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

by C. W. Gortner

  On the day of an outdoor joust, I donned an emerald-and-gold-shot brocade that I’d paid for with one of my necklaces, its hanging sleeves lined in crimson and edged in ermine, the cuffs banded with rubies. I added a pearled caul for my hair. Fernando had likewise taken his cue from his counterparts, galloping onto the field in a magnificent suit of Toledo-forged armor; its gold and silver inlay depicted our emblem of the arrows and yoke on the gleaming breastplate. My chest tightened as he bowed from his destrier before the dais, waiting for a token of my esteem, according to tradition. He looked like a knight of legend in his shining metal; biting back a surge of remorse, I proceeded to watch him charge his opponents with a fervor that toppled every last one.

  As we rose to applaud, Beatriz said in my ear, “No matter what he may have done, surely you don’t intend to refuse him forever.”

  I gave her a sharp look. Though I’d told her time and time again I must be shown deference at all times in public, for only then would the fractious nobility learn I was not a monarch in the mold of my late brother, Beatriz said what she pleased, when she pleased.

  “Well?” she added, with hands at hips. “What more do you want? He just shattered his lance for you. Now, I suggest you offer that lance a sheath, before some hussy does.”

  I froze. Then, to my disbelief, a sudden bubble of mirth rose in me and I had to clamp my lips shut lest I burst out laughing in full view of the court.

  “Shall I send word to him?” she asked.

  I lifted my chin with icy reserve. “Yes,” I hissed. “But do it in private. I don’t want everyone knowing my business.”

  THAT NIGHT, I dressed with painstaking care in azure silk and applied costly lavender oil to my wrists and throat. Inés then proceeded to light enough scented beeswax candles to illuminate a cathedral; finally, I had to tell her that unless her aim was to blind Fernando, she must desist.

  I sat before the hearth anxiously, my ladies at my side. We pretended to embroider, but of course we were actually listening to every sound outside the door. When we finally heard his footsteps, we rose in unison.

  I didn’t know what to expect until I saw him standing on the threshold, clad in his knee-length tunic from the evening feast, his face in shadow.

  My heart started to pound.

  He motioned. “Ladies, I would speak with my wife in private.”

  Inés and Beatriz hastened out, leaving us alone for the first time in three long months—months that now seemed an eternity as I gazed upon his somber features. His eyes were dull, almost pained, as they rose to meet mine.

  “Isabella,” he began, and I nodded. I braced myself for his approach, for the reconciliation I had longed for, but only now realized I’d not been ready to accept because I had felt, somehow, that my surrender would mean I approved of what he had done.

  His next words, however, caught me completely off guard, stabbing through me. “There is no easy way to say this. Afonso of Portugal has declared war against us.”

  I stared as if he’d said something incomprehensible.

  “On us?” I heard myself utter. “But … why?”

  “La Beltraneja.” He regarded me without any visible judgment, though, like Beatriz, he had advised me several times to imprison her. “In exchange for Afonso’s help to conquer Castile, she’s agreed to marry him and make him king. According to them, she is the rightful queen and you have usurped her throne.”

  “But Afonso is her uncle! And she is in our custody.”

  Fernando let out a worried sigh. “I’m afraid she’s not anymore. She escaped with Villena while we’ve been here, distracted. He has signed an alliance with Afonso, recruited Cádiz in Andalucía and the master of the military orders of Calatrava and Alcántara to join their cause. They have gathered an immense force against us, nearly twenty thousand strong.”

  I reached for the back of my chair. Twenty thousand … I could not even begin to fathom it. It was more than anything we could possibly hope to gather without the support of the grandees.

  “I’ve spoken with Santillana and the admiral,” Fernando continued. “Santillana of course blames himself; after all, she was supposedly being watched in one of his castles. He says he’ll grant us as many retainers as he can muster. He and the admiral will also speak to the other nobles and urge them to lend us support, but, Isabella, we still need you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. You are the queen. You must declare war in return. And you can rally the people. The undecided cities may heed your call. We must conscript as many men as we can if we are to defeat Afonso. We’ve very little time to mount our offensive.”

  I looked at my white-knuckled grip on the chair and instructed myself to let go. I must not give in to panic. I understood the gravity of this threat; we could easily be annihilated. Portugal was a small country but strong, untouched by the years of plundering and weak rulers we’d endured in Castile. And Afonso was a seasoned commander who’d routed the Berber Moors and accumulated massive wealth in the process. If we did not act quickly and garner enough support from the grandees to counter him and Villena, we would undoubtedly lose our throne.

  “Of course,” I said quietly. “I’ll write to every city this very hour. I’ll send out decrees, offers of full pardon for prisoners and other criminals who agree to join our forces, anything that is required.”

  He nodded in assent, as if he’d expected as much. “There is one other thing you should know,” he said, and I went still.

  “Carrillo is involved. He helped Villena gain access to la Beltraneja. The letter of conduct that Villena used to enter the castle—it was signed by the archbishop.”

  You will regret this….

  Rage boiled up inside me. “Then he shall answer for it. I will deal with him myself.”

  “No.” He abruptly stepped to me, taking my arm. “Carrillo is dangerous. I do not trust him. I never have.”

  I paused. I could feel the heat of his touch through my sleeve. “He’d not dare harm a hair on my head,” I replied, and though I meant to sound bold, I heard the catch in my voice, brought on by Fernando’s proximity and not by any fear I had of the archbishop.

  He looked into my eyes. “Isabella, you don’t understand. If anything should happen to you, I … I could not bear it. I wouldn’t survive.”

  His unexpected admission thawed the last of the ice in me. I reached up, caressed his clean-shaven cheek. “You would survive; you would have to. What would Castile do without you?”

  It was as close to forgiveness as I could offer, and in that moment, my words freed us. Though I knew in a dark part of me that he might stray again, that a man like him might be incapable of doing otherwise, I could no longer hold myself aloof. I wouldn’t go on wishing he were something he was not, nor pretend some miraculous change would overcome him as a result of my exigencies.

  Whatever the future held for us, we must face it together, as husband and wife.

  “I love you,” I heard him whisper and I felt his tears falling, precious as gems, on my hand. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I never meant to hurt or deceive you.”

  “I know.” As I drew him to me, his arms came about me. He wept, quietly, against my chest, and I soothed his hair, feeling the thinning on his crown, his fragility manifested in that one vulnerable place.

  I was the stronger one, I thought, as his hands slid to my waist and began to undo the tassels of my robe. I had the conviction of my principles, which overcame the errant weakness of the flesh. Then I felt his arousal press against me and his lips at my bare throat, burning, ravenous. My own ardor engulfed me.

  For a brief few hours, I did not think anymore.

  I SAT UPON Canela on the windswept plain outside the city of Alcalá de Henares. I’d ridden without stop, despite Fernando’s protests and the admiral’s concern that by physically separating, Fernando and I might weaken our stance. But we didn’t have a choice. Someone of sufficient authority was needed to rouse the cities in person; who better than me,
their queen? Meanwhile, Fernando—now fully vested with equal powers, granted by me—could issue the declaration of war and begin canvassing the land for the necessary armaments we required to do battle, none of which we possessed in sufficient quantity or repair.

  We left Isabel in Beatriz and Cabrera’s care, with strict orders that she be confined to the alcazar. And now I was here, outside Carrillo’s city. If I could force a confrontation, he might submit. But as I watched Cárdenas, whom I’d sent to Carrillo’s palace to announce my arrival, riding back to me through the city gate, I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. A gust of wind snatched his cap off his head, tousling his thicket of fair hair; he didn’t react, galloping straight toward me as if hounds nipped at his heels.

  I tightened my grip on my reins, causing Canela to paw the rocky ground.

  “Well?” I asked, as Cárdenas came to a halt. I felt my company’s eyes upon us—Don Chacón, Inés, my other secretaries, and the few attendants I’d brought: enough to enhance my aura of regality but not so many that they’d impede my progress.

  Cárdenas said haltingly, “He says if you enter through one gate, he’ll go out the other.”

  I sat still on my saddle. “He defies me?”

  Cárdenas nodded, clearly discomfited to be the bearer of this news. “He told me that just as he raised Your Majesty to your current station, so will he take you down.”

  At my side Chacón rumbled, “That poltroon deserves a rope! He’ll get what’s coming to him, so help me God. I’ll drag him to the gibbet myself.”

  “No.” I held up a hand, maintaining a semblance of calm that I did not feel.

  Chacón said, “Majestad, if we don’t put him in his place now, he’ll never cease. He’s at the heart of this entire affair. His arrest will send a warning to the others.”

  I looked past them toward the city, to the bastions of the old castle, imagining the stork nests perched among the mortared battlements.

  “It’s too late,” I replied. “Even if I order his arrest, the damage is done. Villena and la Beltraneja are at large; the Portuguese advance on my realm. I’ll not waste time chasing down one man when it can be better spent gathering the many we need to fight.”

  Chacón frowned. “In that case, where do we go now?”

  I turned Canela resolutely into the wind. “To Carrillo’s see of Toledo. If we win the city, his revenues will be cut off. That’ll serve as a warning not even he can ignore.” Under my breath I added, “God Almighty made me queen. Now, let Him defend me with His favor.”

  TOLEDO RECEIVED ME with overwhelming acclaim, offering a large contingent for our forces as well as a significant monetary contribution for arms. I was relieved; as Castile’s oldest ecclesiastic seat and Carrillo’s main source of income, the city’s capitulation represented both a strategic and a symbolic victory.

  But my struggle had just begun. Several important cities had yet to be persuaded, including Burgos in the north, whose position as a royal patrimony was strategically vital to our defense. I had to personally visit every undecided city and gain its allegiance, on my knees if need be. Any town with a sizeable population must also be appealed to, for we still needed soldiers—lots of them.

  Fernando sent urgent word that the Portuguese had crossed the border into our realm, armed to the teeth. The city of Plasencia in Extremadura had opened its gates to the invaders; there, in the lofty cathedral above the Jerte River, flanked by treacherous Villena and his accomplice grandees, Afonso V and la Beltraneja were betrothed. Fortunately, they couldn’t actually wed until they received a papal dispensation of consanguinity.

  Having learned something myself about the unreliability of said dispensations, I composed an impassioned appeal to the Vatican, stating the case for Joanna’s illegitimacy (which negated any claim she might have on the throne) and requesting that His Holiness refuse to sanctify her union with Portugal. I added a personal note to Cardinal Borgia, who’d helped untangle my own marriage situation, promising him ample recompense and our eternal gratitude if he did his part to persuade the pope.

  Using Cárdenas as relay messenger between us, we decided Fernando should start the offensive while I continued to scour the country for extra money and recruits. I would ride to Burgos, then to Ávila, and from there reconnoiter with Fernando in the fortress of Tordesillas, which was fortified and easily defensible.

  I DEPARTED BURGOS under a violent downpour. I had won the city’s allegiance after nearly a month of negotiation with stubborn officials, many of whom feared Fernando and I would usurp their archaic feudal rights. I was impatient, sleep-deprived, and anxious to see my husband. To worsen matters, after years of drought, the heavens had decided to break apart like an overripe fruit and release their pent-up waters on the parched land, inundating rivers and turning the roads into seas of mud.

  Too much rain was nearly as disastrous as none; the scant harvest would molder, its tender roots suffocating and rotting in the saturated earth. There’d be another year of no grain, of starvation and uprisings in the towns. More immediately, in this deluge it would take me weeks to reach my destination. Looking straight ahead into the blinding sheet, my hood plastered to my skull and my skirts soaked through to my thighs, indignation rose in me, savage as the weather.

  How could God do this? How could He turn from me? When would He realize that I was ready to lay down my very life to serve His cause, which surely must be the future glory of Castile? Hadn’t I suffered enough? Hadn’t this beleaguered land given enough blood, sweat, and tears? Hadn’t we suffered the sacrifice of our sons, our women, our livelihoods, our very peace? What more did He want of us?

  What more could He want from me?

  I didn’t realize I was actually shouting until I caught the echo of my voice in my ears, followed by a furious clap of thunder. Canela started underneath me, whinnying. I turned to gaze at my company, all of whom looked at me as if I’d gone mad.

  “Majestad,” said Chacón. “You are overtired. Perhaps we should turn back.”

  “Turn back? Absolutely not! We’re going forward and not stopping until—”

  A savage cramp in my belly cut off my breath. I felt myself double over in my saddle, dropping my reins, my hands plunging instinctively to my abdomen. The pain was like talons, ripping me from the inside. I must have swayed, started to slip sideways, for in some distant but still cognizant part of me not yet hazed over by pain, I heard Chacón yell and leap from his horse, rushing to Canela to grasp the reins. Ines cantered to my side, grabbed hold of me before I slid off my horse. I summoned up enough will to right myself, though I could only clutch at the saddle horn, stunned by the viciousness of the onslaught.

  Then I felt it—sticky warmth, seeping out of me. I looked down, watched in a daze as crimson petals unfurled in my lap. As the pain overcame me, I thought in a haze of disbelief that I hadn’t known. I hadn’t even suspected that I might be with child….

  Inés cried out. “The queen is bleeding! Quickly, she is hurt!”

  Darkness roared over me. God had answered my question.

  “YOUR MAJESTY MUST rest,” said Doctor Díaz, our court physician. He had ridden posthaste to the town of Cebreros where we’d halted, only a few miles outside Ávila. “It will take a week or so to recover your strength.”

  “I … I cannot,” I said, my voice raw. “Fernando … he needs me. In Tordesillas.”

  “His Majesty has been notified of the difficulty you’ve encountered. He would not wish you to risk yourself further.” Díaz turned from me as if the matter were concluded, saying to Ines, “I’ll leave you this herb draft. She must take the recommended dose as scheduled. If the bleeding returns, apply pressure as I showed you. I must go to Ávila to secure more medicine, but I’ll be back by tomorrow eve at the latest.”

  “We won’t be here,” I told him.

  Ines rose from her stool. She’d held vigil all night as I thrashed, delirious with fever; she was haggard but her voice was firm. Without taking her eye
s from me, she said to him, “Yes, we will. Gracias, doctor. Go with God.”

  He nodded, setting his cap on his head and glancing once again at me with his knowing, kind brown eyes. He was a learned man, Díaz; a converso, as so many of our best physicians were, trained in both Jewish and Moorish medicinal techniques. He had treated my daughter for the occasional cold and other minor ailments. He had also just saved my life, even if he’d employed curing arts which the Church prohibited, the prevailing doctrine being that sickness of the flesh stemmed from sins of the soul that only prayer and repentance could heal.

  “You must rest,” he said again and he walked out.

  Inés drew her stool close, wrung the warm chamomile-soaked cloth in a basin at her feet and set it on my brow. I closed my eyes. The saffron smell reminded me of my childhood, of the arid summers in Arévalo, where the hardy plant grew wild, like weeds.

  At length I summoned enough courage. “Was it …?”

  Ines sighed. “It was too early. They could not tell.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I paced my apartments in Tordesillas, where the windows, high in a turret, overlooked the hamlet that bore the castle’s name, the broad flow of the murky Duero River far below, and beyond, as far as my eye could see, the dusty ocher expanse of the meseta. Somewhere on that plain, entrenched outside the city of Zamora, Fernando faced Afonso V and his army.

  We’d had the briefest of reunions, after I defied Doctor Díaz’s advice and departed Cebreros exactly two days after my miscarriage. Ines had fluttered about in distress; Chacón lifted paternal protest; Díaz warned of dire complications. None stirred me. All I wanted was to escape that terrible room that echoed with stillborn promise. I needed to ride hard and fast across my land and see my beloved’s face once more.