inquisition, by our papal edict he is answerable to us—and us alone.”

  I did not speak. The moment stretched between us, taut with my hesitation. I recalled my own words of defiance years ago, when Torquemada first came to me about this: Yet even if I were crowned tomorrow, the last thing I’d condone is the persecution of my subjects.

  Since the day on the beach two years before, when I first sanctioned the inquisitorial edict from Rome, I had known it would come to this. It had been building like a storm in the distance, the inexorable price I had to pay for everything God had given me.

  “I will agree,” I said at length, “but only on these conditions: First, whatever is confiscated from the condemned must be used to further our efforts toward unity. Second, the Inquisition must restrict its activities to lapsed conversos only.”

  “Bien,” he murmured. “I’ll see to it. Now, are you ready to go back inside?”

  We joined hands again, returned to the chamber where Torquemada stood patiently, hands folded before him, as though he already knew what we would say.

  “We are deeply disturbed by everything we’ve heard,” I said, “and as Father Talavera has assured you, we take this matter most seriously.” I paused, passing my gaze over the assembly. “Prepare the order for signature. We will authorize the Inquisition in Castile.”

  I turned on my heel and left quickly, so they could not see my sorrow. In my rooms, I had Ines extinguish all candles save the votives on my altar, and I went to my knees before it.

  “My Lord and Savior,” I whispered, “hear now the supplication of Your humble servant. Show me the truth. Manifest through me Your will. Let there be no room for me to err through ignorance; lend me the strength so I may achieve my charge and cast Your light upon these kingdoms, which have suffered so much evil and destruction.”

  I bowed my head, waiting.

  But God did not answer me that night.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Clamoring crowds gathered at the sides of the road. The men were dressed in fresh-laundered tunics and hose, waving caps upon which they’d pinned carnations; the women wore embroidered shawls and clutched eager children by the hand as they watched us pass in lumbering procession. The entire court was on caparisoned horseback, the nobles in damask stiffened with gold tracery, the ladies in ostentatious cloaks and swirling veils, the liveried servants and grim guards riding along
side the endless line of mule-drawn carts bearing our entire household.

  From my carriage window I looked onto the assembly of people framed against an unfamiliar landscape of sharp verdant vales. This was the fertile land of my husband’s birth, which I was seeing for the first time. I tried my best to summon a smile. His subjects had been waiting for hours, days even, word having gone out in advance that we were on our way to his capital city, Zaragoza, to have our two-year-old son sworn in as heir by Aragón’s Cortes. It was to be our dynastic milestone, the symbolic union of our realms under one heir.

  My gaze strained toward the front of the procession, where I knew Fernando rode with Juan in front of him on the saddle, waving and smiling. I had to clamp my lips to stop myself from ordering that my son be brought to me this instant.

  “His Highness the infante will be fine,” said Beatriz from her mass of pillows opposite me. Ines and my daughters rode in a separate litter; Beatriz had recently confided to me that she was finally with child and I’d insisted she share my transportation, knowing well how hard travel can be when in that state. “Just listen to the Aragonese acclaim him! And His Majesty and Chacón are right there in case the infante tires.”

  “I know.” I lifted my hand to wave, realizing the crowds had seen me. I’d wanted to ride on horseback as well, to be close to Juan, but I’d tripped on the staircase as we left the alcazar in Segovia and hurt my ankle, so now I was confined to this carriage, which was probably just as well. After fretting over the long hours of journeying from Castile; of the cleanliness of the various places along the way where we had to stop; of the need for fresh water and foodstuffs, not to mention my son’s health, I was not at my best. Moreover, I thought, glancing at the leather portfolio beside me, bulging with grievances and petitions, I had more than enough to do before we reached Zaragoza.

  “His colic has improved,” Beatriz added, as I reluctantly let the window curtain fall back in place. “And he hasn’t had a fever in over a month. Surely, this means the physicians are right and his health is improving.”