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

by C. W. Gortner

  I gave him a pointed look. “As far as I’m concerned, he never declared against me. Joanna la Beltraneja was deemed a bastard and the queen is in a convent. I was sworn heiress at Guisando. And,” I added, as he scowled, “Fernando is not here. I’ll not make any arrangements without my husband’s presence.”

  His smile was serpentine. “Ah, yes. I’ve heard your husband is still in Aragón, contending with the thorny issue of how to gainsay the French—though it seems he did secure that dispensation Borgia promised. I trust we’ll soon have the pleasure of Prince Fernando’s company. As important as his realm’s affairs are, it is the future of the crown of Castile that should most concern us, yes?”

  I refrained from comment, gritting my teeth. Carrillo still had an almost preternatural ability to sniff out discord, and I had no intention of informing him that I shared his sentiments. In fact, I’d recently received a letter from Fernando that had left me deeply disturbed, in which he explained that his recent triumph over the French had resulted in a short-lived treaty, which they broke as soon as he turned his back. Rather than peace talks, he was now engaged in wresting back vital Aragonese lands that the French had overrun and therefore he could not promise exactly when he might return. In the meantime, he warned me not to conclude any arrangements with Enrique or to entrust the archbishop with our affairs. Carrillo does not care about protecting our interests, he wrote. All he wants is to curry favor with the king and get you back under his thumb.

  His distinct lack of sentiment or trust in my abilities galled me. I returned word that I had managed my affairs perfectly well until now and had no need to entrust Carrillo or any other with them as such. I also asked him to please conclude his own affairs as quickly as possible, for his presence was required here. But my discomfort must have been writ on my face, for the archbishop’s smile turned savage at my silence. I knew he perceived my isolation, removed from my new family and at the mercy of my half brother’s bizarre inclinations.

  For bizarre they were. Enrique’s copious consumption of wine—after having displayed near-abstention all his life—had made him a figure of ridicule; by the evening’s end he was slurring his words, weaving through the courtiers with his Moors and pages in tow, demonstrating an intimate familiarity with those far below his rank. He was prodigious with aspiring favorites, lavishing gifts on all but paying marked attention to Villena’s handsome, dissolute son, Diego, who, having inherited his late father’s title and lands, was fast becoming a cause of concern for me. As I sat rigid on the dais, watching Enrique parade young Villena about like a new mistress, I was plunged back to those awful days when I’d been a captive infanta, powerless to affect my future.

  I missed my home in Aranda, my belongings and servants. I detested the gilded deception of the court, the furtive whispers, barbed glances, and constant plotting that made the alcazar seethe like a viper’s nest. I missed my child, Isabel, with a visceral ache. But above all, I missed Fernando. As I sat there watching my half brother make a mockery of love with his newfound friend, I could almost feel my husband’s hands on me, lifting my skirts as we tumbled back onto the bed, laughing. And as desire rose in me, I had to dig my fingers into my palms, reminding myself that now was not the time to let my passions overcome me.

  That night I became so despondent that I declared my intention to pack my things and leave Segovia within the hour. I was only dissuaded by Beatriz, who made me promise to stay until Epiphany.

  “You must consolidate your status, no matter what,” she said. “Remember, you’ve not come this far to discard it all in a fit of pique.”

  She was right, much as I disliked hearing it. I had not fought all these years for my right to call myself heir of Castile, to wed the man I’d chosen, and live as I saw fit to now turn tail and flee because I missed my home. But slowly, my compassion for Enrique began to curdle inside me, a sour taint that made me feel uncharitable and had me on my knees in the chapel more times than I cared to count. I knew he deserved my pity; he was still in mourning for Villena, and, as so many of us do, he sought consolation in the wrong place. Yet I could not abide the thought of a new favorite emerging to complicate my existence, one who carried the treachery of his father in his blood, no less. Nor could I comprehend how a king who had suffered so much by his own indulgence could have learned so little.

  December roared bitter wind and snow, encasing the alcazar in an icy shroud. While the courtiers danced under silken banners hanging from the eaves, I kept my smile affixed to my lips, not displaying by word or gesture my growing horror at the sight of Enrique lounging on a quilted divan in a faux tent, with young Diego Villena at his side on spangled cushions, eating tidbits of spiced partridge from Enrique’s own fingers. I saw everyone watching; I saw Carrillo’s mouth twist in disgust, and I wondered how much longer it would be before the eruption came, before some grandee would declare he’d had enough of this disgraceful behavior, and whether out of envy, pride, or indignation, unsheathe his sword, as Villena himself had done years before.

  Then, one fateful evening, as Enrique’s habitual carousing began after supper and I rose to depart, a sudden hush fell. I glanced up, catching Beatriz’s startled regard moments before her husband, Cabrera, rushed across the floor to the pavilion-like ensemble Enrique had established in the alcove.

  The king was doubled over on his pillows, Diego Villena anxiously patting his back, as if Enrique were choking. Only Cabrera had gone to his aid; as I hiked up my skirts to better cross the floor, the courtiers drew back one by one, and I saw Carrillo by a sideboard, alone, goblet in hand, a contemplative look on his broad, weathered face.

  Enrique was gasping, his entire body contorted. Cabrera inquired rapidly, “What did he eat? Where is the platter?” and as I neared, Enrique raised his ghastly white face and whispered, “Why now? Why, when I’d have given it all over to you soon enough?” before he grimaced and doubled over again. A protracted agonized moan erupted from him as bloody foam seeped from his mouth; he fell to his knees, groaning, “It hurts. God help me, it burns!”

  As I made myself start to bend over him, young Villena thrust a hand at me. “Get away from him,” he hissed. “You did this. You did it so you can steal his throne.” He fell to his knees, gathered the writhing king in his arms.

  I started to protest, horrified by his accusation. But before I could speak, a hand fell on my sleeve like a vise and I heard Carrillo say in my ear, “Go. Now.”

  A moan issued from Enrique. Cabrera stood helpless by the king. I met his solemn stare and said, “You will keep me informed.”

  He nodded. I knew that as long as he was involved, no one would seek to officially accuse me, yet as I turned to my ladies, who waited anxiously among the courtiers, I could almost hear young Villena’s terrible words ringing in the air.

  They believed I had done it.

  They believed I had poisoned my own brother.

  CABRERA FINALLY CAME to me hours later, after I had furiously paced my apartments declaiming my innocence to Beatriz and Inés. “His Majesty shows some improvement,” he said wearily, as Beatriz rose to offer him a goblet. “He was taken to his rooms to rest, but Villena insisted that they could not stay here. They departed for Madrid.”

  I stared at him in disbelief. “But he is ill and Madrid is almost a full day’s ride away, over impossible terrain. Are they insane? Where is Carrillo? How can he have permitted this? How can you have permitted it?”

  “Your Highness, the king himself commanded that his horse be readied. He would not hear a word of advice to the contrary.”

  “Madrid is part of Villena’s marquisate,” I said, turning to Beatriz. “They’ll gather supporters against me. God save us: This is Diego Villena’s fault. He’s just like his father. He’ll poison whatever rapport Enrique and I managed to establish.”

  As my fears tumbled out, I spoke the one word I should never have uttered aloud. My outburst was met with an awkward silence. I reeled back to Cabrera. “My lord, you’ve kn
own me since I came here as a girl. Surely, you can’t believe I’d ever … that I’m capable of….”

  He shook his head. “We are all aware that young Villena seeks to enrapture His Majesty as his father did before him, and that he fears Enrique’s affection for you. I’d not worry on that account. Whatever was said in the sala cannot be taken seriously; the king was not in his right mind. But his health remains a grave concern.”

  He paused. I saw him exchange a resigned glance with Beatriz before he added, “We did not want to trouble you with this, but one of the pressing reasons we worked so hard toward your reconciliation is because His Majesty has been ill for months. He suffers a stomach malady much like Villena had, one that causes him to vomit blood and bleed from his anus. He’s done himself no good by ignoring his physicians’ advice that too much wine, meat, horseback riding, and … other excesses aggravate the condition.”

  Relief overwhelmed me. An ailment: Enrique was sick. He had not been poisoned.

  Then I went still. “Are you saying …?”

  Cabrera met my eyes. “He could be dying as we speak. And he is not in Segovia anymore, where we can watch over him. Your Highness, we must prepare. Should he—”

  I lifted my hand to stop him, turning away in a daze. I walked to the narrow arrow slit overlooking the keep. My view was obscured by darkness and swirling snow; as I stared out into nothingness, I saw my half brother’s tormented face in that horrific instant before his legs gave way under him.

  Why? Why now, when I’d have given it all over to you soon enough?

  I had thought it was an accusation against me but I was wrong. He had known for months that he was mortally ill. It was not only his grief over the loss of Villena that had convinced him to sanction our reunion. In his heart, he’d known time was running out, just as I knew in my heart that the time I’d long anticipated, struggled, and suffered for was fast upon me. And I was alone, with only a few trusted friends. Fernando was hundreds of miles away in his embattled kingdom while I was about to face the most critical moment of my life. I wished again, with a fervent longing, that he was here. In that instant, I’d have selfishly let the French overrun Aragón if it meant my husband could be at my side.

  I heard the door shut. Cabrera had left.

  Beatriz came behind me. “My lady, please listen to me. We cannot afford to delay. If we are right, every hour counts. There are those who’ll do anything to keep you from the throne. Andrés and Archbishop Carrillo want to send a trusted man to Madrid to monitor the situation but they need your permission.”

  I could not speak for what seemed an eternity. When I finally did, my voice was calm: “Do whatever is necessary.”

  THREE DAYS LATER, on the evening of December 12, following a perilous ride during which he exhausted two horses, our spy brought word that King Enrique IV was dead.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I awoke before dawn, after only a few hours of rest. Drawing my marten-lined robe about my shoulders, my newly washed hair plaited down my back, I went to the window and rubbed the frosted panes to catch a glimpse of the rose-colored dawn breaking over the keep. I was transfixed by the sight, the light so diaphanous and shimmering it seemed opalescent, as though refracted from within the interior of a perfect pearl.

  It was going to be a beautiful day, I thought, as I heard my chamber door open. I turned to see Beatriz and Inés, carrying the sections of my gown and an enamel coffer.

  “Did you sleep?” asked Inés, as they carefully laid out the azure velvet overdress trimmed with ermine, my favorite fur, the underskirt of mulberry satin and the gold-lined tabard, and embroidered pearl-and-gold-cord headdress which we’d spent feverish hours sewing, in between funeral observances for Enrique and arrangements for my accession.

  “Not a wink.” I neared the coffer Beatriz had put on my table. She unlocked it with a key, opening the carved lid to expose ropes of pearls, glistening emeralds, pink rubies, and brilliant diamonds, twined with breathtaking sapphires of every imaginable hue.

  I regarded them with a catch in my throat, these esteemed symbols of royal prestige that had adorned many of Castile’s queens, from Berenguela of León to the infamous Urraca.

  “Every last one is there,” said Beatriz. “Andrés made certain Juana did not get away with anything. He even sent officials to the convent where she is immured to retrieve whatever she might have stolen when she first fled the court. She didn’t have much.”

  I picked up an emerald bracelet with intricate Moorish-style gold links. “I imagine she isn’t happy with the turn of events,” I said, recalling that I’d once seen this very bracelet adorning her wrist. Had Cabrera confiscated it from her as she ranted and railed in her seclusion behind hallowed walls, from which now only death could free her?

  “She is … subdued. She implores mercy for her daughter.” Beatriz eyed me as I clasped on the bracelet. It was heavier than I thought, its square-cut verdant stones gleaming against my skin. “What will you do? For now, la Beltraneja remains under custody with the Mendozas but her mother still insists she is Enrique’s, and the child herself believes the same. You will have to contend with her at some point.”

  “Yes,” I said absently, mesmerized by the emeralds’ luster. “I will. But not today.”

  “Of course not,” piped Inés. “Today is your coronation. Today, Your Highness will—”

  “Majestad,” interrupted Beatriz. “Remember, she is a queen now.”

  Inés flushed. “Oh, I forgot! Your Majesty, please forgive me.” She turned to me, flustered; I regarded her sternly before the smile I struggled to hide broke across my lips and behind me, Beatriz let out a guffaw.

  Inés stamped her foot. “That wasn’t very nice. I thought I’d offended!”

  I clasped her hand. “Forgive me. I don’t care how you address me in private.” I smiled at Beatriz, outstretching my other hand. “I still can’t believe this is happening. How can I be queen of Castile?”

  “Well, you are,” said Beatriz. “And you’ll be a very tardy one if we don’t start dressing you now.”

  While they bustled about me, removing my robe and commencing the process of layering my gown over me, I realized that the past two days had been such a whirlwind of conflicting emotion that a part of me had transformed into an impartial witness to my own upheaval. I’d experienced conflicting emotions over Enrique since his death, just as I had during his life. I had donned the white serge of mourning to attend his obsequies and heard in quiet from the newly elevated Cardinal Mendoza the dreadful account of Enrique’s final hours. He had agonized in a freezing chamber in Madrid’s old alcazar, with no one to attend him save his loyal Moors. His servants and intimates, including the faithless Diego Villena, forsook him the moment it was clear he would not survive. They left him with no more respect than for a dying dog, Mendoza told me; and he himself had to hire outsiders to prepare Enrique’s corpse for entombment.

  As customary, I did not attend my half brother’s funeral. Instead I ordered a Mass sung in the Segovia Cathedral, while his cortege wound its way to the Monastery of Santa María de Guadalupe, where he was laid to rest. As I prayed for his soul, I made myself remember not the capricious king I’d grown to mistrust and fear, but rather the odd, timid man I’d met years before, who’d shown me affection. I couldn’t honestly say I would miss him, not after all that had passed between us, but I felt his loss in some intrinsic part of me, a loneliness born of the knowledge that of the three of us who had shared our father’s blood, only I remained.

  But even if I’d wanted to mourn more, pressing decisions intruded. The most difficult had been whether to announce my accession at once or delay until Fernando could be with me. Carrillo argued we had no time to waste. Like Cabrera, he believed any postponement would threaten my hold on the throne. Moreover, we had no assurance that Fernando could come at all, given the ongoing trouble in Aragón. Still, I vacillated almost a full day until I had the chance to consult with Cardinal Mendoza upon his ret
urn from Enrique’s funeral. I trusted the moderate prelate who’d supported me without ever betraying his loyalty to Enrique; he heard in silence my outpouring of doubt, my fear that I’d insult Fernando and bring harm upon our marriage if I proclaimed myself queen while he was absent.

  Mendoza said quietly, “I understand how difficult these last days have been and how much you now must contend with, but you are the sole heiress of this realm. As your husband, Fernando of Aragón will hold the title of king-consort, but he has no other hereditary rights in Castile, as he himself agreed by his signature on your prenuptial Capitulations. The right to the throne, my child, is yours alone.”

  I spent the evening in an agony of indecision, anchored before the altar in my rooms. I implored guidance, an answer that would lift the burden of self-reproach from my shoulders. While Castile had had other queens, none had reigned successfully for long. Was I committing a sin of pride, believing I could accomplish what no woman before me had? The kingdom I stood to inherit was a cauldron of vice and duplicity; our treasury was near-bankrupt, our people sunk in calamity. Many, if not all, of the grandees—not to mention the Holy Father in Rome and powers abroad—would say Castile required the firm rule of a prince like Fernando, whose courage and vigor were forged in war, and thus tempered to the many obstacles we faced.

  I had the uneasy feeling Fernando himself would say the same.

  Yet even as I sought to persuade myself of my innate unsuitability, part of me rebelled. I’d not fought all this time to shirk my duty now. The crown was indeed mine to bear as a princess of Trastámara; in my veins ran the blood of a dynasty that had ruled Castile for more than a hundred years. My subjects expected me to assume the throne and would not suffer Aragón to reign in my stead. To delay or compromise could be seen as a sign of weakness. I must never let it be said that Isabella of Castile lacked conviction.