The Queen's Vow: A Novel of Isabella of Castile

by C. W. Gortner

  I remembered how he’d once stayed as far from her as he could. I sat in contemplative quiet as Beatriz and Bobadilla bid us good night, leaving me with my aya. At length she said, “Alfonso has made her happy. Some mothers want nothing more than a son they can depend on.”

  “He didn’t tell her the truth,” I replied. “He didn’t tell her what really happened or what might yet happen. Alfonso isn’t king of Castile yet.”

  “You and I know that, but she doesn’t need to; she wouldn’t know what to do with the truth anymore.” Doña Clara set aside her yarns. “You, on the other hand, appear to thrive on it. That inner fortitude you showed as a child has made you into someone she can no longer influence or control. Be grateful you’ve escaped her at long last. Better she look to your brother now for the respite she needs from this vale of tears.”

  She forced herself to her feet with an aged person’s groan and trudged to the hall sideboard, unlocking one of the doors to remove a leather-and-brass casket. She set it in my lap. It was surprisingly light, despite its armorial appearance.

  “The Jews make these, to store important documents and money,” she explained. “I bought it for you in Ávila when the letters started to arrive.”

  “Letters?” My hand poised over the lid.

  “Yes.” She met my gaze. “Go on, open it. See for yourself.”

  I couldn’t contain my gasp when I saw the pile within, tied with ribbon. “There must be a dozen, at least!”

  “Twenty-four, to be exact; I counted each one. Whatever you said must have impressed him. Once they started coming, they never stopped. He sent them by courier to Santa Ana.” She chuckled. “It must have cost him a fortune to use a private messenger to cross Castile. He’s determined, this prince of Aragón. I’ll leave you to read them. No doubt he has quite a lot to say.”

  Alone in the hall, I cracked the seal of the first letter in the pile. His unrefined handwriting leapt at me in the flickering candlelight, the entire page covered with words:

  My dearest lady,

  When I received your letter, it was all I could do to not abandon my land and my father’s fight against the wolves of France to run to your side. I am unable to sleep, to eat; all I do is think of you, fighting off your own wolves in your brother’s court, who seek to quench your spirit. Yet as I cannot be there to draw my sword for you and strike at the hearts of all who wish you harm, I can only tell you that I know in my soul that you are much braver than even you realize. You must withstand this marriage they propose for you, for with God’s grace you and I must meet again and discover if we are bound by the same fate….

  I went completely still.

  Fernando had not forgotten me. This was his reply to my anguished letter sent more than a year earlier from Madrid as I awaited Girón’s arrival. Somehow, Fernando had known he couldn’t risk sending it to me directly, so he dispatched it to my mother’s cloister instead. And he had not stopped. I read his other letters, the candles guttering low as night deepened, Alfonso’s hound slumbering at my feet. I was astounded by how closely the prince of Aragón had watched over me from afar. He was apprised of every event in my life since we’d last seen each other, even amidst his own trials, which he related with an unvarnished candor that only illustrated his inner strength.

  His mother had died, finally, after a long and terrible illness. Barely had he and his father found time to grieve for her before they were plunged into war once more with the perfidious French. Though not yet fourteen at the time, Fernando had led an army against King Louis to defend the contested border counties of Roussillon and Cerdagne, rousing his men to incredible bravery against the invading forces. Severely outnumbered, he lost the battle. Now, with Aragón’s treasury in arrears and the people in near-revolt, with the French gnawing at the kingdom like the ravenous wolves they were at heart, Fernando had to fortify his borders and guard against further incursions, all while contending with his father’s crippling blindness, which had in effect, if not title, left him the ruler of his embattled realm.

  “We’ve summoned a Jewish physician,” he wrote,

  trained in the Moors’ healing arts, of which we have heard marvels. It is said this physician once cured a caliph of Granada of the same ailment my father suffers—indeed, that he can perform miracles with the removal of cataracts. He has expressed confidence that Papa’s eyesight can be improved; however, it is a dangerous procedure involving four separate surgeries with needles, and I worry. My father is past his sixtieth year, weakened in heart and soul by my mother’s passing. Yet he insists it must be done. He says he will not be an old blind man on the day that you and I wed.

  I smiled as I read this; it was so like him. Indeed, every line of every letter conveyed the same unswerving belief that in the end, he would prevail. And at the bottom of each letter, as if to emphasize this fact, he ended with the same words:

  Be brave, Isabella. Wait for me.

  It wasn’t until I’d read the last letter that I realized I’d spent the entire night immersed in his words. Already the darkness lightened around me; the candles had gone out, except for the last one flickering by my side, which I’d relit several times, singeing my fingertips in the process. As it dissolved in a pool of molten wax, I sat with the casket on my knees and closed my eyes, imagining the laughing, exuberant boy I’d met so briefly in Segovia. Now he was a man I did not know, so how could I feel as if he were such an integral part of me? No matter how much I tried to tell myself I was foolish and overly sentimental to entrust my future to a confident promise, an irresistible smile, and a spontaneous dance, in truth that was what I had done. He had taught me something about myself. He had shown me I could trust my own instincts and carve my own path. And instinct told me that despite the distance between us and the many challenges we faced, there was no one in this world better suited to share my life.

  Come what might, Fernando of Aragón and I were destined for each other.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The snows came early, drifting from leaden November skies, covering the meseta in a cold white mantle. I’d always loved the start of winter, forgetting that the creeping chill would eventually turn so bitter it would seem to freeze my breath in my lungs. This winter was especially poignant. Though it might seem as if we’d escaped danger to return to the safety of our former life, it was an illusion I feared would be dispelled sooner than anyone thought.

  Still, we reveled in our freedom, saddling the horses every day to ride out with Don Chacón, who told us of how he’d stayed steadfast at my brother’s side, despite Villena’s efforts to discredit him.

  “Archbishop Carrillo is a man I can respect,” said Chacón, his black eyes fierce in his bearded countenance. “After all, as a priest his task is to supervise the infante’s well-being. But that marquis is a devil; he did everything he could to corrupt Alfonso. I even caught him trying to sneak into Alfonso’s bed one night. You’ve never seen a man look as surprised as he did when he tripped over me on my pallet, dagger in hand.”

  I glanced at Beatriz. After what we’d witnessed at court this revelation about Villena was not surprising. I’d suspected he exerted some type of intimate hold over Enrique; now, I knew what it was.

  Chacón went on. “His Highness said it wasn’t the first time, either. Villena and his brother Girón both apparently behaved like boy-loving Moors whenever the mood overtook them. Disgusting, if you ask me; who needs further proof that they are damned?” He spat on the ground before he paused, flushing. “Your Highness must forgive me,” he muttered. “I’ve grown unaccustomed to the company of ladies, it seems.”

  I offered him a reassuring smile. “I understand. Your loyalty to my brother is commendable, Don Chacón. He is fortunate you were there to watch over him.”

  “I would die for Alfonso. As I would for Your Highness. I will always put you and your brother first, before all other considerations.”

  As he cantered forward to catch up with my brother, who was busy hunting, Beatriz
said, “Do you still doubt Girón was struck down for his evil ways?”

  “No.” I watched my brother veer his horse, Chacón close behind. Alfonso swiftly raised and shot his bow, catching a startled hare in midleap. “But that doesn’t mean the evil died with him. Villena is still alive and he controls Enrique entirely.”

  “Is this why you’ve been so quiet of late? Are you worried for Alfonso?”

  “How can I not be?” The hare twitched as Alfonso lifted it by its hindquarters, trickling beads of scarlet onto the cold white ground. “Castile still has two kings.”

  Beatriz eyed me, much as she had on the day we’d learned Girón was dead. I turned from her questioning gaze to pat Canela, who was eager to stretch his muscles after having spent too much time, like us, pent up in Segovia’s alcazar. “Brr!” I said. “Come, Beatriz, I’ll race you back. Last one there has to pluck the pheasants for supper.”

  Beatriz cried out that it wasn’t fair, for I had the faster horse, but she took the challenge anyway and we streaked onto the plain toward the huddled township and castle, laughing aloud, the wind biting our cheeks and billowing our skirts.

  For a brief time, I forgot that out there, somewhere, Enrique must be plotting his revenge.

  THE NATIVITY ARRIVED with howling winds and snowstorms so blinding they turned the world beyond our gates into an impassable white void. Inside the icy castle we piled logs in the hearths, exchanged homemade gifts, and played games and music to pass the time. Shortly after Epiphany, my mother had one of her spells—the first she’d exhibited since our return. She insisted she heard ghosts wandering in the passageways, and one night fled barefoot in her shift onto the battlements. She might have frozen to death had Doña Clara not been awake and followed her out. Still, it took all of our combined persuasions—and Chacón’s brute strength—to force my mother back inside. By then she was blue with cold, her feet and hands frostbitten.

  After that, we restored the outside lock on her door and I stayed in her rooms on a cot, in case she awoke in the night. Though I hoped the spell would pass as it usually did, instead she grew worse. She fought us as we cured her hands and feet, saying she deserved to lose her limbs for her sins, growing so agitated we had to force calming drafts down her throat. Afterward, she sat in silence and stared at nothing, while I coaxed her into taking mouthfuls of broth, lest she starve.

  Her withdrawal must have reminded Alfonso of our childhood, when he had shared a house with a mother he could not understand. He began to escape outside as often as he could despite the wind and snow, mending the animal pens, keeping the stables clean and warmed with braziers, and brushing and exercising the horses. As soon as the weather improved, he resumed his hunting, sometimes from morning till dusk, returning laden with early spring quail, partridge, and rabbit.

  In April, I turned seventeen—a quiet birthday, like so many before. My mother had not left her rooms in months, oblivious to the birdsong heralding the long-awaited thaw. To keep busy, I supervised the cleaning of the entire castle. I set the maids to beating dust from our faded tapestries and carpets, boiling our linens in thyme-sweetened water, and airing our musty clothes. I had every floor scrubbed; even the privies did not escape my attention. I worked right alongside the servants, despite Doña Clara’s admonition that I’d chafe my hands, and collapsed exhausted into my bed every night, too tired to dream.

  A courier came in June, bearing word from Carrillo. Though misfortune had dodged Enrique all winter, leaving him to wander Castile on his horse and seek refuge from whoever would open a door to him, with the advent of spring he had resurfaced in Madrid, where he refused to concede defeat. He had sent Queen Juana into semi-captivity in a remote castle when he discovered she was pregnant by a lover and he relayed to Carrillo that he now believed Joanna was not his child. He was willing to name Alfonso heir, but only if Alfonso refuted any right to call himself king while Enrique lived. To bolster Enrique’s stance, Villena had bribed most of the grandees back to the king’s side and circulated pamphlets among the people declaring that Alfonso had illegally usurped the throne. Carrillo warned it was only a matter of time before everything collapsed; he was on his way to escort Alfonso to Toledo, where they could plan their defense.

  Civil war loomed once more but this time, I would not be left behind. When Carrillo arrived with his retainers, I stood with Beatriz in the courtyard, our saddlebags packed and our horses ready. The archbishop scrutinized me from under his heavy brows, astride an enormous destrier that dwarfed my Canela. Carrillo’s stout cheeks were rubicund from the June sun, his forehead dripping sweat under a wide straw hat like those peasants wore to till the fields.

  “I suppose this means you’re accompanying us?” he said without fanfare, as though we’d seen each other the previous week.

  I nodded. “From now on, wherever my brother goes, so must I.”

  He guffawed. “Yes, Arévalo’s no place to hide. I hear Afonso of Portugal is still eager for your hand. He’s even offered Villena a country in Africa if you consent. We can’t have them marrying you off to that conniving fool.”

  I didn’t dignify him with a response. I had no doubt he’d have married me off to the conniving fool without compunction if it would secure Alfonso’s throne. In his eyes, I was just another infanta to be used. I turned from him to embrace Doña Clara.

  She held me close. “I’ll see to your mother,” she whispered, “I promise.”

  Mounting Canela, I followed Alfonso out.

  A LAVENDER TWILIGHT tinted the sky around the walls of Ávila, our first stop on the road to Segovia, when young Cárdenas, one of Carrillo’s favored pages, who hailed from the southern province of Andalucía, appeared on the road. He’d been sent ahead to the city to ensure that our lodgings were ready; he now materialized on his pony like a phantom, his face bone-white as he uttered terrifying words: “Plague has struck Ávila. We must turn away.”

  My heart started to hammer. The dreaded pestilence had made an early appearance this year; it was usually a bane of autumn. Carrillo barked orders at his retainers, ordering us to the nearby township of Cardeñosa, where we’d spend the night before departing at first light.

  “We will eat and drink only what we carry,” he said as we dismounted, saddle sore and weary. “Anything else could be contaminated.”

  Alfonso grimaced. “Who has ever caught plague from soup? I’m not going to bed on nuts and dried rabbit after riding all day. Find someone who can serve us a proper meal.”

  Carrillo sent men ahead to seek out lodgings; the town mayor eagerly offered his own house, and there he served us a late supper of fresh-caught trout, cheese, and fruit. It was the best he could manage on short notice and we were grateful for it. Exhausted, we retired to our quarters, where Beatriz and I stripped to our shifts and fell fast asleep.

  Urgent knocking at our door startled us awake. It was Cárdenas. The archbishop wished to see me at once, he said. I threw on my soiled clothes and yanked my hair into a net, following the fair-haired page downstairs. Through the windows of the hall where we’d dined last night, I glimpsed dawn gilding the horizon.

  Carrillo waited at Alfonso’s door. I took one look at his face and my knees weakened. He opened the door without a word. Inside, motionless on the bed in his shirt and hose, was my brother. Chacón knelt at his side; at my entrance, he looked up. The anguish in his eyes tore at me.

  “I found him like this,” he whispered. “He went to bed as usual, teasing me that I’d be cold in my cloak on the floor. But when I tried to wake him, he didn’t respond. He … he doesn’t seem to hear me.”

  I couldn’t take a step forward. I strained my gaze toward Alfonso, seeking out the telltale buboes of plague, my throat so tight I could barely breathe.

  “There are no sores,” Chacón said, sensing my fear. “He has no fever. If it’s the pestilence, I’ve never seen it manifest like this.”

  I forced myself to move to the bed. Alfonso was so still he resembled a sculpture; I was cer
tain he must be dead. I dug my nails into my palms, bending over him as Beatriz whispered anxiously from behind me, “Is he …?”

  I nodded. “Yes, he’s breathing.” I touched his hand; his flesh was chilled, as though he had slept outside. I looked at Chacón in bewilderment. “If it’s not plague, then what can it be? What is wrong with him?”

  “Show her.” Carrillo’s voice was inflectionless. I watched Chacón pry open my brother’s mouth, exposing a blackened tongue. I could not contain my gasp. And as I turned to meet Carrillo’s relentless stare, I already knew what he would say.

  “This is Enrique’s doing. Your brother has been poisoned.”

  BEATRIZ, CHACÓN, AND I took turns sitting vigil at his bedside. Helpless, we watched as a local physician, summoned by Carrillo, bled Alfonso. The blood ran sluggish; the physician sniffed it several times before muttering that he found no evidence of poison. My brother’s tongue was swollen but no longer black; this sole sign of improvement was belied by his increasing stiffness, as if his life were leaving him in slow, inexorable stages.

  After a full day and night, I was swaying with exhaustion on my stool and Beatriz finally insisted I go to the hall to eat something with Chacón, whom I’d sent out earlier. But I did not get farther than the passageway before I heard her cry out.