The Queen's Vow: A Novel of Isabella of Castile (54 page)

Protected by mountainous ravines and valleys of
huertas
, or orchard land, Baeza’s denizens were among the most entrenched of the Moors; their hatred for us after years of relentless crusade had been brought to fever pitch by the fall of Málaga. Cádiz told us that El Zagal had gotten wind of our plans and dispatched ten thousand of his best warriors to the city in anticipation of our approach. The people had stockpiled over a year’s worth of supplies, strengthened their battlements, and stripped the surrounding land of all crops, leaving only denuded orchards and thickets of dense trees, brambles, and bracken to thwart our passage. Moreover, the city itself sat on a steep hillside encircled by forested ravines. To lay siege to it, Cádiz warned, was certain to be difficult and prolonged.

We had heard such dire predictions before and we had succeeded, but still I found myself torn in two as I anxiously bid farewell to Fernando when he left at the head of our army of forty-three thousand, which he would lead into the Guadalquivir vale that fed Baeza’s
huerta
. For while I was left behind at court, at the mercy again of couriers to bring word between us, I faced an even more difficult task: I had to turn
my attention to preparing our beloved Isabel for her departure to Portugal.

I had delayed for as long as I could, citing the war, our perennial paucity of funds, Isabel’s youth and her need to stay close to her family. But she was entering her twentieth year and the Portuguese king’s patience had reached its limit. My aunt Beatrice wrote to say that we’d best seal our agreement before another monarch offered up a bride for his son, Prince Afonso.

“Portugal is just across our border,” I told my daughter, as we packed her belongings. “We can visit every year, or more, if we like.”

“Yes, Mama,” she said, her delicate bare fingers—for she could not don jewelry until she had her wedding band on first—meticulously folding the multitude of embroidered linens and lace-hemmed chemises, thick mantles and hooded cloaks, and sumptuous gowns trimmed with my favored ermine that I had ordered made for her. I’d lavished a fortune I didn’t have on Isabel’s trousseau, borrowing against outstanding loans to furnish her with everything she might need for every possible climate and season, as though she were not going just across our border but rather across the ocean to a land I didn’t know or trust.

I kept swallowing against the lump in my throat as I beheld her stoic acceptance of her fate. I had planned for this day with painstaking care and yet the very thought that she would soon be far from me, in her own court, wed to a prince I had never met, made me falter; I had to resist the urge to clutch her to me and never let go. She was the first of my daughters to leave; how could I do this three more times? How would I bear it?

Beatriz knew how distraught I was; she stayed by my side right to the final farewell at the border between Spain and Portugal, where amidst fanfare and billowing silk banners, I surrendered Isabel to my aunt Beatrice and her entourage. Portugal had sent hundreds of ladies, nobles, and officials to accompany my daughter to Lisbon with all the appropriate distinction, but according to ancient custom dictating that royal grooms did not fetch their brides, her husband-to-be was not present.

As I embraced Isabel in that windswept field, she asked tentatively, “Do you think he’ll love me as Papa loves you?”

It was her first admission of the fear she had kept from everyone, hidden behind her serene visage. Holding her face between my palms, I whispered, “Yes,
hija mía
, he will. I promise you.”

She tried to smile; I would have promised her anything in that moment to ease her anxiety, but I couldn’t possibly predict whether her husband would care for her, and she knew it. Meeting my gaze one more time, she stepped back, turning resolutely to the hundreds of strangers awaiting her, and crossed those few paces of grass into her new realm.

Beatriz stood beside me as I watched my child being swallowed by the Portuguese. They surrounded her and led her to her waiting mare for her journey; all she had left of Castile were the clothes on her back and the coffers filled with her trousseau.

I thought my heart might break as I returned to Sevilla. I was unable to utter a word despite my ladies’ anxious inquiries; I feared any admission of sorrow would set me to crying in front of everyone. I missed my Isabel with a silent, aching helplessness in the ensuing days; even the dented cushion on the window seat, where she used to sit and sew or read with me in the afternoons, served as a stark reminder of her absence. My other daughters were still too young to fill the void left by Isabel, and at eleven, Juan was immersed in his impending manhood, his princely activities taking up all of his attention and time. Even the weather reflected my low spirits: a rare spate of intemperate storms inundated Andalucía, causing rivers to flood, spoiling the harvest and sweeping away entire hamlets as if they were children’s toys.

A few months after Isabel left, I received word from Fernando, entrenched in his siege on Baeza.

I summoned the council. “We must send aid to my lord husband and his men at once. They need livestock, supplies, medicine, and food. The Moors have everything in Baeza to withstand months of siege, so we cannot hope to starve them out. We must be as well-provisioned as they are, if we are to win.”

The council greeted my declaration with grim silence; it was Cardinal Mendoza who finally said, “
Majestad
, we allocated everything we had when His Majesty first embarked on this expedition. And with the recent expenses for the Infanta Isabel’s trousseau … I fear there is nothing left.”

“Nothing left?” I echoed, incredulous. “Whatever does that mean?”

“Exactly that: There is not enough in the treasury to meet the sums you require.”

“Impossible!” I said, unwilling to believe what he was telling me. But as I regarded the grave faces of those seated around the table, my heart sank. I knew I had spared no expense on Isabel’s leave-taking; I had been so concerned for her well-being, I’d not let myself give thought to the possibility that Baeza might resist us for as long as it had.

“But surely there must be something we can do,” I said to Mendoza.

He sighed. “There is always the option of increasing taxation, but the nobility will no doubt resist, and the Cortes must approve any additional requests—”

“That’ll take months! Am I supposed to leave the king and our army outside Baeza without any aid while we plead with the nobility and wait for the Cortes to make up their minds? My lords, you are our appointed council. You must have better advice to give.”

None of them replied, but the way they uncomfortably averted their faces gave me all the answer I needed. They had no other advice.

“So be it,” I declared. “I’ll resolve the matter myself.” I waved them out angrily, disgusted by their lack of initiative. I didn’t even look up as
they filed out; when I finally lifted my eyes, I was met with only Mendoza’s steely gaze. Now in his early sixties, leather-skinned and wiry from his own considerable participation in our crusade—which had including charging into battle numerous times at the head of his retainers—he was a guiding force for me in Castile not only through his passion for architecture and education, but also in his dedicated administrative oversight of our new Holy Office. He shared my desire to shape our nascent kingdom into a power as grand, as enticing, as any in Europe, an accomplished realm celebrated and courted by every nation.

“I know what Your Majesty is thinking,” he said, “and I beg you not to consider it any further. You’ve ventured down that path too many times, and they hold too much of your patrimony already. Would you hand over the entire kingdom to the Jews to win this war?”

“You know I would. I’d pawn my very petticoat, if that were what was required.”

“You cannot.” He stepped to me. “Torquemada watches every step you take. You refused him before when he asked you to expel them and he will ask again as soon as the Reconquista is over. You cannot grant them so much power over you that they would be able to consider mounting resistance.”

“The Reconquista is not over yet” was my reply, “and if the council cannot help me, then I have no other recourse. Please tell Rabbi Señeor I will see him.”

“
Majestad
, I implore you. What else do you have to give?”

“Better you do not know, if it causes you such distress,” I replied and I looked pointedly at the door. He left without another word. While I waited for Rabbi Señeor, Ines slipped in to see if I needed anything.

“Yes,” I told her. “Fetch my casket with my nuptial necklace.”

She stared at me, stunned, and I clicked my tongue impatiently. “Must I repeat myself? Do it. Now.”

When she returned, I unlatched the casket lid and took a long look at the ceremonial ruby-and-pearl collar from Aragón that Fernando had sent to me before our wedding. I had flaunted it many times to the
envious admiration of our court; it was the tangible symbol of our love, my most treasured possession after my crown.

I shut the casket with a resolute click and closed my eyes.

“Let my sacrifice be worthy of Your divine favor,” I whispered.

I entrusted the casket for safekeeping to Rabbi Señeor that very evening, in exchange for a substantial personal loan. Then I gathered my entourage and, without further ado, I embarked the next day through a blustering storm to Baeza.

The viscous mud in the passes sucked at my horse’s hooves; the roads crumbled away entirely in parts, forcing us to build makeshift bridges over streambeds that raged with torrential waters. As I huddled on my saddle, narrowing my eyes against the needles of sleet and rain, I too began to doubt God heeded us anymore. Never had I witnessed such misery as what I saw when I finally reached the encampment.

Fernando emerged from his tent to meet us—haggard and soiled, with sleeplessness engraved in dark circles under his eyes. The mess about him was evidence enough for his despair; the few living horses that remained stood covered in sores, bones showing. The livestock pens were broken and empty. The camp itself was mired in muck, with half-naked men wandering about with listless faces, while others crouched moaning in the open, emptying their bloody bowels. A miasmic stench assaulted me, the putrid odor of death curdling the very air.

As Fernando kissed me wearily and led me about the camp, I knew the situation was the worst we had ever faced. Over half of our army was dead. The other half was ill or slowly dying from the flux. As I made my visit to the crowded infirmaries, where men lay on file after file of sagging, louse-infested cots, they gazed up at me and wept like children.

That night, I told Fernando that I had secured us more money. “We will import grain and dig new wells,” I said. “Rebuild the washed-out roads and summon every man in Andalucía. If necessary we’ll send to Castile for additional recruits and raise whatever extra funds we need. We will not give up.” I clasped his hand from across the table. “Never.”

“As always, your strength brings hope,” he said. “But hope will not win this city, my
luna
. Winter is coming. How are we supposed to survive
it? Once you counseled me to retreat from Málaga but I resisted. Now, I fear, retreat is our only choice.”

I’d never heard him so dejected, as if all his zeal had been sapped from him. I understood at that moment that he’d reached the limit of his seemingly indefatigable reserves; he was thirty-seven, an age when most kings looked forward to reaping the rewards of their youthful exploits. He had not known more than a few isolated months of peace in our entire marriage, forever at war or preparing for it. Now here he sat, battle-worn and heartsick, believing himself responsible for the collapse of our seemingly unattainable dream of a united Spain.

“No,” I said quietly, “hope cannot win this city. But we can. We
must
. You’ve done so much. Leave this to me.”

He sighed his assent. “If anyone can conquer Baeza, my
luna
, it’s you.”

I had never thought to hear such words from him; though I had known in my heart that he appreciated and respected my fortitude, I had not imagined he’d voluntarily entrust such an important task as the downfall of a city to my hands alone. If I failed, we would likely lose the crusade. We would spend the next ten years engaged in minor skirmishes, lengthy sieges, and abortive battles, taking back with blood and sweat and expense in the spring and summer what the Moors would filch from us in the winter. Eventually, our funds and the ability to raise them would dwindle; the pope, our fellow Catholic monarchs abroad—while all wanted to see the infidel herded back over the Strait of Gibraltar and cornered, none would part with so much wealth as to ensure that our crusade could continue indefinitely.

If we were to take Granada, Baeza must be ours. And though it came with some risks, I had an idea of how to accomplish it.

Leaving Fernando to rest for a few days, I met with the other commanders to review our situation. While we lacked almost every supply imaginable, I pointed out that we certainly had enough lumber left from the early efforts of cutting back the forest that surrounded us, which acted as a natural bastion between us and Baeza. My plan was to stockpile the wood and cut even more; while we did that, I would send for supplies and specialists who knew a thing or two about bringing down stubborn citadels.