The Queen's Vow: A Novel of Isabella of Castile (26 page)

In late September, after a sweltering summer that dried up the Pisuerga’s tributaries and charred the harvest in the fields, I received word that my mother had fallen ill with fever. I’d not seen her in over a year
and so I decided to go to Arévalo. Carrillo protested that it was unsafe for me to leave Valladolid, as neither he nor the admiral could vouch for my safety if I took to “gallivanting about Castile,” but five months of near-daily contact with the archbishop had worn my patience thin. Retorting that I hardly planned to undertake a progress of the realm, I insisted on preparing for the trip.

Yet just as I planned to depart, the long-awaited royal delegation arrived. By now, word of my betrothal to Fernando had become widespread; indeed, one of my first acts of defense had been to proclaim it via circulars in every major city, to demonstrate that I’d done nothing wrong and had nothing to hide. Now I had no other option than to make good on my declarations of innocence and agree to receive Enrique’s men.

I had donned gray velvet and the rubies of Aragón, their weight lending me comfort as the lords strode in. Carrillo and the admiral flanked me. I clenched my teeth at the unexpected sight of Villena; a surreptitious glance at Carrillo revealed that he likewise hadn’t known the marquis would be present. His expression turned so dark, I thought he might leap on Villena and throttle him with his bare hands, then and there.

I preempted him. “My lord marquis,” I said, my voice ringing loud and clear, “I sincerely hope you’ve come to request our forgiveness. Otherwise, let me warn you that we’ll not take kindly to words such as those you’ve used against us in the past.”

I basked in the pallor of his face. I had used the royal plural on purpose and he’d not anticipated it.
Bien
. I was determined that he find me a future queen, not the helpless infanta he had so often bullied.

Then he sneered, whipped from his accompanying groom’s hand an impressive-looking document, clattering with an assortment of seals.

“Herein is Your Highness’s amnesty,” he declared. “Due to unforeseen trouble in the south, His Majesty cannot be here in person but out of respect for your shared blood, he offers a full pardon for your rebellious acts, should you in return renounce your illegal and unsanctioned betrothal with Fernando of Aragón.”

“Miserable cur,” Carrillo spat. “You’re not fit to lick her boots—”

I held up a hand, detaining him. I stepped forward, glancing markedly
toward the admiral. Don Fadrique inclined his head; he stood among sixty armed retainers, proof of the men I now had at my command.

Villena said, “Do you think to intimidate the king’s representative? I come with the full power of the crown. I could have Your Highness arrested this very hour.”

I halted a mere pace from where he stood, so close I detected the nauseating smell of his expensive musk, a hint of sweat underneath. I looked past him to the lords in his posse, many of whom I’d met or seen in my years at court. I hid a start of surprise when I recognized the queen’s former lover and Mencia’s husband, Beltrán de la Cueva. He had grown older, his lithe beauty coarsened, but his eyes were lucent as ever; as he averted his gaze, I could see his discomfort with the role he’d been compelled to enact.

The realization gave me strength. Villena might think to wield power over me, but I suspected these lords would not be here willingly, given a choice. Rapacious as they could be, few liked seeing a woman harassed, and as usual, Villena had made no effort to befriend the very men he now relied upon to support his dirty work.

“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

N
ight 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:

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 regard 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.