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

by C. W. Gortner

  “They should be right,” I muttered, “considering how many of them I’ve hired and how much they charge.” I paused, seeing the pained look of understanding that crossed my friend’s face. “Isabel never suffered as much as Juan did in her childhood,” I said, my voice catching, “and at only a year old, Juana has a vigor that’s almost insulting. Why does God test us so? We’ve done everything we can for Juan; his household is devoted to him, and that crowd of physicians has nearly bled him dry with their leeches and potions. And still he has those rashes, that dry cough, and awful fever—” I shuddered, recalling the many nights spent in sleepless vigil at my son’s bedside. “It’s as though we’re being punished.”

  “Stop that, no one’s being punished,” said Beatriz. “Why would God seek to punish you or your son? Juan is just delicate. But he will grow strong, you’ll see.”

  I nodded, distracted. I could hear the welcoming cries and knew it was good for Juan, who was rarely allowed out in public, and for Fernando, who reveled in the opportunity to show our son to his realm. It was also good for the people of Aragón themselves, who were fiercely independent and would have to be coaxed into union with Castile. But all I could think of was the hidden threats lurking everywhere, from unseen stones in the road that might throw a horse, to pestilential scabs on someone’s reaching hand.

  I took a deep breath and forced myself to turn to the portfolio. As I took out the first batch of reports, my stomach sank. Beatriz must have noticed the change in my expression, for she chuckled. “From Torquemada, again? What does our crow have to say this time?”

  I resisted laughter. Incorrigible as ever, Beatriz had taken to calling my chief inquisitor this in private, because she said he was forever caw-cawing doom wherever he went.

  “What else?” I skimmed the first paragraph of his dense handwriting. “He needs more money to pay his informants. He says that since he first set up our Tribunal in Sevilla, over eighty suspects have been arrested, with six more condemned this week, may our blessed Virgin have mercy on their souls.” I crossed myself, sickened by the thought. While I knew it was the only way, that only fire could save those who refused to recant—for by suffering the torments of Hell on earth might their souls be saved in Heaven—I could not abide imagining the stench of burning flesh fouling that fragrant city.

  “That makes how many he’s burned so far? Twelve, thirteen?” asked Beatriz, picking at a stray thread on her bodice. I did not answer, reading onward, flabbergasted.

  “Listen to this,” I exclaimed. “He reports he needs the money because hundreds of conversos are fleeing into the kingdom of Granada, where the Moors promise them refuge.” I looked up at her. “They actually prefer to live among infidels? But the Holy Tribunal has only been in Andalucía for six months; surely so few deaths aren’t excessive? Torquemada says the exodus could affect the south’s economy. Trade is fast coming to a halt as conversos abandon their homes and businesses, often without notice.”

  “And what does he expect you to do?” said Beatriz. “It’s not as if you can ask the Moors to refuse the conversos entry into their kingdom, though I’ll wager they’re fleecing every last one of their wealth as soon as they cross the border.”

  With a frown, I set the report aside. “Well, I must do something. It’s unacceptable for our subjects to flee rather than abide by our dictates. I’ll send him the money and as soon as we reach Zaragoza, issue an order with Fernando forbidding all unauthorized departures from those cities where the Inquisition is at work. As Fernando says, true Christians needn’t fear, for they have nothing to hide.”

  “Indeed,” said Beatriz, evidently relieved that my distress at the news had overtaken my worry over my son. I opened the next report and was soon immersed in my work, which, as always, proved an all-engrossing task that kept other concerns at bay. At least here I could direct my path; here, in the minutiae of my kingdom, I was the ultimate arbitrator after God, rarely prey to the helpless anxieties that motherhood often caused.

  WE REACHED ZARAGOZA two days later, arriving under a luminous northern sky that shimmered like silvery canvas over the breadth of the Ebro River, the spindle spires of the Cathedral of San Salvador, and the alabaster bastions of the Aljafería Palace, birthplace of my own ancestress Saint Isabel of Portugal. This would be our official residence for the duration of our stay. The people of Zaragoza celebrated our arrival with days of festivities; several weeks later, exhausted by a schedule of events that included offering piles of flowers to the city’s patron La Virgen del Pilar, Fernando and I proudly watched our son sworn in as heir by Aragón’s Cortes.

  We tarried in Zaragoza until November before returning to Castile and our palace of Medina del Campo, where we planned to stay for the winter. Here I discovered that, like Beatriz, I was with child. It was also here, one chill afternoon, that we received the news that would decide our fate.

  Fernando lounged by the fire with his hunting dogs at his feet as Isabel and I embroidered an altar cloth we’d been making for the local cathedral. I kept one eye on the group of ladies sewing nearby; with her pregnancy advancing, Beatriz had elected to return to Segovia to be closer to Cabrera and had left in her place a parcel of local noblewomen, most of whom were young and gauche, and therefore in need of constant supervision lest their foolish airs got the better of them and they succumbed to improper behavior. The last thing I needed was to be forced to arrange hasty marriages as reward for wantonness. Among them was one of Beatriz’s distant cousins, María de Bobadilla—a dark-haired, curvaceous beauty with startling green eyes. More sophisticated than the other girls, María understood the value of her assets and had excited interest among our men within days of her arrival. However, only one man in particular concerned me and I now watched as María coyly directed her gaze at my husband only to find herself pierced by my basilisk stare.

  Inés came hurrying in; accompanying her was a cloaked youth, so coated in dust and mud that his livery was almost unrecognizable. He fell to his knees before me, drawing forth from his soiled doublet an equally soiled envelope. “I bring urgent word from the marquis of Cádiz,” he gasped, his voice croaking with exhaustion. “The city of Zahara has fallen to the Moors. My lord fought back and seized the Moorish citadel of Alhama de Granada, but he needs reinforcements urgently, if he is to hold it and avenge Zahara’s fall.”

  At my side, my ten-year-old Isabel went still, her beautiful blue-green eyes wide. Fernando sputtered awake, having caught the messenger’s last few words. “Impossible,” he said. “Zahara’s impregnable as a cloister. And Alhama has those famous hot springs; it’s a favored retreat of the caliphs, close as it is to Granada. King Abu al-Hasan Ali would fall on his own sword before he let anyone take Alhama.”

  “Yes,” I added, even as my heart started to pound, “and since our war with Portugal we’ve a treaty with King al-Hasan. He’d never break it so flagrantly.”

  “Though he’s yet to pay us one nugget of his promised tribute,” remarked Fernando sourly, staggering to his feet to swipe the missive from the messenger. I motioned to Inés, who poured the poor man a goblet of wine while Fernando cracked the parchment’s seal.

  He read in silence, his brow furrowed. He lifted astounded eyes to me. “It’s true,” he said, cold fury in his voice. “Zahara has fallen to al-Hasan; that Moorish dog seized it in retaliation for the border skirmishes he’s been having with Cádiz. The Moors slaughtered every man; the women and children are enslaved, taken to the mountain city of Ronda. In return, Cádiz stormed Alhama in a stealth attack. God save him, he has struck at the heart of the Moors’ domain!”

  He thrust the paper at me. I took it with trembling hands, my eyes racing over the lines. “ ‘Ay de mí, Alhama!’ al-Hasan wailed when he heard of Alhama’s fall,” I read aloud, to the now-silent chamber. A gasp rose in my throat. “Cádiz claims al-Hasan has leveraged terrible retribution on him and his men, assaulting them with such force that he had to send to his wife and the duke of Medina Sidonia for hel
p.”

  The messenger, throat wetted now, said hoarsely, “Majestad, my master has kept al-Hasan and his curs at bay thus far, but he’ll need more men if he’s to hold on to Alhama and reclaim Zahara. He also bid me tell you that al-Hasan is estranged from his son Prince Boabdil, who’s thrown al-Hasan out of Granada and claimed his throne; the entire Moorish kingdom is vulnerable because of their quarrels, my master says.”

  Isabel whispered, “Are the Moors going to hurt us, Mama?”

  Her tremulous voice jolted me out of my horrified daze. “No,” I said quickly, turning to her, “of course not, hija mía. They are in Andalucía. We have no Moors here.”

  “But we did.” Her wide, frightened eyes met mine. “The Moors once held parts of Castile, didn’t they? What’s to stop them from coming here again?”

  I went still. I had no idea how to answer her startling, and horrifying, question.

  “We will stop them,” said Fernando. “Your mother and I will drive that entire filthy horde into the sea if it’s the last thing we do.” He looked at me. “Isabella, we cannot delay. We must help Cádiz. And al-Hasan’s discord with Boabdil could work to our favor if we’re quick enough to take advantage of it.”

  “Advantage?” I echoed. “Are you saying we … that we should …?”

  He nodded; María de Bobadilla clapped her hands in excitement. “Sí, Majestad!” she exulted, with no more restraint than a fishwife. “The Moors are vermin. If you don’t exterminate them, they’ll overrun us!”

  Isabel blanched; I could see her nights haunted by dreams of turbaned demons, despite the fact that for centuries Granada had been a fractured kingdom, weakened by its own internal discords and sheltered only by its geographic position in the Sierra and lucrative trade with the Turks and other eastern neighbors.

  “You are frightening the infanta,” I snapped. María dropped into an apologetic curtsey, treating everyone to a full view of her enticing cleavage. As I caught Fernando’s eyes lingering on her breasts, I said with more sharpness than I had intended, “My lord husband and I must discuss this in private. Inés, see our messenger attended to; the rest of you, please accompany the infanta to the gallery. I will join you as soon as I can.”

  They left Fernando and me alone. Jealousy coiled in the pit of my stomach. I had to force it aside, giving Fernando my full attention as he said, “We must declare the Reconquista, Isabella. I know it’s not the way we hoped it would come about, but we can’t let the infidel claim as much as a single stone on Christian soil. My ancestor Fernando I wrested Zahara from the Moors four hundred years ago; now we must go to its defense.”

  A shudder went through me; this was the last thing I’d expected, the last thing I wanted to contemplate. “You know as well as I do that our history is strewn with the mistakes of our ancestors. For every gain made by fighting the Moors, something was lost. The reconquest is always more easily embarked upon than won.”

  “We still must try.” He came to me, set his hands on my shoulders. “It is our sacred duty as monarchs, but more than that, it is time we ended eight hundred years of infidel arrogance, of bad treaties, false tribute, and lies. The Moors know, as we do, that this stalemate could not last forever. For centuries, they’ve held on to the best lands in Andalucía, the Mediterranean ports, and the city of Granada itself. Now we must reclaim what is ours.”

  I met his fervent gaze. “Can’t we simply side with Boabdil against King al-Hasan and send reinforcements to Cádiz?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what we’ll do! We will use Boabdil to drive a wedge into the heart of the Moorish kingdom, and then, once we’ve weakened them, we will destroy them, utterly. Granada and its riches will be ours.” He let out a crack of laughter, of sheer exultation. “Think of it, mi luna—all of Spain will finally be united under one crown, one country, one faith. This is our destiny; we must rise to the challenge and show the world what Isabella and Fernando are made of.”

  Everything warned me against this costly, potentially catastrophic enterprise which we had no guarantee of winning. Few kings had ever succeeded against the Moors, and never completely. But Fernando expressed such fervent impatience to prove our mettle in this, the most important venture of our lives, that I kept my misgivings to myself.

  Whatever I said would fall on deaf ears. The uproar at court once news spread of Zahara’s fall was unstoppable; regardless of the immense practical considerations that this enterprise entailed, we had to respond. Besides, Fernando was right: The holy war against the Moors was our destiny. We could not allow them to remain on our soil as rulers, holding in their thrall a rich and coveted portion of our southern domain. I had wanted the war to come about on my terms, after our coffers were full and the rest of our realm was in order; I had wanted to make the decision as to when and where we would fight because I knew from history that such a crusade would be costly, disruptive, and extremely trying.

  But the Reconquista had begun, with or without me.

  As I embraced Fernando, he whispered, “Not one tower, my love: We’ll leave them not one tower to hide in,” and so I let myself surrender to God’s greater plan.

  IN JANUARY 1482 we petitioned the Cortes for funds for the war and dispatched our request to Rome for the papal edict of crusade. After attending Mass in Toledo to pray for the enslaved taken from Zahara and thank God for granting us the liberation of Alhama, Fernando and I stood together on a gold-draped dais and declared our intent to travel in person to the south and install our court there to oversee our enterprise against the Moors.

  While I refrained from expressing my doubts, our Cortes was not so politic. It voted us only enough funds to address the immediate issue at hand, refusing to sanction any more until we proved the effort was worth the expense. I remained steadfast at Fernando’s side as he gave up sleep and sometimes even food overseeing our initial plans and covert alliance with Boabdil, fully aware that I must leave my children with Beatriz and Cabrera in Segovia. I couldn’t take them to war in the south, not while I myself was with child and uncertain of the situation awaiting us. The very thought of leaving them behind for months made me feel as though my entire existence had been overturned.

  In addition to being separated from my children, I had to pare down my household, servants costing money we could ill afford. It wasn’t easy to decide who stayed and who would go, but I took cold pleasure when it came to expelling María de Bobadilla from my service. I had no proof she’d done more than bat her seductive eyes at my husband but I seized the opportunity to arrange her marriage to our new governor of the Canary Islands and dispatched her forthwith. When I offhandedly mentioned her departure to Fernando, he didn’t pay any mind, to my relief. The thought of bloodying his sword with Moorish blood had swept all other considerations aside.

  By mid-April we were installed in the Andalucían city of Córdoba, once the celebrated capital of the Moors in the south, with its magnificent red-columned mosque and fortified alcazar. Here, Fernando and I met with our southern lords and captains, and decided our first move would be to take the city of Loja, as its proximity to Alhama and Granada would shore up our defenses and send a clear message to the Moors.

  “We can’t allow al-Hasan to think we’ll falter,” Fernando told me when I joined him in his rooms to review the plans. “Taking Loja will leave Granada even more vulnerable and he’ll know we mean business. It will also help relieve Cádiz’s garrison, which has held on to Alhama almost single-handedly. This is Loja here,” he added, pointing at the map. “It’s like most cities in Andalucía; it sits on a crag over this ravine.”

  I peered at the sketched terrain. “If that ravine is as steep as it appears, we can’t surprise the city as Cádiz did with Alhama, can we? We’ll truly have to lay siege to it.”

  He nodded. “And that, my love, is where you come in.”

  “Me?” I smiled, placing a hand on my bulging belly. “You expect me to don chain mail and ride with you in this advanced state?”

  He chuckled.
“Now, that would be a sight, wouldn’t it? But as appealing as that is, I actually need you to organize the provision of our troops. No one is better at economizing than you, and we must stretch that paltry sum our Cortes saw fit to give us as far as we can. Our men must be as well prepared as possible. Remember, that wolf al-Hasan has had all this time to anticipate us and rally his support; while Boabdil has promised by the terms of our alliance to refuse his father all assistance, al-Hasan will still have men and lances to spare.”

  I was deeply moved by Fernando’s confidence and delighted to be able to help, despite my lassitude and bulk. As I entered my eighth month of pregnancy, I was exhausted from the moment I awoke. I donned only the loose kaftans worn by the local populace to accommodate my massive belly and profuse perspiration, for Córdoba was a veritable cauldron in the summer, hotter even than Sevilla.

  In the alcazar patios lavender, jasmine, and roses flourished, so redolent that the mere brush of a hem against the bushes released clouds of fragrance. But I passed by without noticing, my hours filled from dawn until midnight. With the limited funds we possessed, I had to improvise, restricting our court expenses so I’d have enough to barter with merchants for weapons, armor, and tents, for cattle, chickens, and other livestock, as well as wine, barley, and other grains—all of which was needed to feed our men during a prolonged siege. At night I pored over my accounts with the diligent Cárdenas, checking and rechecking every sum, borrowing from my own wardrobe purse to add to the war chest, knowing that unexpected events would require extra costs.

  My efforts were cut short when I went into sudden labor on June 28, during a council session. One minute I was presenting my inventory list; the next, I doubled over as the pangs overcame me. The lords went quiet as Fernando rapidly assisted me to my feet and my women led me to the birthing chamber where my water broke, splashing over my embroidered red leather slippers.