The Queen's Vow: A Novel of Isabella of Castile (7 page)

I didn’t respond. She dropped the cloth on the bed. “Why so serious? Do you not like the green? Very well, here’s a lovely blue-gray. This might do nicely for—”

“Mama,” I said. “Stop.”

She went still, her hands buried in the pile. She did not look at me. “Don’t say it,” she whispered. “Not a word. I cannot bear it, not now.”

I stepped to her. “You knew he would be there. Why did you not warn me?”

She lifted her eyes. “What was I supposed to do? What
could
I do? I knew it the moment that letter arrived, and I told you that day they would come. This is the price I must pay: it is my debt. But at least I will pay it on my terms. Carrillo has seen to that.”

“Your terms?” I regarded her warily. “Mama, what does that mean?”

“What do you think? That worm Enrique will not take my son’s place in the succession away. He will not set a bastard above Alfonso. Come what may, my son, who bears royal blood, must be king.”

“But Enrique now has a daughter; she will be declared his heir. You know that Castile does not honor Salic Law; here, a princess can inherit the throne and rule in her own right. Princess Joanna will—”

My mother swerved around the bed, swift as a cat. “How can we know she is his, eh? How can anyone know? Enrique was never known for his potency in bed; all these years of marriage without a single child—it’s a miraculous conception, the grandees mutter; the queen must have been visited by an angel!” She burst into derisive laughter. “No one at court believes it; no one is taken in by this farce. They all know Enrique is weak, ruled by catamites—a voluptuary who keeps infidel guards about him and whose crusade to conquer Granada was a disaster; a fool who’d rather recite poetry and dress his boys in turbans than see to the kingdom; a cuckold who looks the other way while his whore of a wife beds whichever lackey catches her fancy.”

I took a step back, horrified by her words, by the malignant gloating on her face

“Outside these walls, Castile lies in misery,” she went on. “Our treasury is bankrupt, the grandees wield more power than the crown, and
the people sow dust and starve. Enrique thinks to buy goodwill with this child but in the end all he’ll reap is discord. The grandees will not be ridiculed by him. They’ll rip him apart like wolves; and when they’re done,
we
will claim everything he deprived us of. He has ignored us, left us here to rot, but on the day Alfonso wears his crown, then will Enrique of Trastámara learn that he disdained us at his own peril.”

I heard Carrillo’s voice in my head:
The stork is a good mother; she knows how to defend her young
. I wanted to cover my ears. Her eyes seemed to burn a hole in me, smoldering with pent-up rage, with years of poisonous resentment and humiliation. I couldn’t avoid the truth any longer. Because of her thwarted pride, my mother had connived to execute Constable de Luna for treason, plunging my father into a lethal grief. Her ambition had cost her everything—husband, rank, our very safety—but now she believed she had found a way to win it all back, to conspire with Archbishop Carrillo and the discontented grandees against the legitimacy of the new princess and wreak havoc upon my half brother. She did not see how wrong it was to cast such terrible aspersions, to believe the worst of the king and the queen. In her zeal to protect Alfonso’s rights, she would scheme, insult, fight; even, God help her, kill.

“We must do this,” she said. “
You
must do it, for me.”

I made myself nod, even as to my horror I felt helpless tears prick my eyes. I refused to let them spill. I blinked them back, hardening my jaw, and as she took in my stance, I saw my mother pause, her brow furrowing, as if she only now realized how far she had gone.

“You … you should be ashamed of yourself,” I heard myself whisper.

She flinched. Then she lifted her chin and said flatly, “I will make you a dress in the green velvet, with blue-gray trim. Alfonso shall have a new doublet in blue satin.” She turned deliberately back to the fabrics, as if I had ceased to exist.

I fled the room, not stopping until I reached my chamber, banging open the door.

Beatriz turned about, startled, from where she stood packing our clothes into a brass-studded leather chest. “What is it?” she said as I stood gripping the door frame. “What happened?”

“She is mad,” I said. “She thinks she can use Alfonso against the king, but she will not get away with it. I will not let her. I will protect my brother to my last breath.”

RETAINERS IN LIVERY
loaded our luggage into carts in the courtyard. Our castle dogs barked and loped after Alfonso, sensing, as animals do, that an inalterable change was near. Alfonso had always seen to the dogs’ upkeep: He took them with him when he went out hunting or riding, fed them, and ensured that their shelter was tended. I watched him pause to pet his favorite, a large shaggy hound named Alarcón. From my position by the castle doors, I suddenly noticed how pitifully small a staff we had, compared with the impressive retinue mingling before me, sent by Enrique to escort us to Segovia.

Archbishop Carrillo had not come. He had dispatched in his stead his nephews: the marquis of Villena and Villena’s brother, Pedro de Girón. While Villena was a premier noble and favorite of the king’s, Girón was master of Calatrava, one of Castile’s four monastic warrior orders, founded centuries ago to fight the Moors. Both had considerable power and wealth, yet there couldn’t have been greater contrast between the two; indeed, the only thing that seemed to link them as brothers was their arrogance.

Slight of build, Villena had dark hair cut straight across his brow; he was handsome in a slightly sinister way, with an elongated nose and strange eyes of a yellow-green hue, all the more startling because of their coldness. He’d ridden into our courtyard with a sneer, his distaste evident as he surveyed the roaming chickens and dogs, the pigs and sheep in their pens, the bales of hay stacked by the walls and the compost heap where we threw our discards to ferment for later use in the orchards.

Riding alongside him on a black destrier that dwarfed any horse I’d ever seen, followed by men uniformed in scarlet and gold, was Girón—a giant with a red-veined face and ferociously thick beard, his beady eyes set back in a fleshy countenance, their color indistinguishable, and a mouth as foul as the compost heap. Leaping from his horse—with some agility, considering his size—he let out a loud curse, “
Miserables
hijos de puta
, get moving!” and proceeded to order the retainers about with savage chops of his ham-sized hands. Standing at our side, Doña Clara stiffened.

As Villena came before us, his entire being transformed. He bowed with an exaggerated flourish over my mother’s hand, declaiming that time itself dared not touch her beauty. My mother responded with a smile and a flutter of her eyes; to me, he sounded ridiculous, his gallantry uttered in an unpleasant, nasal-tinged voice. I smelled such strong ambergris wafting off his velvet-encased person I almost started to choke. Polished and urbane, his every movement a study in elegance, it was as if he had practiced for hours before a mirror, perfecting the art of falsehood. He did not pay me any mind; he barely acknowledged my presence, giving me the shallowest of bows before he turned, as if enraptured, to my brother. He regarded Alfonso with such intensity that my brother squirmed in his stiff new doublet.

Villena pivoted back to my mother to lilt, “The infante’s beauty does you even more justice, my lady. No one could ever mistake him for anything but a prince of impeccable royal blood.”

I resisted a roll of my eyes as Alfonso shot me a puzzled look. My mother’s smile widened.
“Gracias, Excelencia,”
she said. “Would you and your brother like some wine? I’ve opened a special vintage just for you.”

Girón had stomped up to us by then, overpowering us with the stench of sweat, leering at Beatriz before his porcine eyes fell upon me. He grinned, exposing blackened teeth. I held my breath as his paw enclosed my hand, raising it to his lips.

“Infanta,” he growled. So firmly did he grip my hand, I couldn’t free myself. I began to fear he’d crush my fingers like chicken bones when Doña Clara stepped deliberately between us with the decanter and goblets—her canny offer quickly distracted Girón, who released me with a grunt in favor of the wine.

Later, after Girón had drained our decanter and Villena had minced through our hall with a look that conveyed barely suppressed amusement at our, as he put it, “quaint” furnishings, they returned to the keep to oversee their staff.

It was then that my mother pulled me aside. “Villena started out as
a common page but he has risen to become one of Castile’s most influential lords. He has Enrique’s ear, though it seems he’s been supplanted as the favorite, and as master of Calatrava his brother Girón commands more retainers than the crown itself. These are men to cultivate, Isabella. Grandees like these will see to our interests and fight against your brother’s disinheritance.”

I stared at her. Alfonso and I were about to leave our home. How could she expect me to absorb lessons in intrigue at this final hour? I’d had my fill of advice from her and from Doña Clara. My head was already reeling from weeks of warnings about the corruption at court, the licentious nature of my half brother’s favorites and his queen’s loose morals; of his courtiers’ intrigues and the dangerous ambition of the nobles. The names of Castile’s grandees, their familial connections and affiliations, had been drummed into my head like a catechism, until one evening after leaving my mother’s chamber I had angrily blurted to Beatriz that I’d never stoop to listening at keyholes or hiding behind the arras. Beatriz nodded, replying matter-of-factly, “Of course not. Who ever heard of an infanta of Castile acting the common spy? Leave that to me.”

Glancing at her now as she handed our valises to a retainer, I had no doubt she was up to the task. She’d been in a whirlwind of anticipation ever since she’d learned of our departure, going about her chores with a skip in her step, as though we were preparing for a festival. She had practiced her deportment (she was terrible at curtsies) several times a day and had finally declared, much to Doña Clara’s outrage, that she’d rather learn to use a sword. The only regret she’d expressed thus far was leaving her father; Don Bobadilla would remain behind with my mother. I admired her pluck even as I thought she might be in for an unpleasant surprise. It was one thing to long for adventure, quite another to find oneself plunged into it.

We stood together on the threshold of the castle waiting for Alfonso to return from chaining the dogs so they would not follow us. He was being stoic, but I could tell he wasn’t as confident as he feigned, though I’d taken Beatriz’s advice and spared him any more mention of my private fears. Meeting Villena had been Alfonso’s first experience with a
courtier; I suspected it had unsettled him. It seemed he was starting to realize the reality of what our leaving might entail.

Nevertheless, being Alfonso, he put on a brave face. “The marquis says we should leave soon if we want to reach Segovia before nightfall.”

I nodded, turning to my mother, who waited on a chair, her wrap clutched about her, a ringed hand at her throat. As she stood, the rising wind tugged at her veil, revealing tendrils of silver-white at her temples. Alfonso got up on tiptoes to kiss her cheek. Her expression softened; tears moistened her eyes as she gathered him close. I heard her say, “You are an infante of Trastámara. Never forget that,” and then he stepped aside for me.

I kissed her cheeks. “
Adiós
, Mama. May God keep you; I’ll write as soon as I can.”

She gave a terse nod. “And you,
hija mía
. Be well. Go with God.”

I turned to my
aya
. I’d never known a day when Doña Clara hadn’t been there to remonstrate and guide me, to watch over me and keep me from harm. But I did not expect any outward display from her, nor would she condone it from me. However, I felt her sturdy body tremble as we embraced and heard the catch in her voice when she said, “Remember everything I’ve taught you. Remember, you must never give in to passion. I’ve kept you safe for as long as I could. Now, you must prove to the world who you are.”

As she released me, the enormity of our departure overcame me. I wanted to fall on my knees, plead with my mother to let me stay. But her expression was remorseless and so I went to Alfonso, itching to take his hand and never let it go.

Don Chacón, who, much to my relief, was accompanying us to court, led us to our waiting horses. After he helped me mount Canela and took his place in the entourage, Girón grunted from his destrier: “That’s a pretty toy horse. But it’s a long ride to Segovia and we’ve no time for tender hooves. Wouldn’t you rather ride up here with me? There’s plenty of room on my saddle.”

“Canela is sturdier than he looks,” I retorted and took up the reins. “He’s a gift from the king, as well.”

A shadow darkened Girón’s face. He reeled away from me and
shouted at the retainers to move. As we lumbered out of the gates, Alfonso rode to my side. I resisted the urge to glance back, fixing my gaze ahead, when all of a sudden Alfonso’s dog Alarcón broke free from its tether and bounded forward, letting out a determined bark.