The Queen's Vow: A Novel of Isabella of Castile (36 page)

I regarded him coldly. “All I’ve permitted is that my husband command the respect due to him as king. I retain sole authority to appoint and promote ecclesiastics; I carry ultimate say over our fiscal disbursements and tax collection, and only I can declare war. Indeed, aside from a few concessions, the sovereignty of Castile remains intact. My daughter will inherit after me, and Fernando can never rule here in his own right. Is this not what you yourself advised him to submit to, my lord?”

He ignored my barbed tone, flapping his meaty hand with its massive ring in a disparaging gesture. “You don’t know the Aragonese as I do; they recognize no boundaries. Should you die before him, without a son to succeed you, he’ll never accept your daughter as queen. He’ll deny her rights and turn this realm into Aragón’s vassal.”

“You go too far,” I replied. “He is the father of my child and I am pledged to him. While I regret that his kingdom will support only a male-dominated succession, I do what I must to keep the peace in our marriage.”

He snorted. “Well, that will take more than a few concessions, I can assure you.”

I lifted my chin. I was growing heartily sick of his condescension and resisted the urge to dismiss him permanently. “What do you mean by that? Speak plainly, my lord.”

“I mean,” he said, with deliberate malice, “that His Majesty has been lying to you for months. He has a mistress in Aragón: that is why he delayed his return. Apparently, she is with child and she begged him to stay. Of course, it’s not the first time he has strayed, as you are aware.”

I did not react. I did not move a muscle. Within me, a wave of emotion was building, molten hot and suffocating.

Carrillo eyed me. “Or can it be you were not aware? I thought he’d told you about his bastard son by another woman before your marriage? It’s not as if it’s a secret. All of Zaragoza knows how much he dotes on the boy. Even King Juan has had the child at court and has lavished him with gifts. Why, they even seek to bestow an archbishopric on him.”

My throat closed. I could not get enough air into my lungs. “Of course I was aware,” I managed to say. “And now you say he has another …?”

“Yes, by another woman, some minor noble’s daughter.” Carrillo shrugged. “Their morals are deplorable. No wonder the French are so eager to invade! Aragón has more in common with that nation of degenerates than it cares to admit.”

My hands clenched at my sides. In that instant, even as I struggled against the wail that threatened to rip my very insides, I let myself feel what had been brewing for as long as I could remember, the tangled emotions that had dominated my interactions with Carrillo from the day he had come into my life—they finally resolved into one inescapable sentiment.

I had had enough. I wanted this man gone from my life.

“You will remove yourself from court at once,” I said. “Go to your
palace of Acuña or Alcalá de Henares, and stay there. I do not want you in my presence.”

He blinked, startled. “You—you cannot mean that.”

“Yes, I do,” I replied. “Indeed, I’ve never meant anything more. No one, my lord, disparages my husband the king to my face. Not even you.”

“But I am your advisor! I helped you win the throne. You cannot rule without me.”

“I do not need anyone to rule for me, nor do I need an advisor who refuses to respect my decisions. Therefore, I order you to leave court.
Now
.”

“You—you … order?” His face turned ashen, his eyes bulging. “You dare dismiss me, the head of the See of Toledo, the man who has seen fit to pave your way to power? You dismiss me like some lackey? Were it not for me, you’d not be standing where you are today, Doña Isabella. You’d have been married off years ago, sent into exile to breed a parcel of Portuguese brats and sew your life away in some drafty castle by the sea!”

I refused to rise to his bait. “You give yourself too much credit. And accord me too little. I will not repeat myself. I expect you gone within the hour or I will send for my guard to accompany you.”

I held out my hand for him to kiss in farewell. He met my gesture in silence before he deliberately ignored the respect he owed me and instead swerved away, tromping heavily to the door. He paused there, glaring over his shoulder. “You will regret this,” he said, and marched out, bellowing for his page.

At my indication, the stricken clerks also scampered out, leaving me alone before the table. Moments later, Fernando walked in. “Isabella,
mi amor
, what happened? Everyone just heard Carrillo yelling like a muleteer—”

I turned to him. “Is it true?”

Before he could formulate a response, I saw the answer writ on his face—an unmistakable pallor, followed by a humiliated flush that cemented his guilt. I barely heard his next words: “So, he told you. I should have known. That old whoreson cannot bear for us to be happy. He never could. All he ever wants is to—”

“He is not the one who broke his vows.” I had to lean my hands on the table, a terrifying emptiness cracking open inside me. “You did that. And you lied to me about it.”

“God’s teeth, I didn’t lie. It happened before we wed.” He moved to me. “I was going to tell you, Isabella, I promise. The boy … he is just two years old and—”

“I do not refer to the first child. I mean the one you are currently expecting.”

He froze. I tasted blood in my mouth; I had bitten through the inside of my lip. “You do not deny it,” I said. “Is she … this woman, do you love …?”

“No. I swear to you, no.” He looked at me helplessly. “It was a moment of weakness, of madness. I was so far away, from you, from our home; I was so tired of war, of those endless nights waiting for the French to fall on me. I felt as if the entire world watched, waited for me to fail. I … I needed comfort.”

“And so you took another to your bed, while I was here, contending with my mother, with our daughter, with the crisis of Enrique’s death? You betrayed our marriage because you were tired and needed comfort?”

“Yes.” He paused, shook his head. “I’m not saying I did right. God knows, I regret it now, but I am only a man. I am not perfect, Isabella. I never pretended to be.”

My gut twisted as if he had struck me. “You are sure the child is yours?” I asked, and the voice I heard coming out of my mouth was cold, impersonal, not mine at all.

He flinched; evidently he hadn’t considered the alternative. “I believe so,” he said quietly. “I have no reason to think otherwise.”

“Very well. Then once the child is born, you must see to its proper upkeep. You will find a position for it—in the church if it’s a boy, a noblewoman’s service if it is a girl. I will not have it said that the king of Castile neglects his responsibilities.” I summoned my fractured composure, forcing out a last question, the answer to which I didn’t really want to know. Once I did, the reality would be undeniable.

“The other child, your boy. What is his name?”

“Alfonso,” he said softly. “Like your late brother.”

“I see.” I searched his face, saw his love and guilt and sadness reflected there, his sincere remorse—and it undid me. I felt as though our entire existence lay in shards at my feet, broken like so much fragile glass. “All this time we sat here,” I said, “seeking equality, extolling our
tanto monta …
well, here it is: We are equal now, on paper. But we both know there can never be true equality between us, not while one of us keeps such secrets.”

“Isabella, please. It was an indiscretion! It meant nothing to me.”

“Perhaps. But to me, it means everything.” I started to turn away. I did not want him to see how torn I felt, how lost. I did not want to concede to him any more of my emotion.

“Isabella,” I heard him say, incredulous. “You cannot be serious. Would you walk away from me when I have admitted my error? Will you not at least allow me the chance to make things right between us?”

With the room swimming in a haze about me, I ignored him, departing without another word. I was vaguely aware that Inés and Beatriz were suddenly at my side, steering me past the courtiers crowded in the passage, through the hall with its waiting grandees, and up the spiral staircase to my chamber. The moment the door was bolted, I wanted to give vent to the primal howl of wrath and sorrow pulsating inside me.

Instead, I heard myself whisper, “I must bathe.”

“Bathe? But there’s no hot water,” said Beatriz, twisting handfuls of her gown in her anxiety. “We’ll have to fetch it from the kitchens.”

“It doesn’t matter.” I started to tear at my clothes, my fingernails catching on the ties, shredding the delicate fabric. “Get these off me. I feel as if I’m suffocating. I cannot breathe….”

Beatriz and Inés surged forward, divesting me of my garments, yanking the ornate layers from my body until I stood trembling in my silk undergarments.

“Pour the water from that decanter on me,” I ordered, and Inés gasped. “My lady, no, it’s from the aqueduct, for drinking. It’s too cold. Look at you: you’re shivering.”

“Pour it!”

Beatriz grabbed the decanter and I closed my eyes and outstretched my arms as she overturned it on my head, the water—drawn directly
from the alluvial spring that fed Segovia’s Roman waterway—drenching me in ice, drawing from me a small, shrill cry.

That sole unwitting sound, like the stunned protest of an animal caught in a snare, was all I could release. Though grief battered me, no tears came. My disillusion was too deep. There was no physical way to relieve it. Standing there, rivulets of chilled water dripping down my breasts and thighs, freezing that place where the memory of passion dwelled, I went silent as a tomb.

I let Beatriz strip off my sodden shift, envelop me in velvet and lead me to the chair before the fire, while Inés anxiously stoked the embers. I did not utter a word. I just sat there, staring into the flames.

I was queen of Castile. I had prevailed over every obstacle to fulfill my destiny.

And I had never felt more alone.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

T
ime was my ally and my foe.

There was so much to do in preparation for the months ahead, the hours in the day were not enough. And yet, each night felt endless as I lay alone in bed, staring at the shadows cast by the guttering candles on the walls.

Together, Fernando and I organized our council according to competence, refusing to yield to any notions of aristocratic hierarchy. Noble blood meant nothing if it was unaccompanied by wholehearted dedication to the realm and a demonstrable lack of self-aggrandizement. Prominent Jews such as Rabbi Abraham Señeor assumed charge of our precarious finances. The loyal Cabrera was reaffirmed in his position as governor; Cárdenas was named my official secretary, and Chacón became our chief steward. Several of Fernando’s trusted Aragonese servants, including his treasurer, Santángel, held coveted positions in our households.

Of course, none of this sat well with the grandees, who suspected that our ultimate aim was to curb their privileges. For centuries, they had been allowed to build fortresses at will and retain armies of vassals; thus, although the Cortes had approved us as monarchs, several cities remained uncommitted to us, and several lords—most notably the Andalucían marquis of Cádiz and Diego, the new marquis of Villena—contested our rule vigorously, saying that Joanna la Beltraneja’s claim to the succession had not been disproved.

Indeed, the queen’s bastard daughter was the thorn in our crown. I was particularly concerned about reports that Diego Villena had reputedly tried to steal into the castle where she was being held. I should have ordered her strict imprisonment in a convent, but despite the insulting
moniker of la Beltraneja now firmly affixed to her name, to me she was still just a twelve-year-old girl, deprived of all status, without even her mother to guide her through the vicissitudes of life. Though we’d not seen each other in years, I still cared for her, still remembered the pretty babe she had been. Beatriz scolded me for my leniency, reminding me that Joanna was a threat, a figurehead around whom malcontents would rally. But I’d not have her suffer undue hardship, seeing as she’d done nothing to earn it. Besides, other influential grandees, like the admiral and the marquis of Santillana, head of the powerful Mendoza clan, willingly signed the oath of allegiance to us, recognizing that the chaos in Castile must be resolved before we slid into irrevocable ruin. And strategically important cities such as Medina del Campo, Ávila, Valladolid, and Segovia recognized my claim to the throne above and beyond any other.

I threw myself with steely resolve into each task, refusing to let my personal travails thwart me. I joined in Fernando’s outrage over reports sent by our investigative officials that painted a picture of a realm riddled by corruption, with laxity and venality rampant among our clergy. Poor harvests and the tumult of past reigns had left our people impoverished, our coinage so debased by Enrique’s wholesale approval of mints that merchants now refused to accept monetary payment for goods, collapsing our export markets and sending our royal rents into arrears. Fernando suggested we reduce the number of mints from a hundred and fifty to a mere five and revise our entire tax-collection system. It was a prudent, long-term solution. I approved it and he gained the respect of our Castilian advisors.