I should have felt solace entrusting my fate to Our Lady. I didn’t. I was secretly terrified at the mere thought of having to bed Villena’s brother. I kept thinking of Fernando, wondering what he would do, what he would say, when he heard I’d been forcibly wed to another. He had seemed so certain we were destined for each other; now, at this dreaded hour, I wished it were so with all my heart. The thought of the bestial Girón taking Fernando’s place was so intolerable I felt I might welcome death first.
I finally wrote to tell Fernando what was happening, determined that he would not think I had forgotten him. Ironically, in Madrid we found it easier to send clandestine correspondence; an eager page besotted by Beatriz conveyed my letter to Segovia, and Cabrera forwarded it by courier to Aragón without anyone being the wiser.
But Fernando did not respond. I waited for days, weeks; I wrote again, two, three, five letters, until my quill went blunt and my remonstrations, churning like dark water in my head, turned bitter. I knew the war against France persisted, but could he not send one brief missive?
Be brave, Isabella, he had said. Wait for me.
Yet it seemed he had stopped waiting for me.
I returned to my prayers, doubling my vigil. I did not shift when Mencia swept in to declare that Girón had left his castle and was on his way to Madrid, bringing with him three thousand lancers and a new bed for us to share. I did not look at her as she laughed spitefully and told me I’d best prepare myself, for she’d heard Girón was a rough lover; I did not let myself doubt that somehow, some way, I would be spared. Beatriz fretted over me. I knew I wasn’t eating enough, that I was too thin and too pale. She told me I would get sick; she wondered how I could possibly think my demise was the answer.
“Let me kill him,” she implored. “One thrust is all I need.”
I ignored her until the April morning he was scheduled to arrive. When I moved to stand from my cushion before the altar, the chamber swayed in nauseating circles around me. I staggered to the mullioned window, cracked it open for air. Outside, I saw a horde of storks, circling the forbidding keep.
I gasped. Beatriz rushed to me, convinced I’d found a way to squeeze myself through that narrow opening to fling myself onto the flagstones far below. I could not tell her what I felt, for I had no faith in omens or superstitions; I’d never put store in the myriad fortune-tellers and soothsayers who plagued the court like vermin.
Yet in that moment, I sensed it. I knew my prayers had been heard.
I finally made myself eat and let Beatriz bathe and fuss over me; Mencia came in to taunt.
“He’ll be here,” she said. “He stopped in Jaén overnight and had a late start, but he’ll be here, have no doubt. A man like him, granted a royal prize like you—why, he’ll crawl here on his hands and knees, if he has to.”
“Get away from our sight, demon.” Beatriz held up crooked fingers to ward off the evil eye. Normally, I’d have chastised her for such foolishness but I just sat and waited. My deliverance would come; it already winged its way to me, fleet as the stork.
By nightfall, Juana herself appeared in my chambers. “Girón has taken ill,” she informed me as I sat on my chair, calmly sewing an altar cloth. “His departure from Jaén was delayed, but as soon as he recovers, the wedding will take place.”
I lifted my gaze to her, unperturbed.
“It will,” she spat, “even if I have to see you wed at his bedside!”
I slept soundly that night, without dreams. I awoke later than usual to discover Beatriz already dressed, staring out the window.
“Beatriz?” I asked.
She turned about slowly, a hand at her throat. “You knew,” she said. “You never spoke a word but you saw those storks and you knew. Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you leave me to worry?”
I raised myself on my elbows. “Knew what? What on earth are you talking about?”
“Girón. He is dead. He had a sore throat, fever; he took to his bed and never got up. They say he saw storks the day before he died, flying overhead. He feared it was an omen and asked his retinue what they thought. They told him it had to be a good omen, for the storks flew toward Madrid. But it wasn’t good. The storks were a harbinger of his death.”
I crossed myself. “God have mercy on his soul,” I murmured. I rose from bed, wrapping my robe about me. I went to her. She had tears in her eyes; taking my hand, she raised it to her lips before I could stop her, kissing it fervently.
“Cabrera is right,” she whispered. “Torquemada told him that God Himself watches over you. He has a special plan for Isabella of Castile.”
I drew my hand away. A sudden chill ran through me. “Don’t say that. I … I don’t like to hear such things. Girón perished of an illness. There is no divine plan at work here, just an everyday, average death.” Yet even as I spoke, relief and gratitude filled me. I had won. I had thwarted both Juana and Villena.
“Can you honestly say God had nothing to do with this?” said Beatriz.
I frowned. “Of course He did. God has everything to do with everything, but I am no more special than any of His children. I am mere dust, as are all mortal beings. Do not make out this terrible act to be part of some grand plan, because it is not. It cannot be. I would not have any man, even one as base as Girón, die because of me.” I turned from her searching eyes. “Now, please fetch my breakfast. I am hungry.”
She left me standing by the window. I gazed at the sky but the storks were gone. They often nested in towers throughout Castile. I’d seen an empty nest in Santa Ana, on the day I met Carrillo and my life changed forever. I had seen the flock the day before, as Girón took to his deathbed. Yet they were only birds, creatures of the air, beautiful, yes, but without souls. They could not be messengers of divine will. It was pagan even to consider it.
And yet the idea began to take root in my mind.
What if God did have a plan for me, after all?
THE CIVIL WAR between my brothers resumed with brutal intensity. Girón’s death had shattered both Villena’s aspirations and his credibility; having failed to secure a royal link through me and despised by the rebel movement he had once espoused, he hid at court at the king’s side, insisting on his own Moorish guard any time he dared venture outside. The proposed alliance between Joanna and my brother also fell apart, and Alfonso’s supporters seized numerous provinces, until all Enrique had left was a handful of minor loyal cities and his Segovia.
The land was charred, the harvest devastated, and our people crushed. Such trade as existed had been disrupted, the coinage so debased by Enrique’s frantic approval of new mints for funds that merchants would only accept payment in kind for goods. Every day, Beatriz brought me a new anecdote of the realm’s suffering, and every day, I wondered how long Castile could hold out before the earth itself began to crumble away into a chasm.
In August 1467, four months after my sixteenth birthday, Alfonso’s army was spotted within a few miles of Madrid. Queen Juana flew into a panic and hurried us back to Segovia’s alcazar. While Enrique, Villena, and their men went out to meet the rebel forces, the city bolted its gates and the cathedral bells ceased to toll, leaving Juana to pace her rooms like one of Enrique’s leopards in its cage, waiting for word of the battle’s outcome.
She had heeded Mencia de Mendoza’s advice to send little Joanna to safety in the Mendoza fortress of Manzanares el Real, lest the rebels take Segovia. I was outraged by the intimation that Alfonso might harm a child but remained expressionless on my stool, my hands folded in my lap as I watched the queen. She had insisted I attend her.
Suddenly, she whirled to face me. “Our cause is just and God is on our side. I tried once before and was overruled by that pompous idiot Villena, but not this time. The moment Enrique returns with your brother’s head in a sack, I will see you wed to my brother King Afonso.” She held up a finger, as if to halt an objection I had no intention of presenting. “And don’t dare cite the Cortes to me. I don’t care whose approval you thi
nk we need. I’ll drag you to Portugal myself, in chains. I’ll see you married and sent far from this realm—forever.”
Beatriz half-rose from her seat, glowering. Juana glared at her in return before she ordered her ladies, “Fetch your instruments! I will have music, dancing! This is a time of victory over our enemies. We must celebrate it.”
Beatriz looked at me. I stared forward. The women feverishly strummed their lutes as Juana twirled about in her brocade, glistening with jewels, as if she were still the envied center of the court’s attention. I marveled that she didn’t feel my hatred for her, that it didn’t turn her into a pillar of salt. I could taste brine in my mouth, feel it coursing in my veins, for now I understood how devoid of compassion she truly was. My brothers drew swords against each other at this very moment on a battlefield, the flower of Castile’s manhood lying dead around them. Many more would be wounded. And what did our queen do?
She danced.
I would have walked out if I could. Instead I sat and endured, repeating under my breath a plea to Saint Santiago, warrior-patron of Spain, for our deliverance.
It came within hours, conveyed by Mencia herself, who rushed in with her coif askew on her head and her hair unraveling about her face. “The people forced the gates open! The battle is done. The king and Villena have fled. Segovia is lost!”
Juana froze midstep, fingers outstretched as if to grasp the last chord of music. Then she released an unearthly howl and flew at me. I leapt to my feet, kicking back my stool; she would have fallen on me had Beatriz not planted herself between us. Before I could move, she had seized Juana by her wrist.
“Touch her,” Beatriz said coldly, “and I’ll see to it that King Alfonso drags you to Portugal in chains.”
Juana was panting; I could see her teeth from where I stood behind Beatriz, by my overturned stool. Mencia said urgently, “Your Grace, please, there’s no time. We must leave now. Once the rebels arrive, who knows what will happen to us?”
Juana was staring at me. She pulled her arm from Beatriz. “You stay,” she said in a strangled voice. “Stay here to welcome them, you treacherous bitch.”
“We never had any intention of leaving,” replied Beatriz. She stayed in front of me like a shield as the queen gave me one final, searing look. Then she and her women hastened out. Within minutes, the apartments were silent. It seemed as if a hush had fallen over the entire alcazar, all of Segovia; over Castile itself.
“We must go up,” I finally said.
Beatriz gave me a puzzled look. “Up?”
I grabbed her by the hand. “Yes, up to the battlements—to watch them enter!”
THE HEAT ENVELOPED us like steam from a cauldron, undulating across the stretch of dry plain visible from where we stood on the keep. I saw sunlight flare on armor as the meandering line of bedraggled standards, horses, and men lumbered into view, moving toward the city. Putting my hand to my brow, I strained to see past the haze of dust kicked up by hundreds of hooves and feet.
“Can you see him?” Beatriz asked anxiously. “Is Alfonso there?”
I started to shake my head, standing on tiptoes and peering further over the waist-high wall. And then I caught sight of him—at the head of his army, his hair an unmistakable disheveled white-gold. Behind him rode Carrillo in his red cloak.
Together with Beatriz, I raced back down the staircase into the alcazar, my skirts clutched above my ankles as I ran through the empty corridors, forlorn and echoing salas, down into the courtyard, where I came to a breathless halt in time to see my brother ride through the gates with his battle-worn men.
The courtyard was crowded with citizens who’d come to seek refuge, terrified for their safety now that a rebel army was in the city. As my brother dismounted, they went in unison to their knees. As he looked about, I too dropped into obeisance. When he strode toward me, I caught my breath.
He was fourteen—broader of shoulder but still slim of hip, graced by our Trastámara height. His features had become more angular, an amalgam of the strong traces of paternal ancestry and lithe beauty of our mother’s Portuguese blood. Clad in a dented, blood-spattered breastplate, his sword sheathed at his side, he was like an avenging archangel come to life, and my words of greeting turned to dust in my throat.
Beatriz let out a cry of joy and ran to embrace him. Slowly, he swiveled about to peer at me, still on my knees. “Hermana,” he said, his voice cracking, “is that you?”
I took his extended hand and let him raise me to my feet. I started to kiss his hand, in respect for the kingship he now claimed, but his arms, lean and hard, came about me and suddenly I was in my brother’s embrace. A sob of relief escaped me.
“I’m here,” he whispered. “I will see you safe. We’re going home, Isabella.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Arévalo’s castle seemed impossibly small and bleak; I had forgotten how isolated from the rest of the world our childhood home was. Still, I felt only relief as Alfonso and I rode toward it, accompanied by Beatriz and Alfonso’s ever-loyal governor, Chacón, as well as several other attendants. Luckily, my brother insisted on disposing of the large contingent of advisors he had lived with the past three years.
Carrillo had not been pleased by my brother’s decision to return to Arévalo. He’d lectured Alfonso that his duty was to stay in Segovia and oversee the ousting of Enrique from his last vestiges of power. While our half brother and Villena remained at large, Carrillo warned, Alfonso’s victory was not complete.
But to my surprise and great pride, Alfonso refused. “Enrique has suffered enough,” he told Carrillo. “He’s now an exile in his realm, obliged to seek sufferance from his few remaining vassals. I’ll not humiliate him further. I want a stalemate decreed between us for the next six months. Tell him if he agrees to meet with us to discuss terms, I’ll not seek further reproof. In the meantime, I will escort Isabella to pay a long overdue visit to our mother, who must be worried for us.”
He would not be dissuaded, not even when Carrillo—now choleric and sweating in the alcazar’s council chamber—thundered back with a litany of all the things he himself had neglected in order to dedicate himself heart and soul to Alfonso’s cause.
“Then you mustn’t neglect anything further,” replied my brother. “Go attend to your see in Toledo and whatever else needs attending. We’ll meet again in Ávila, after Epiphany.”
He left Carrillo openmouthed, grabbing me by the hand and taking me from the chamber. When he muttered under his breath, “We could use some time apart. The man is a tyrant,” I laughed out loud for the first time in as long as I could remember.
Only one deed marred our departure from Segovia. By the time Beatriz came to warn me and I’d rushed into the gardens to intervene, it was too late. Enrique’s beautiful leopards, which had languished during the years of war, cared for by loyal Cabrera to the best of his ability, lay dead in the pen, pierced by arrows. Alfonso stood over them with his bow in hand; as I reached the fenced wall, breathless and in anguish to see the spotted, bloodied bodies sprawled at his feet, he looked at me, his expression disconcertingly blank.
Cabrera stood nearby, ashen, clearly affected by the animals’ senseless death; yet when I started to remonstrate, he shook his head. Without his needing to say a word, I understood this was my brother’s sole act of vengeance, the only way he had found to vent his rage and grief over an adolescence spent fighting for an inheritance that was his by right. Though he had shown mercy to Enrique, through the leopards he had sent a message our half brother could not ignore.
I turned away. But it took weeks before I could close my eyes and not see the dead leopards or feel the pain that had driven Alfonso to such an act.
And now we were home. Arévalo had been restored to my mother, who had returned from her cloister in Santa Ana. As we rode under the gatehouse, the servants came out to greet us with tears, their faces marked by time and the uncertainty they’d lived through.
I almost cried myself as Doña Clara hel
d me close. “Mi querida niña,” she said, “look at how beautiful you are—a woman grown, so like your mother.”
She put her dry, gnarled hands on either side of my face. She had aged visibly; she seemed much frailer than the domineering aya I remembered from childhood.
“How is she?” I asked.
She shook her head sadly. “Doña Elvira died while we were in Santa Ana. The poor dear caught a fever. She went without pain, but of course your mother was devastated. She’s not yet recovered, though she’s eager to welcome you. She’s waiting now in the hall.”
A knot filled my throat. “Take me to her,” I said. I left Beatriz in the arms of her father, Don Bobadilla, and Alfonso grinning as his favorite hound, Alarcón, leapt up to lick his face, and I walked into the castle, where, despite the recent occupancy by Enrique’s vassals, nothing seemed to have changed.
When I saw my mother standing by the greenery-filled hearth, I had a vivid recollection of those times when I’d approached her in dread of her spells. A remnant of that fear clung to me, prickling along my nape. But in September’s saffron light spilling through the hall’s windows my mother looked beautiful, dressed in her outdated court velvets and tarnished gems. Only as I neared her did I see the febrile glitter in her eyes, a sign that she had required one of her calming drafts, and she was too gaunt, her collarbones marking her skin under her chemise, her ruby bracelets dangling from brittle wrists.
“Hija mía,” she said, with an absent smile, as I kissed her cheek. She did not seem to hear my greeting, her gaze focused past me to the threshold, where Alfonso laughed with the man-servants who’d cared for his dogs.
She said, “See? Didn’t I tell you that Alfonso would avenge us? Look at him: My son is king of Castile. At long last, our place has been restored. Soon we can take up our estate at court and leave this horrible castle forever.”
She spoke in pride, and when Alfonso came to her and she fervently embraced him, he made no mention of any hardship. After supper, we sat before the hearth, I at my mother’s side and Beatriz at her father’s, Doña Clara knitting in the background, as Alfonso regaled us with tales of chivalric valor worthy of El Cid, describing how he had fought Enrique single-handedly, embellishing their skirmishes into an epic struggle. My mother leaned forward in her chair, clapping her hands to emphasize her delight at the vanquishing of the man she held responsible for our woes. As night fell over Arévalo, she became visibly exhausted and Alfonso escorted her to her rooms. She clung to his arm, as though she were a child.
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