Even so, as Beatriz set the rounded headdress on my brow, carefully arranging the white silk veil that cascaded from it, and Inés knelt to slip the leather pattens on my feet, I wondered what would happen once Fernando read the letter I’d sent.
The cathedral bells tolled, summoning the crowds to the cordoned streets through which I would ride with my entourage to the plaza mayor.
“Quickly!” said Beatriz, and after she affixed the clasp of my black damask cloak, she and Inés lifted between them its long train and we made hasty progress to the keep. There, under a brilliant winter sky so blue it hurt the eyes, waited the clergy and the select lords invited to attend my accession. They bowed low, caps swiped from brows, exposing balding pates, thinning fringes, or manicured tumbles of locks to the morning chill. I recognized Carrillo in his signature scarlet cape, Cardinal Mendoza attired in gem-studded vestments, and Beatriz’s beloved Andrés, impeccable as always in black velvet.
I paused. Except for me and my ladies, no other women were present. Though I knew that these men’s mothers, wives, daughters, and even mistresses were arrayed along the route in all their finery, straining to catch a glimpse of me, I felt as if a shaft of light had pierced the sky to fall solely upon my person, marking me apart.
I made my way to Canela, who snorted impatiently under his rich caparison of damask adorned with the castle and lion rampant of Castile, his reins bedecked with silly tassels. He looked as if he had half a mind to munch on them.
Don Chacón was holding the reins. He wore a stiff green doublet and had trimmed his thick, dark beard; as his brown eyes met mine I saw pride shining in their depths. He’d remained steadfast at my side since Alfonso’s death, a companion and trusted servant I could always rely upon. His presence bolstered my confidence. Today, in honor of his service, he had the privilege of leading me through Segovia’s streets.
The procession assembled; ahead of us walked Cárdenas carrying aloft an unsheathed sword. The crowds went silent as he passed and I caught furtive astonishment in the faces of those nobles who held coveted positions along the route. The old blackened sword—excavated at my insistence from under piles of rusting armor in the treasury—was a hallowed relic of Trastámara kings, symbol of justice and authority; no queen had ever had it carried before her during her ceremony of ascension. I raised my chin, focusing on the central square ahead, where my throne awaited on a dais hung with crimson bunting in front of the Church of San Miguel.
Chacón carefully assisted me off my horse. Standing alone on the bloodred carpet of the dais, with thousands of Segovians arrayed before me, I listened to the royal pennons snap in the wind and heard the herald cry out into the diamond-crisp air, “Castile! Castile for Her Majesty Doña Isabella, proprietress of these realms, and for His Highness Don Fernando, her husband!”
In shouting unison that sparked sudden tears in my eyes, the crowd repeated the words.
Mendoza mounted the dais, holding the Bible. “Majestad,” he intoned, “do you accept the acclamation and vow to uphold the sacred duties that God has set before you?”
I put my hand on the Holy Book, opened my mouth to utter the speech I’d carefully rehearsed. But something stopped me. Among the thousands watching I caught sight of a spectral figure, standing apart, his pale eyes smoldering, his face white as bone….
A knot filled my throat. I could not look away.
“Majesty?” murmured Mendoza. “The vows, if you please.”
I blinked; when I looked again, the figure was gone. I tore my gaze from the spot, swallowed and recited in a slightly quavering voice: “I accept this great honor bestowed upon me and swear by these holy evangelios to obey the commandments of our Church, to uphold the statutes of this realm and defend the common welfare of all my subjects, aggrandizing these kingdoms in the custom of my glorious progenitors, and safeguarding our customs, liberties, and privileges as your lawfully anointed queen.”
A rustle like the wings of an enormous falcon passing overhead whispered across the square as everyone went to their knees. The nobles came forth one by one to swear their oaths of allegiance. The court officials handed their wands of service to Cabrera, signaling a change in regime, and I knelt before Mendoza as he described the sign of the cross above my head.
“God bless Queen Isabella!”
And my subjects, the people of Castile, roared their approval.
IT WAS PAST midnight when I finally returned to my rooms. My feet ached. My jaw was sore from the constant smile I’d been required to keep on my face. I’d heard a solemn Te Deum, returned to dine in the alcazar, and then assumed my seat on the dais to receive for hours a long queue of well-wishers, including the wary grandees, who must have wondered as they bowed before me what my next move would be.
I’d seen myself reflected in their pupils as if I stood before a mirror. I beheld the white hand I extended, each finger decorated with rings, the shimmering gold fabric of my sleeve, draping the rounded arm of an inexperienced twenty-three-year-old woman. I saw their disdain in the twitch of their mouths, which turned their mellifluous greetings to sneers.
To them, I would not be a queen until I proved myself stronger than them.
The very thought exhausted me. As soon as my equally weary ladies undressed me and staggered out, bleary-eyed, dousing the candles as they left, I curled up in bed and shut my eyes. I must send for my child, I thought. I wanted my Isabel with me.
Before I drifted into sleep, I whispered, “Fernando, I am waiting. Come home.”
SNOW-FLECKED WIND STIFFENED the colored pennants and carpets hung from balconies to welcome my husband. As soon as word came that he was on his way, I had requested that Archbishop Carrillo, Admiral Enríquez, and several high-ranking grandees meet him halfway and escort him to Segovia, with all the dignity and honor his status merited. He’d delayed a day to rest and don the new clothes I’d had made for him—a tunic of burgundy velvet trimmed in sable, half-boots of tooled cordovan leather, perfumed gauntlets, and a gold necklace that had belonged to Enrique, newly polished and adorned with our emblem of the arrows and yoke, crafted by the finest goldsmith in Toledo. Through these gifts I hoped to convey my pleasure at his return; now, I waited eagerly in the sala, seeing in my mind the wintry wind buffeting his passage and hearing the muffled cries of the crowds that had gathered to cheer him as he entered the city.
I wore violet silk, my hair plaited about my head in what I hoped was a fetching style. I tugged insistently at a loose thread on my cuff. I wanted to rush out into the keep, to welcome him with open arms after so long an absence—but a queen did not display her emotion in public. Moreover, as I was the queen, it was his duty to first come to me.
Sweat pooled between my shoulders, trickling down my back under my gown as I strained my eyes toward the far doors. The heat was stifling, cast from too many braziers and oil lamps lit to ward off the afternoon chill. Where was he? What was taking him so long—
I heard voices, the clatter of booted heels. I almost bolted forth as a collection of men burst through the doors. The courtiers bowed in unison. I recognized him at once, even from a distance—that compact muscular figure in his new doublet, striding toward me. As he neared, I stepped to the edge of the dais, my smile breaking free, unrestrained.
“My lord husband,” I whispered, almost in tears at the sight of him so proud and strong before me. He removed his cap. His hair had grown; it now draped past his broad shoulders like a curtain of deep brown silk. A new, close-cut beard framed his square jaw.
He lowered his head. “Majestad,” he said in stilted formality, “it is my great honor to reunite with you at long last.”
I faltered. The hand I held out remained untouched between us. “And mine, as well,” I finally said. I stepped from the dais to embrace him. His body was lean, hard, toned from months of warfare against the French. He did not embrace me in return. When I drew back, he regarded me with icy focus.
He looked as if I were the last person he wanted to s
ee.
“HOW COULD YOU do it? How could you do this to me?”
We stood together in my private chamber, to which we had retreated as soon as politely possible, following the interminable banquet during which I sat at his side, my apprehension a lump in my throat. He’d barely eaten from the fifty courses I’d ordered served; scarcely touched his goblet. When our little girl was presented to him, he greeted her with a perfunctory kiss and then he sat brooding as the court dined below us, his anger coiled about him like a tail.
Now, he unleashed it—without reserve.
“I am humiliated,” he went on, his voice sharp as a blade. “I had to hear it from you in a letter, in the middle of my father’s court in Zaragoza. I had to hear the news that my wife had had herself declared queen while I was miles away.” He swerved to the table, where Ines had left a platter of dried fruit and a beaker of wine. He poured liberally, his hand visibly shaking.
His anger had caught me so off-guard that for a moment I didn’t know what to say. Then I ventured, “But I thought you understood; I explained it all to you in my letter. The need for haste was due to the suddenness of Enrique’s death. I had to act quickly, lest some grandee take into his head to foment rebellion in la Beltraneja’s name. Carrillo, Mendoza, even your grandfather the admiral—they advised me it was the right thing to do.”
He regarded me from over the rim of his cup. “So, that is your explanation? You blame your advisors for not taking me into account?”
His accusation stung me. “I blame no one,” I retorted. “It was a decision I had to make. The circumstances were unprecedented. I acted in Castile’s best interests.”
“I see,” he said and he set his goblet aside. “Castile is more important than me. I thought we’d agreed to rule together, as equals, so that the ancient divisiveness between our kingdoms would no longer apply. But it seems I was wrong.”
“You—you are important,” I quavered. “But in Castile, the right of the sovereign … it is paramount. I am required to proclaim myself queen first, before …” My explanation faded into uncomfortable silence under the impact of his stare. I realized, with belated regret, that while my intentions had been honorable, I had made a terrible mistake.
“Who am I to you?” he asked quietly.
I started in my chair. “You are my husband, of course.”
“No. Who am I?” he repeated. “Am I to be co-ruler with you or do you, like so many others, believe that I, a prince of Aragón, should hold no rights here? Do you believe I should be content to be your consort, my sole concern to provide Castile with heirs?”
I jerked out of my chair. “How can you ask that of me?” I knew I should measure my tone, for he had not raised his. And his questions, much as they might hurt, were rational, but reason flew from my head. In that instant, the only thing I heard was his doubt of me, his indifference to a dilemma that had nearly torn me apart. “I agonized over what to do,” I cried. “I prayed, for hours on end! I consulted everyone I could, but ultimately I had to—”
“You did not consult me,” he interrupted. “You didn’t even write to ask what I thought. You declared yourself queen and had the sword of justice carried before you. You made it seem as though there was no other monarch here but you.”
I stared at him, outraged. After all these weeks of tumult and uncertainty, of working myself to exhaustion in meetings with my councilors, seeking to shore up Castile while he was fighting the French—surely, he did not expect my sympathy! But then I spied something in his expression, a fleeting vulnerability in his eyes. With a sinking of my heart, I recognized the emotion.
Fear.
Fernando was afraid. He thought I wanted to keep him from having as much power as me, and he’d be left, exposed, to the derision of my court—the Aragonese who bedded the queen but had no say in how she ruled. His pride of manhood was injured.
Relief flooded me. This, I could deal with.
“I did what I had to,” I said, softening my voice. “I was loath to ask you to abandon Aragón in its hour of need. I had done it once before, when we married, and I knew how much it had cost you. I only sought to protect our kingdom until the time when you could be here to claim it with me.”
I could see he didn’t miss the emphasis I placed on “our kingdom,” though he didn’t acknowledge it. He would not surrender so easily.
“You might have waited,” he muttered, lowering his eyes.
“Yes, I might have. But if I had, Castile might have been lost to us.”
“So you say.” He went quiet for a long moment. Then he said, somewhat begrudgingly, “I suppose this is also my fault.”
I stood without speaking, waiting for him to continue.
“I signed those damned Capitulations,” he said. “I was so eager to be your husband, to save you from Villena and Enrique, that I signed away my rights—as Carrillo just reminded me only hours ago, when I protested to him on our way here that he should have counseled you according to the law. He told me he had. By Castilian law you hold the superior right. You are the queen; upon your death, may it be many years hence, our eldest child will inherit Castile. I will never be king here in my own right. He suggested I remember it.”
Inwardly, I seethed. Carrillo had gone too far! Did he not realize that a public rupture between Fernando and me at this crucial moment was the last thing we could afford? We were still vulnerable, our hold on Castile unsecured; the grandees would exploit any discord between us to further their own ends. They’d make a disaster of our reign before we’d even had a chance to commence it.
I had to find a way to resolve this rift and put an end to Carrillo’s presumption. He was the one who held no rights here, not Fernando. “We can have the law changed,” I stated, with more conviction than I felt, for in truth I wasn’t sure we actually could.
He lifted his gaze. “What did you say?”
“I said, we can change the law.” I thought fast, cobbling together a solution. “We’ll convene a special inquiry, with counsel to represent us, like a court of law. We’ll examine every precedent, every statute; we’ll go over every clause in our prenuptial agreement. Wherever disparity can be rectified, we will do it.” I paused. While I had no idea if what I proposed was feasible, I wanted him to know I was willing to go to any ends necessary to ensure that he and I were viewed, and treated, as equals.
He bit his lower lip. “You would do that, for me?”
“That and much more,” I whispered. “You are always first in my heart.”
My knees gave way as he swiftly crushed me against him, his lips on mine. He gathered me in his arms, carried me to the bed. He tore off his doublet, fumbled with his shirt, his hose. I watched him even as I tried to untangle my own jumbled skirts, the countless ribbons and laces…. I went still as I saw his nudity—that scarred, chiseled flesh that I had hungered for more than I had realized, that I had missed and longed to taste the way a parched wanderer longs for water in a desert.
“I hope you are hungry tonight,” Fernando murmured, “like a loba at full moon.”
I looked at him in utter surprise. Then I laughed. “Did you just call me a she-wolf?”
“Yes. You see, I like she-wolves,” he replied, grinning with a mixture of boyish insolence and lasciviousness, making me laugh even harder. “I like to stalk them, hunt them, and skin their pelts, especially when they take themselves so seriously. Grrr!”
And he threw himself at me, growling and pawing as I felt my entire body go weak with desire and relief. He finished undressing me with expert hands, making my pulse race. As he passed my shift over my head, unraveling my braided coiffure so that my hair coiled loose about me, I let out a small moan—an unwitting but inescapable admission of lust that made his member thicken, harden against me.
“You are hungry,” he breathed and then he was over me, inside me, teasing, shifting, moving, plunging…. I clasped my thighs about him and the world with all its troubles, with its fears and foibles and inevitable disill
usions, melted away.
For the first time in months, I rejoiced that I was, indeed, only a woman.
I ORDERED OUR legal inquiry the very next week, selecting a choice panel of high-ranking grandees, including the admiral. I had my new confessor, the pensive and legally trained Hieronymite monk Fray Hernando de Talavera, appointed as our secretary; Cardinal Mendoza represented my rights, while, in a perverse pique of revenge, I appointed Carrillo to act for Fernando. I was furious at the archbishop for having spurred my husband’s anger, and now I made sure he was aware I expected him to offer Fernando a spirited and logical defense for equality in our monarchial powers. To his credit, Carrillo did exactly as I commanded, gaining even the reluctant grandees’ support of Fernando’s precarious position. Most agreed that our Capitulations—the controversial document which Carrillo had spent months negotiating and which he considered one of his finest achievements—was unprecedented, indeed almost unenforceable, given Fernando’s and my married state.
However, when the issue of our succession arose, it was I who came to my feet.
“My lord,” I said, looking to where Fernando sat enthroned in his red-and-gold mantle of estate, “because of the union that exists between us, this realm shall always remain the inheritance of our issue. But as thus far it has pleased God to bless us with a daughter, Castile’s succession must be invested in her. Aragón’s law prohibits her to succeed to your eventual throne; yet one day, she must marry a prince who could command our patrimony for his own use, turning both Castile and even Aragón, upon our deaths, into vassal states, should God see fit to deny us sons. This would prove a terrible burden upon our consciences and a calamity for our subjects, as I’m sure you will agree.”
His expression darkened; I’d been correct in suspecting he privately struggled with the intransigence of his own kingdom, where our daughter could not be named heir. It drove a wedge not of our making between us. I was willing to concede many points, including having his name precede mine on official documents and ceremonial addresses, granting him leave to act as supreme commander of our armies, and allowing him the ability to render justice, but on this point I stood firm. Isabel had to succeed in her own right. Castile must never become subject to Aragón’s ancient exclusion of female rulers.
The Queen's Vow: A Novel of Isabella of Castile Page 25
