The Queen's Vow: A Novel of Isabella of Castile (48 page)

But the Reconquista had begun, with or without me.

As I embraced Fernando, he whispered, “Not one tower, my love: We’ll leave them not one tower to hide in,” and so I let myself surrender to God’s greater plan.

IN JANUARY 1482
we petitioned the Cortes for funds for the war and dispatched our request to Rome for the papal edict of crusade. After attending Mass in Toledo to pray for the enslaved taken from Zahara and thank God for granting us the liberation of Alhama, Fernando and I stood together on a gold-draped dais and declared our intent to travel in person to the south and install our court there to oversee our enterprise against the Moors.

While I refrained from expressing my doubts, our Cortes was not so politic. It voted us only enough funds to address the immediate issue at hand, refusing to sanction any more until we proved the effort was worth the expense. I remained steadfast at Fernando’s side as he gave up sleep and sometimes even food overseeing our initial plans and covert alliance with Boabdil, fully aware that I must leave my children with Beatriz and Cabrera in Segovia. I couldn’t take them to war in the south, not while I myself was with child and uncertain of the situation awaiting
us. The very thought of leaving them behind for months made me feel as though my entire existence had been overturned.

In addition to being separated from my children, I had to pare down my household, servants costing money we could ill afford. It wasn’t easy to decide who stayed and who would go, but I took cold pleasure when it came to expelling María de Bobadilla from my service. I had no proof she’d done more than bat her seductive eyes at my husband but I seized the opportunity to arrange her marriage to our new governor of the Canary Islands and dispatched her forthwith. When I offhandedly mentioned her departure to Fernando, he didn’t pay any mind, to my relief. The thought of bloodying his sword with Moorish blood had swept all other considerations aside.

By mid-April we were installed in the Andalucían city of Córdoba, once the celebrated capital of the Moors in the south, with its magnificent red-columned mosque and fortified alcazar. Here, Fernando and I met with our southern lords and captains, and decided our first move would be to take the city of Loja, as its proximity to Alhama and Granada would shore up our defenses and send a clear message to the Moors.

“We can’t allow al-Hasan to think we’ll falter,” Fernando told me when I joined him in his rooms to review the plans. “Taking Loja will leave Granada even more vulnerable and he’ll know we mean business. It will also help relieve Cádiz’s garrison, which has held on to Alhama almost single-handedly. This is Loja here,” he added, pointing at the map. “It’s like most cities in Andalucía; it sits on a crag over this ravine.”

I peered at the sketched terrain. “If that ravine is as steep as it appears, we can’t surprise the city as Cádiz did with Alhama, can we? We’ll truly have to lay siege to it.”

He nodded. “And that, my love, is where you come in.”

“Me?” I smiled, placing a hand on my bulging belly. “You expect me to don chain mail and ride with you in this advanced state?”

He chuckled. “Now, that would be a sight, wouldn’t it? But as appealing as that is, I actually need you to organize the provision of our troops. No one is better at economizing than you, and we must stretch that paltry sum our Cortes saw fit to give us as far as we can. Our men
must be as well prepared as possible. Remember, that wolf al-Hasan has had all this time to anticipate us and rally his support; while Boabdil has promised by the terms of our alliance to refuse his father all assistance, al-Hasan will still have men and lances to spare.”

I was deeply moved by Fernando’s confidence and delighted to be able to help, despite my lassitude and bulk. As I entered my eighth month of pregnancy, I was exhausted from the moment I awoke. I donned only the loose kaftans worn by the local populace to accommodate my massive belly and profuse perspiration, for Córdoba was a veritable cauldron in the summer, hotter even than Sevilla.

In the alcazar patios lavender, jasmine, and roses flourished, so redolent that the mere brush of a hem against the bushes released clouds of fragrance. But I passed by without noticing, my hours filled from dawn until midnight. With the limited funds we possessed, I had to improvise, restricting our court expenses so I’d have enough to barter with merchants for weapons, armor, and tents, for cattle, chickens, and other livestock, as well as wine, barley, and other grains—all of which was needed to feed our men during a prolonged siege. At night I pored over my accounts with the diligent Cárdenas, checking and rechecking every sum, borrowing from my own wardrobe purse to add to the war chest, knowing that unexpected events would require extra costs.

My efforts were cut short when I went into sudden labor on June 28, during a council session. One minute I was presenting my inventory list; the next, I doubled over as the pangs overcame me. The lords went quiet as Fernando rapidly assisted me to my feet and my women led me to the birthing chamber where my water broke, splashing over my embroidered red leather slippers.

The next twenty-four hours were a blur. Fernando refused to leave my side, defying the custom that men were not allowed in a birthing room. He mopped my brow with cool mint water and barked orders at the harried midwives, who didn’t know how to react to his presence. Though I was scarcely aware of anything but my pummeled body, I sensed him near, his hand on my forehead, his voice whispering, over and over, “
Mi luna
, push. Push with everything you’ve got. I’m here. I will not leave you.”

Finally, in the early morning hours, I straddled the stool and, with
a guttural cry, released my fourth child—a girl. As she was cleansed and delivered to the wet nurse I continued to strain, seeing and not believing the torrent of blood coming out of me. The chief midwife muttered that there was another child, a twin, lodged inside me. As night swallowed day, the shadow of death hovered near; through my narrowed eyes I could see its spectral visage, black wings outstretched. The midwives finally forced Fernando out into the corridor, where the nobles had gathered. Inés took his place, coaxing me to impossible efforts, for by this time I was so drained I could barely whimper.

Finally, the twin slipped out in a viscous gush. The midwife swiftly gathered it; as I saw her turn away to wrap it in cerements, covering its face, I released a howl that reverberated through the alcazar.

With tears in her eyes, Inés worked my numb limbs out of the sopping shift and into a clean bed-gown. As she tucked me into lavender-scented sheets, I clutched at her, whispering, “I want to see her. I want to see my baby….”

She shook her head. “No,
Majestad
,” she murmured. “You do not. Rest now, for the love of God. Your daughter is well; she is nursing. The other is with the angels.”

But she wasn’t. She had died unshriven, an innocent soul condemned forever to dwell in Purgatory. I was disconsolate, unable to rest, until Fernando brusquely ordered Cardinal Mendoza to perform last rites over the body and dribble holy water on our lost child’s tiny misshapen skull.

Then my husband enfolded me in his arms and held me as I cried myself to sleep.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

F
ernando departed with an army of eleven thousand men under a July sun so hot it cracked the soil like boiled leather. I had to bid him farewell from bed; my recovery from labor was frustratingly slow. Our newborn daughter, christened María in honor of the Virgin, was placid, fair-haired, and healthy. I knew I was fortunate indeed that she exhibited no ill effects after such a difficult birth, but I felt little connection to her, as if all the anticipation I’d nurtured had perished with her twin. In time, the midwife assured me, I’d come to love her, but as my breasts ached and my milk dried I felt only a disturbing emptiness, and the shame gnawed at me because of it.

While I waited for news of the siege on Loja, forcing myself to take slow walks around the patio in the cool hours of dusk, word arrived from my aunt Beatrice in Portugal. Joanna la Beltraneja, frustrated by the impasse I’d imposed on her, had decided to take her holy vows and live out the rest of her days in the convent. I was relieved. Soon after came the news that my old mentor and foe, Archbishop Carrillo, was dead.

The sorrow his passing roused in me was unexpected, though his death didn’t come as a surprise. I’d known for some time his health was in decline, ever since I’d ordered him to assume the life of a monastic. His circumscribed existence in the cloister must have been harsh on a man with his passion for life. For days after I received the news, I kept seeing him as he’d been in his glory, the barrel-chested warrior-priest whose bravura had propelled me to the throne only to turn against me like a jealous lover. Though I was no longer the trusting infanta he’d so fiercely sought to mold to his will, the world seemed smaller, somehow, without him in it.

My preoccupation soon shifted when the first couriers brought news from Loja. The terrain, Fernando wrote, was impossible, rocky and perilous; our forces had been obliged to separate and camp in different areas, while Fernando, Cádiz, Medina Sidonia, and the other grandees surveyed the remote city on its crag for some weakness to exploit.

They waited too long. As they sought to shift the army to a less vulnerable position, the Moors of Loja swarmed out with a ferocity kindled by weeks of deprivation. In the ensuing battle, several of our knights were killed. My hands trembled as I read the missive detailing that Fernando had found himself cornered by a scimitar-wielding Moor intent on taking his head as a prize. He had been saved only by Cádiz’s savage defense.

I stood at the alcazar’s gates with the court about me as the survivors straggled back. Fernando was riding at their head; sunburnt, bearded, and blood-spattered, he clutched our royal standard in tatters in his fist.

I made myself smile as he dismounted; the lesson I had learned years ago at Tordesillas was still seared in my mind. Though I wanted to rail at the injustice of our defeat, the months of planning and expense wasted, venting my frustration would resolve nothing. We had miscalculated. We had forgotten, in our zeal and pride, how tenacious a foe the Moors could be. Now we had to contend with the consequences. I saw in Fernando’s haggard features his relief at my demeanor, though I also could see his acute humiliation at the fact that he would have to publicly acknowledge his defeat.

“We will try again next year,” I said, as he dismounted before me.

“Try?” He gave me a bitter smile. “We’ll do more than that, my moon. I’ll tear the very seeds from this Moorish pomegranate one by one. Next time, it is we who will give no quarter.”

Proud words; but in the meantime we had a decimated army to reassemble, not to mention laying our dead, which numbered in the thousands, to rest. Burials had to be arranged, relatives notified, widows’ pensions paid. Córdoba quickly became a place of grief. When Fernando suggested I return to Castile to oversee our business there—we had to petition the Cortes for more funds—while he stayed behind to
safeguard the border, I readily agreed. I wanted nothing more than to go home.

IN SEGOVIA, I
found my children busy with their studies. Isabel was serene as ever. Juan remained too thin and pale, still prone to fever. Juana was a vigorous child with a mass of coppery curls and “a temper to match,” as Beatriz often teased. My friend had delivered a healthy boy whom she and her husband adored. They had christened him Andrés, after his father, but with the distraction of having to care for her new babe, Beatriz had indulged Juana’s whims. My second daughter displayed early talent when it came to languages and music, but she was rebellious as far as her daily regimen was concerned, far too much so for a three-year-old.

I had a stern discussion with her about her unseemly penchant for throwing off her slippers to wade barefoot in the garden ponds. “Infantas should not behave thus,” I informed her when she pertly replied that her feet swelled in the heat. “Decorum at all times is essential.”