“It’s exactly what your mother needs,” my aya said. “The sisters will make her feel better and getting away from this old place will prove a far more efficacious remedy than those foul potions of Elvira’s.”
We set out before dawn with Don Bobadilla and four retainers. Alfonso was left behind at the last minute, sulking, under the supervision of Doña Clara and Don Chacón, with strict instructions to dedicate himself to his studies, as he’d grown quite indolent. I rode Canela, who was overjoyed to see me, whickering and greedily devouring the bits of sour apple I had brought. My mother sat upon an older, more docile mare. Her veil framed her face, its creamy gossamer adding luster to her complexion and highlighting the blue in her eyes. Doña Elvira grumbled beside her on a mule, having refused to even consider riding in a litter, and Beatriz looked equally morose on her steed, scowling generally at the landscape.
“I thought you wanted adventure,” I said to her, hiding a smile when she retorted, “Adventure! I hardly see what kind of adventure we’ll find at Santa Ana. I rather think there’ll be more poor linens and lentil soup.”
Despite the fact that she was probably right, the thought of going to Ávila pleased me. While Beatriz had no doubt expected momentous change as a result of the letter, with every day that went by I felt nothing but relief that change seemed less and less likely. I knew, however, that the monotony was intolerable for my friend. As she outgrew her adolescence, transforming entirely against her will into a beautiful young woman, Beatriz became more restless than ever, though none of us dared to mention it. I’d heard Doña Clara mutter to Doña Elvira that girls like Beatriz needed early marriage to cool their overheated blood, but Beatriz seemed oblivious to any male attention, ignoring the whistling retainers who gawked at her as we passed them during our chores. At night in our rooms, she regarded the growth of her breasts and widening of her hips with visible dismay; they were manifestations of the fact that soon she’d no longer be able to pretend she was not susceptible to all that full-blown womanhood entailed.
“You could ask Don Bobadilla to take you into town,” I suggested, reaching into my side-basket for the bundle of cloth containing the bread and cheese Doña Clara had packed for us. “I think Doña Elvira has some things she wants to buy. She mentioned cloth for new dresses and cloaks yesterday.”
“Yes, and then Papa can take us on an insufferably slow ride around Ávila’s walls,” she said. “As if I haven’t seen it all a hundred times already.”
I handed her a piece of the soft bread, freshly baked in our ovens. “Come, don’t be so disagreeable. Your face will pucker up like a sour apple.” At the mention of the word, Canela pricked his ears. I patted his neck. Alfonso was right: Although mules were considered the best mounts for unwed virgins, my days of riding one were definitely over.
Beatriz grimaced as she ate her bread and cheese. Then she leaned to me and said, “You can pretend all you like, but I know you’re as curious as I am about what that letter from court means. I’ve seen you open the coffer and look at it at night when you think I’m asleep. You must have read it about as many times as I’ve seen the walls of Ávila.”
I lowered my gaze, wondering what Beatriz might say if I told her just how curious, and anxious, I had truly been.
“Of course I’m interested,” I said, keeping my voice low so that my mother, who rode ahead with Don Bobadilla, would not overhear. “But perhaps all the king wished was to tell us that the queen had given birth.”
“I suppose so. But don’t forget, Alfonso was his heir first and many claim Enrique is impotent. Perhaps that child is not his.”
“Beatriz!” I exclaimed, louder than I intended. My mother glanced over her shoulder at us. I smiled. “She’s eating all the bread,” I said quickly, and my mother gave Beatriz a reproving look. As soon as she turned away, I hissed, “How can you say such a thing? Or better yet, where did you hear such a thing that you can say it at all?”
She shrugged. “Retainers talk. So do servants. They go to the market; they gossip with merchants. Honestly, it isn’t as if it were a secret. Everyone in Castile talks of nothing else. They say the queen got herself with child to avoid having the same thing happen to her that happened to Enrique’s first wife. Or have you forgotten he had his first marriage to Blanca of Navarre annulled because after fifteen years, she failed to give him a child? She claimed they never consummated their vows, but he said a bewitchment prevented him from acting the man with her. Regardless, she was sent away and a pretty new queen from Portugal was found to take her place—a pretty new queen who happens to be your mother’s niece and knows that her aunt’s two children could one day do to her what Enrique did to your mother.”
I glared at her. “That’s absurd. I never heed idle gossip and you should follow my example. Honestly, Beatriz, what has come over you?” I turned my face away, toward the approaching walls of Ávila.
An impressive wall with eighty-eight fortified towers, built centuries before to defend Ávila from marauding Moors, encircled the entire city in a serpentine embrace. Sitting atop a stony escarpment devoid of trees and punctuated by huge boulders, Ávila overlooked the province that bore its name with implacable reserve, the rugged towers of its alcazar and cathedral seeming to pierce the sapphire-blue sky.
Beatriz visibly reacted to the sight, despite her assertions of having seen it all before; she straightened in her saddle and I saw color flush her cheeks. I hoped the thrill of being in the city would dissuade her from voicing gossip and speculation that could cause us nothing but harm if we were overheard.
We rode under an arched gateway and made our way toward the northeastern edge of the city and the convent, through hundreds of people going about their business, merchants haggling and carts clattering over cobblestone. But I barely paid attention, pondering what Beatriz had said. It seemed I couldn’t escape the shadow I’d hoped to leave behind in Arévalo.
The abbess greeted us in the convent courtyard, having been alerted in advance to our visit. While Don Bobadilla and the retainers saw to the horses, we were led into the common hall, where a meal had been prepared. Beatriz ate as if she were famished, even though we were in fact served lentil soup with bits of pork; afterward, she went out with Doña Elvira to persuade her father to take them into town. I stayed behind, joining my mother in the chapel for a time. Then, while she retired to discourse with the abbess, a longtime friend of hers who oversaw the convent by royal decree, I went out to wander the gardens.
Lemon and orange trees surrounded me; several nuns worked the soil in silent comradeship, briefly smiling at me as I paced the winding path, inhaling the scent of rosemary, thyme, chamomile, and other fragrant herbs. I lost all sense of time, content to bask in the sun that bathed the well-tended grounds, whose rich earth supplied the nuns with almost everything they needed, so that they never had to set foot outside their blessed walls. It felt as though the past few weeks had been erased. Here in Santa Ana, it seemed impossible that anything bad could occur, that the outside world with its trials and intrigues could ever intrude upon this place of peace.
As I neared a wall abutting vegetable patches laid out in perfect symmetry I looked toward the adjoining church and paused. Nestled in the spire high above was a latticed bundle of twigs—a nest, perched in dizzying, isolated safety.
“The stork is a good mother. She knows how to defend her young,” a voice said close to my ear. I gasped, spun around. I found myself looking at a completely unexpected yet disturbingly familiar face. I remembered how he had gathered me in his arms, carried me from my father’s death chamber into the night….
“My lord Archbishop,” I whispered. I dropped into a curtsey, in deference to his holy station. As I lifted my eyes to him, his smile exposed crooked teeth, at odds with his flushed jowls, thick lips, and beaked nose. His stare was piercing, belying the warmth of his tone.
“Isabella, my daughter, how you’ve grown.”
My mind raced. What was Archbishop Carrillo of T
oledo doing in Santa Ana? Had he come here for some other purpose, just when we happened to be visiting? Something told me it was too much of a coincidence. His presence couldn’t be accidental.
He chuckled. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost. Surely you hadn’t forgotten me?”
“No, of course not,” I said, flustered. “Forgive me. It’s just that I … I didn’t expect to see you here, of all places.”
He cocked his large head. “Why not? An archbishop often travels for the good of his brethren and the sisters here have always been kind to me. Besides, I thought it would be best if I met with your mother away from Arévalo. She and I have just spoken at length; when I said I wished to see you, she told me you had come into the gardens.”
“My mother?” I gaped at him. “She … she knew you would be here?”
“Of course. We’ve been corresponding for years. She has kept me informed of both your and your brother’s progress. In fact, I’m surprised to find you alone. Where is Bobadilla’s daughter?” His scarlet cloak with its white cross swirled around him as he looked about, a hand cocked at his brow. The nuns who’d been in the garden had slipped away; now that I was alone with him, he seemed to dominate the very air with his pungent smell of wool, sweat, horseflesh, and another, expensive musky scent. I had never smelled perfume on a man of the Church before; somehow, it didn’t seem appropriate.
“Beatriz went into the city to buy cloth,” I told him.
“Ah.” His smile widened. “But I was told that you and she are inseparable.”
“We were raised together, yes. She is my companion and friend.”
“Indeed. One needs friends, especially in a place like Arévalo.” He went silent, his penetrating gaze fixed on me, his hands folded in front of his rounded stomach.
Without realizing it, I stared. He did not have the hands of a prince of the Church, white and pampered and soft. Against the golden signet ring of his office, his fingers were sunburnt, scarred, his nails soiled like a peasant’s.
Or a warrior’s.
His dry chuckle brought my gaze back to his face. “I see you are observant as well as demure. Such qualities will serve you well at court.”
At court …
The garden receded, like a fragile painted backdrop. “Court?” I heard myself say.
Carrillo pointed to a stone bench. “Please, sit. I appear to have alarmed you; it was not my intention.” He lowered his bulk beside me. When he finally spoke his voice was subdued. “It might strike you as strange, given how much time has passed, but His Majesty the king has recently expressed interest in you and your brother. Indeed, he instructed me to ascertain your circumstances for myself. That is why I am here.”
Beneath my bodice, my heart leapt. I drew in a shallow breath and tried to compose myself. “As you can see, I am well. So is my brother.”
“Yes. Such a pity the Infante Alfonso could not come, but I’m told he’s been remiss in his lessons and was left behind to study.”
“He’s not so remiss,” I said quickly. “He just gets distracted sometimes. He likes to be outside, riding and hunting and caring for the animals, while I … I like to study more. I like to ride too, of course, but I spend more time with books than he does.”
I could hear myself babbling, as if my torrent of words might forestall the inevitable. The archbishop did not react, though his gaze was attentive. Something in his steady regard disturbed me, though I did not know why. Outwardly he hadn’t changed at all from my childhood memory of him—prepossessing, larger than life, but also benevolent and trustworthy; a man who had protected my mother in her time of need.
Still, I wanted him gone. I didn’t want to hear what he had to say.
I did not want my life to change.
“I am proud you’ve both fared so well,” he said, “given the circumstances. Nevertheless, our king believes your current situation should be improved. In specific, he has asked that you come to court to visit with him.”
My mouth went bone-dry. I managed to say in a low voice, “I am honored, of course. But I must ask you to tell His Majesty that we cannot, for our mother’s sake. We are her children and she needs us.”
He sat quiet for a moment. Then he said, “I’m afraid that will not do. I did not wish to mention it, but I am aware of your mother’s … indisposition. His Majesty is not, naturally, but should he discover it, he might consider her state too delicate to be further taxed by the care of a son and daughter entering their adolescence.”
I could feel the bones in my hands as I clasped them tighter, to stop them from trembling. “We … we are not a burden to her, my lord.”
“No one said you are. But you are part of the royal family and have lived far from court since your half brother the king took the throne. He wishes to remedy it.” He gently touched my clenched hands. “My child, I can see you are troubled. Will you not unburden yourself to me? I am a man of God. Anything you say will be held in strictest confidence.”
I did not like the feel of his heavy hand on mine. Unable to stop myself, I said angrily, “For years we’ve lived without word or sign from my brother the king, yet now he suddenly wants us at court? Forgive me, but I cannot help but wonder at his sincerity.”
“I understand. But you must put such misgivings to rest. The king has no ill intentions toward you; he merely wishes that you and Alfonso be with him at this important time in his life. You do want to see your little niece, don’t you? And the queen is eager to welcome you. You’ll have tutors, new rooms, and gowns. Alfonso will have a household and servants of his own. It is time for you both to take your places in the world.”
He was not saying anything I hadn’t considered myself since the king’s letter. It seemed I had always known this day might come. Despite the tragedy that had brought us to Arévalo, far from the world we’d once inhabited, children of kings were not destined to dwell in drafty castles in the middle of nowhere.
“What about our mother?” I asked. “What will happen to her?”
“His Majesty will not deprive you of your mother forever. Once you’re settled at court, he’ll send for her as well. But first the Infante Alfonso and you must come to Segovia to celebrate the Princess Joanna’s birth. The king wants you both present for her christening.”
I looked at him. “When must we go?”
“In three days. Your mother knows; she understands. Doña Clara and her other women and servants will care for her. Your friend Beatriz can accompany you, of course, and you may write as often as you like from court.” He paused; for a fleeting moment I thought I saw reluctance on his face as he stood. “I regret having troubled you but I promise I will see to your comfort at court. I want you to rely on me, for I am your friend. I’ve championed your mother these many years so she could keep you with her in Arévalo, but even I have my limits. In the end, I am but a royal servant and must do as the king commands.”
“I understand.” I stood, kissed his extended ring.
He set his hand on my head. “My dearest infanta,” he murmured, and then he turned and strode off, his cloak billowing about him.
A favor, in exchange for a favor …
As I remembered those cryptic words uttered years earlier, I gripped the edge of the bench. I did not see Beatriz enter the open arcade by the cloisters bordering the garden, did not notice her at all until I turned and caught her sinking into a reverence as Carrillo swept past. As soon as he was gone, she gathered her skirts and ran to me. The moment she reached me, I squared my shoulders, though I felt so disoriented I thought my legs would not hold up under me.
“Dios mío!” she exclaimed, breathless. “That was Archbishop Carrillo, wasn’t it? What did he want? What did he say to you?” She went still, taking in my expression. “He’s come for you and Alfonso, hasn’t he? He’s taking you to court.”
I stared past her to where the archbishop had disappeared into the convent. I slowly assented. Beatriz started to reach for my hands; I pulled away. “No,” I murm
ured. “I … I want to be alone. Go, please. See to my mother. I’ll be there shortly.”
I turned pointedly away, leaving her with a wounded look on her face. It was the first time I had issued an order and I knew it hurt her. But I had to do it. I needed her gone.
I did not want anyone to see me cry.
CHAPTER FOUR
We stayed the night in Santa Ana, in the accommodations above the cloisters reserved for exalted guests; my mother had her own small chamber while Beatriz and I rested in an adjoining one. I did not say anything about my encounter with the archbishop and neither my mother nor Beatriz asked, though my friend’s searching gaze followed me all evening.
The next day we returned to Arévalo in silence, my mother riding in front, talking to Don Bobadilla, her head held high. Not once did she look in my direction. The moment we reached the castle, she went to her apartments with Doña Elvira hastening behind, laden with the bolts of cloth she and Beatriz had bought in Ávila.
As Beatriz and I entered the hall, Alfonso came bounding down the staircase, his bow and a quiver of arrows slung on his shoulder. “At last,” he declared, his hair tousled and fingers stained with ink. “I’ve been bored stiff waiting for you. Come, let’s go out and shoot at the butts before supper. All I’ve done these past days is read. My eyes hurt. I need to stretch my muscles.”
I tried to smile. “Alfonso, wait a moment. I’ve something important to tell you.” Beatriz began to move away. I set a hand on her arm. “Stay. This concerns you, too.” I led them to the table. Alfonso dropped his bow, sat on one of the hard wood stools. He frowned. “Well? What is it? Did something happen in Ávila?”
“Yes.” I paused, swallowing the knot in my throat. Then I told him everything, watching his face as my words sank in. Beside me, Beatriz went still. When I was finished, Alfonso remained silent for a few moments before he said, “I don’t see that there’s anything to worry about. We’ll do our duty, attend the christening, and then they’ll send us back.”
The Queen's Vow: A Novel of Isabella of Castile Page 4
