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

by C. W. Gortner

  I motioned to Cárdenas, who acted as my chief secretary in these judiciary proceedings, overseeing a committee of legal experts drawn from the university. “Inform my secretary here of who the criminals are and where they can be found,” I told the man. “I shall see they are arrested and”—I shot a pointed look at Medina Sidonia—“judged. If found guilty, as I am sure they must be, they will be disemboweled, their body parts hung on the city gates to warn others that Isabella of Castile extends her protection to all her subjects, regardless of their creed or status.”

  His head bowed, tears slipping down his cheeks, the man whispered, “God bless you, Majestad,” and Cárdenas led him to the table to record his complaint.

  “Your Majesty should not indulge the rabble,” I heard Medina Sidonia say in a clipped voice. “It only encourages their defiance.”

  “It seems to me that it is you, my lord, who encourages the rabble,” I retorted, fixing him with a glare. He bowed low, muttering an apology.

  Tasting iron in my mouth, I turned my attention back to the line of waiting petitioners. Medina Sidonia knew what I expected, and when, several days later, I was told that the gates of Sevilla had been festooned with the torn and bloodied pieces of the condemned, I was encouraged. If the denizens of this cauldron of anarchy thought I would yield toward mercy or shirk the harsher aspects of my duty because I was a woman, they were mistaken. Come what might, I would not falter until I had restored full obedience. I proceeded to dispense justice without regard for rank or gender, not allowing anyone who had committed a crime to escape punishment. To instill fear of me, and of the laws so flagrantly flouted, I deliberately remarked aloud in the hall one afternoon that nothing gave me greater pleasure than to see a thief mount the steps to the gallows—which caused many of those waiting to see me to cower, even as others slipped furtively out of line and fled.

  Finally, the bishop of Sevilla came to request a private audience.

  I waved Medina Sidonia out and once I heard what the bishop said, I was glad I had. The bishop had a reputation for being a kind man, given to learning and compassion, but I did not expect the words that came out of his mouth.

  “Your Majesty has proven herself a paragon of virtue,” he began, “but the people of Sevilla … they grow afraid. Many are leaving the city for fear that your arrival has closed the door to all hope of clemency.”

  I frowned, glanced at Cárdenas. “Is this true?”

  Cárdenas consulted a folder in hand before giving assent, his green-blue eyes sober. “It is, Majestad. Over a hundred cases we’ve heard thus far are unresolved because either the claimant or the accused have not returned to hear our judgment.”

  I returned my gaze to the bishop, discomfited. “I had no idea. I regret if I’ve instilled fear in my subjects, for that was not my intent.”

  “I never thought it was,” he said hastily. “It’s just that … well, men are more inclined to evil here in the south, where we’ve languished for so long under ineffectual lords and the constant threat of the Moors. Your Majesty’s appearance is a blessing, a great honor; but, if I may be so bold, such wrongs as those that plague Sevilla cannot be righted overnight.”

  His words jolted me. With sudden clarity I realized that my zealous ardor to restore order to Sevilla was, in part, a vain attempt to somehow redeem myself in God’s eyes, to prove I was still worthy of His favor. I had left my daughter and husband, my duties in Castile, on an ephemeral quest for redemption. Once again, I had let vanity overcome reason, just as I had on that awful day on the fields outside Tordesillas, when I had berated Fernando before our army.

  “No,” I said softly, “I suppose not. You are wise to advise me of it, my lord.” I stood, my gem-encrusted gown pooling like liquid gold at my feet. My ornamental crown dug into my brow; I longed to retire to my rooms, to shed myself of these contrivances of power, which suddenly seemed so meaningless.

  “Pray, tell the people I’ve no desire to deny mercy,” I said. “All those who have transgressed will be granted amnesty for their crimes, providing they do not offend or break the law again—all save heretics and murderers, of course,” I added.

  The bishop nodded. “Thank you, Majestad,” he said, and then, as I started to turn away, he added, “In regards to heretics, there is something I hope you’ll consider.”

  I looked over my shoulder. “Yes?”

  “The Jews,” he replied, and it was as though with this one utterance, he darkened the room around us. “Here in Sevilla, the hatred toward them has increased. They are not technically heretics, of course, as they have not converted; but since your arrival, there have been several incidents in their quarter that I think you should be aware of.”

  I nodded that he should continue, though I dreaded what was coming next. I recalled the poor man whose goats had been stolen. I could only imagine how many more such terrible deeds had been committed that I had not been informed about.

  “A family in the ghetto of the goat-herder whose case you heard was recently dragged from their home and stoned to death,” said the bishop. “Several synagogues have also been vandalized, with one burned to the ground. Many Jews are being denied the right to buy or trade in the marketplace or are being severely taxed for the privilege.” He sighed. “None of this is new, I’m afraid. It comes and goes, this hatred, like a pestilence. But now, some of the aggressors cite Your Majesty’s presence as an excuse; they claim the queen of Castile will not abide Christ’s killers in her midst and take the law into their own hands, even though you yourself saw justice served to a Jew.”

  I stiffened. “Anyone who claims to serve the law in my name risks grave punishment. The Jews of this realm are also my subjects and thus are under my protection.”

  “Yes. Unfortunately, not too long ago the Jews suffered extremities of forced conversion or death in Castile. I’d not wish to see such misery again. It is said they bring it upon themselves, because they hoard riches while Christians starve, and conspire with the conversos to undermine our Church. But I have seen no evidence of this.”

  He surprised me. I’d not expected a churchman to cite the horrors of the past, which had been sanctioned by our ecclesiastical authorities, or to plead the plight of the Jews.

  “I’ll consider this matter,” I said, looking again at Cárdenas. “In the meantime, have a decree issued at once that any molestation of Jewish property or person will incur immediate retribution. Have it posted in every plaza in the city.”

  When I returned my regard to the bishop, I found unabashed admiration on his face. “I must admit, I was unsure of you at first,” he said. “We’ve had rulers before who promised change, but you, my queen, exceed all expectations. Your decree will go far in helping to restitute wrongs perpetuated on the Sephardic people. However,” he paused, as if considering how to phrase his next words. “There will be consequences. Few share your sense of justice.”

  I smiled. “Consequences are not something I fear. Let those who disapprove come to me and they’ll learn soon enough where the queen of Castile stands.”

  He bowed and left. By the time I’d heard the rest of the day’s petitioners and sat down for my afternoon meal, I was no longer concerned with my own personal travail.

  I had caught a glimpse into a future I was determined to avoid at any cost. This simmering discord between Jews and Christians could spread and kindle a conflagration that would affect the rest of the realm. I could not afford to have our fragile, newfound unity threatened now, after so much strife.

  “We must take further action in defense of the Jews,” I declared at a morning council meeting the next day. “Though I don’t share their beliefs, I’ll not abide them being maltreated or accused of inciting conversos, who, by all accounts, are faithful Christians.”

  I paused, watching my confessor, Fray Talavera, exchange a knowing look with Don Chacón. My steward had grown grizzled, his hair thinning, his big, muscular figure softening with age. But his character remained as discerning as ever,
and I’d come to respect those rare occasions when he offered his opinion.

  “Perhaps Your Majesty should join us for a sermon tomorrow,” he said.

  “A sermon?” I frowned. “By whom? On what?”

  “It’s best if you simply came,” explained Talavera, his dark eyes solemn. “No one need know you’re there. I can arrange for you to sit behind a screen, above the pulpit.”

  “Why on earth would I wish to hide?”

  “Because if the orator knows you are there, he might not be as candid,” replied my confessor. “Trust me, Majestad, you’ll be most interested in what he has to say.”

  The following day, I sat behind a celosia with Inés at my side, as a thundering voice belonging to a Dominican priest, one Father de Hojeda, sent cold horror through me.

  “They deliberately cultivate a false face so they can practice their foul rites,” Hojeda thundered. “They abhor our Holy Sacraments, the sanctity of the saints, and deny the chastity of our blessed Virgin. They go to Mass by day, these two-faced Marranos, but by night they refute the rites by which they were welcomed into our Holy Mother Church, communing with their foul brethren, who abet their defiance. They must be found, revealed, expunged in the flesh, before their infection rots us all!”

  His words left me deeply unsettled. As soon as we returned to the alcazar, I queried Fray Talavera, who related that he had heard similar reports of Jews inciting conversos to secretly embrace their forsaken faith, even as they feigned conformity to ours. Indeed, many claimed it had been happening throughout Castile for centuries; only indolent priests looked the other way, mired as they were in their own ignorance and venality.

  “Of course, it could be an exaggeration,” he said, “but I also believe you should know all the facts before you take up this cause.” He paused, with marked emphasis. “It is fraught with peril,” he went on, uncannily echoing the bishop of Sevilla’s warning. “Few will support the defense of those deemed responsible for our Savior’s crucifixion. Though we’ve had a policy for many years of convivencia with Jews, it doesn’t mean everyone agrees with it. In fact, I would venture to say that few Christians would have them in our midst, given the choice.”

  “I understand,” I said. “Thank you, as ever, for your candor. I shall write at once to Cardinal Mendoza and seek his esteemed counsel on this matter.”

  That evening, after I sent my letter, I gazed out of my fluted windows into the sultry night. While I would condemn any harm done to the Jews, who served me at court faithfully and from whom many of my nobles, including my own beloved Beatriz, were descended, I couldn’t afford to ignore the potential undermining of our already severely degraded Church. My ancestors’ reigns had been less than exemplary as far as religious conformity was concerned. Years of civil warfare and struggle with the nobility had corroded the Church’s foundations; it was common knowledge that many of our clerics kept concubines, while licentiousness and the lack of the most basic scriptural adherence ran rampant amongst Castile’s convents and monasteries. I was resolved to restore our Church to its prior glory. But in the upheaval since my accession, I’d not yet found the time to dedicate myself to such a monumental task.

  Con blandura had been my motto—with a soft touch. I did not want to repeat the past; the mere thought of persecution, of bloodshed and suffering, after everything Castile had undergone, only stiffened my resolve, even as I recognized I could not forever evade this potential threat to my kingdom’s unity. In order to compete internationally, to forge alliances with foreign powers that would keep France at bay and establish us as sovereigns worthy of respect, Spain would have to present a united front—a Catholic front, from which no dissent could be kindled to undermine our strength.

  I would have to authorize an investigation to verify the troubling claims surrounding the conversos, and, if found true, establish a remedy. As a Christian queen, I could do nothing less. The spiritual welfare of my people was as vital to me as their physical well-being, perhaps even more so, for while the body was a temporary vessel, destined to return to dust, our soul was eternal.

  I longed for Fernando. I’d received letters from him, detailing his exploits in Extremadura, where he’d tracked down the pockets of rebel Portuguese and their sympathizers with fervor. I wanted to curl next to him in our bed and pour out my concerns, to hear his sage assessment and know I was not alone, that whatever occurred he was always there beside me.

  I closed my eyes. I could almost conjure him, his hand at my waist, his voice, husky with the night’s wine, at my ear….

  A knock came at my door. I started, pulling my robe closer about me as Inés hustled to open it, her tawny hair unbraided for the night.

  Chacón stood silhouetted by the flickering torches set on the corridor walls. “Forgive the intrusion, Majestad, but the marquis of Cádiz has arrived. He requests audience with you.”

  “At this hour?” I started to refuse, then paused. If Cádiz was actually here, I’d best receive him. Given their mutual hatred I didn’t want him running into Medina Sidonia before I had the chance to gauge Cádiz’s nature for myself. “Very well,” I said, “show him into my private patio.”

  When I stepped out through my bedchamber doors onto the alabaster patio, where the evening air was redolent with the scent of jasmine, I was completely taken aback by the man waiting for me. Medina Sidonia’s complaints about Cádiz had conjured in my mind the image of an unruly predator. Instead, the noble who bowed low seemed impossibly young, little more than my own twenty-six years. He was of medium stature and lean build, with a shock of fiery hair, freckled skin, and verdant eyes fringed in long ginger lashes—gorgeous eyes that seemed to hold flecks of gold in their depths and that only the intermingled bloods of this region could produce.

  He wore violet satin trimmed in silver; as he swept into his elegant obeisance, the silk lining of his cape rustled. It was an affected gesture, calculated to appeal, and I had to suppress my smile. If Medina Sidonia personified the stringency of Andalucía’s aristocratic privilege, then Cádiz exemplified its flair for the dramatic.

  But I stiffened my spine and my voice, for no man, no matter how well attired, should think he could flatter his way past my displeasure. “You were summoned a month ago, my lord marquis. I trust you have an explanation for your untimely delay?”

  “Majestad,” he replied, in a dulcet tone that would have made a troubadour envious, “I have no excuse other than that it took your messenger many days to reach my castle in Jerez, seeing as he had to cross lands hostile to me because of the enmity of Medina Sidonia, whose patrols illegally infiltrate my borders. Likewise, I had to re-cross those same lands in disguise, in order to reach you with body and soul together.”

  I tapped my foot, loud enough so he could hear. “I sincerely hope you did not come all this way to tell me that. Lest you need reminding, I am your queen. I don’t take kindly to those who flout my authority. Nobleman or commoner, when I send a summons I expect to be obeyed.”

  He dropped to one knee, lifting his beautiful eyes with such endearing humility that I heard Inés let out a small, unwitting gasp. Though I made no indication I was affected in any way by his posturing, secretly I had to agree the man was breathtaking.

  “Your Majesty, I am in your power,” he said, holding his hands out wide, “with no safeguard other than the declaration of my innocence against the wrath which my enemy, with his lies, has fostered in you. Nor,” he went on, his voice lilting with a passionate resonance, “do I come to speak mere words—I come to act. Send, my queen, to receive from my hand your fortresses of Jerez and Alcalá, and should anything else in my patrimony serve you, I will surrender it, as I surrender my person to you in utter obedience.”

  Silence echoed in the wake of his lavish speech. I glanced at Chacón. He stood with arms crossed at his burly chest, his eyebrow arched in skepticism. Castilian to his marrow, he wasn’t impressed by good looks or pomposity. But as I returned my gaze to the still-kneeling marquis, I was sud
denly of a mind to accept his avowal at face value. Oh, there was expediency here, no doubt; he knew when to recognize his advantage. But if he’d caught wind of my intent to submit his lawless region to order, as I was doing throughout Sevilla, and had thus decided it would be wiser to comply than continue to engage in treasonous demonstrations of his might, it suited me like pearls. With his capitulation, half of western Andalucía—most of it appropriated illegally during my father’s and late brother’s reigns—would revert to my sovereign control, along with its numerous castles, cities, and vassals.

  “My lord marquis,” I said, “while it’s true I’ve not heard the best accounts of you, your offer shows good faith. Deliver to me these fortresses and I promise to mediate your quarrel with Medina Sidonia, safeguarding both your honors.”

  His smile was exuberant, revealing perfect white teeth. “Your Majesty, I am your most humble servant. Everything I have is at your command.”

  I let myself smile in return. The man might be a rogue but he was an irresistible one.

  “My secretary Cárdenas will draw up the deeds. Once the keys to these castles are in my possession, then we can discuss the terms of this humble servitude.”

  I extended my hand; he actually dared to press his lips to my fingers. It was blatant flirtation, almost outrageous, and I couldn’t have been more pleased. Cádiz might have scored a victory over Medina Sidonia, who, once informed of this midnight meeting, would have no other choice but to submit as well, but in the end it was I who had truly won.

  I had tamed Andalucía’s most powerful lords without spilling a drop of blood.

  AS I EXPECTED, Medina Sidonia hastened to outdo Cádiz by surrendering six of his fifteen castles; Cádiz then offered up ten more of his. Mediation between them proved simple enough, seeing that both their holdings were now severely reduced. I proportioned the rest of their contested domains equally, keeping the largest share for Castile. In return, Cádiz vowed to wage holy war for me against the Moors, a brash statement that made me chuckle, and Medina Sidonia offered to introduce me to a Genovese navigator he patronized, who had a scheme to bypass the usual Turk-plagued routes and discover the riches of Cathay, a proposition I politely refused until a more opportune time, even as I stifled a chuckle at his supposed largesse. Medina Sidonia might have been tamed, but he’d not willingly part with any more of his wealth or risk his person if he could avoid it, preferring instead to surrender a client he no doubt had decided was no longer worth the expense.