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

by C. W. Gortner

  The previous alarm I’d felt uncoiled in me like a snake. El Zagal was al-Hasan’s brother and rival—a fearsome Moorish chieftain who held the fertile passes to Málaga, as well as the coveted seaside city itself. Fernando had been planning for months to take Málaga, as its fall would cut off Moorish supply routes and remove an important obstacle in our quest to isolate Granada.

  Cádiz’s voice took on a hard edge. “Boabdil must have warned him. We were counting on his silence but he double-crossed us, to join forces with El Zagal, likely because he thought that together they could defeat al-Hasan. El Zagal pinned our men in the gulch. It was nightfall; we could barely see anything. The infidels poured down the gulch on horseback from either side, while their peasants hurled stones from above. In the confusion, we were trapped.”

  “Dear God.” I crossed myself. “How … how many are lost?”

  Cádiz let out a broken sob. “Over two thousand, including three of my brothers. God have mercy, those Arab dogs cut off their heads and took them on spikes to Málaga. I managed to make it out on foot after my horse was shot from under me, but I saw so many injured, so many left to die without a word of consolation, the gypsies and peasants creeping in to search and dismember them while they still gasped for breath….”

  I reeled in disbelief; Chacón hastened to my side. “My husband the king,” I stammered. “He—he must be told.”

  “We now have Boabdil,” added Cádiz, forgetting in his anxiety to ask for my leave to rise to his feet. “I heard it just before I came here; they captured the miserable traitor. He rode out from Granada to conduct a raid, thinking we’d been so severely hurt we’d not fight back. But the count of Cabra learned of it and fell on him. He’s being held in Córdoba’s alcazar. His mother the sultana is frantic; she’s willing to pay anything for his release—”

  “And we must consider her offer,” said Fernando, from the hall entrance. Everyone went still as my husband, bareheaded and clad in his robe of scarlet and gold, walked in. I watched his expression as he approached Cádiz, who’d collapsed again to his knees. I expected to hear a torrent of abuse hurled upon the marquis’s head. It was a disaster for us; in a single ill-fated stroke, we’d lost more than half of Andalucía’s garrison army, which we had fortified with an influx of new recruits and funds only weeks before. But Fernando merely came to a halt before Cádiz and said quietly, “You may rise, my lord. You have suffered the torments of Hell in our name, it seems.”

  Cádiz did so, unmistakable fear on his face. “Majesty, please, I beg your—”

  Fernando lifted a single finger, silencing him. “There is nothing to forgive. God, who knows better than we the reason for His actions, has taught us a lesson in humility. The good are punished for a time; but He always returns to succor us. Indeed,” he said, with a taut grin, “has He not already dropped al-Hasan’s treacherous pup into our lap?”

  As Cádiz pressed a quivering hand to his mouth, overcome by emotion, Fernando half-turned to me, holding out his hand. I felt his strong fingers enclose mine. Standing at his side, I was never prouder of him than in that moment. I heard him say, “We must learn from our mistakes. We will mourn the fallen and console the survivors, and never forget that God is on our side. By all that is holy in us, the infidel shall not prevail.”

  BY APRIL, THE month of my thirty-second birthday, we were back in Andalucía. There, in Córdoba’s magnificent alcazar, with its red porphyry pilasters and horseshoe archways, Fernando and I sat enthroned under our cloth of estate—the knotted cords and yoke vividly displayed—as Boabdil, king-usurper of Granada, came before us.

  He’d enjoyed a luxurious confinement at our command, with every privilege he could want at his disposal, save his freedom. The prince was sleek, with the olive skin of his mixed blood, tumbling dark hair, a full beard framing his sculpted mouth and long nose, and a subtle, lucid stare that belied his vacillating nature. After heated deliberation in our council, we had agreed to release him, on the condition that henceforth he must be our vassal and ally, obliged to pay an annual tribute of twelve thousand gold doblas, release all Christian captives, and permit our troops free passage through his domains. In exchange, we would support his claim as king of Granada over that of his estranged father, al-Hasan.

  I did not think he would agree, or if he did, that we’d encounter stiff opposition from his mother. The sultana might have made extravagant offers for her son’s ransom but she was also a former Christian captive turned odalisque, renowned for her skill in games of power. If anyone would see through our terms, she would and she’d be certain to extract a heavy recompense before she agreed; but to my astonishment the sultana consented at once, not even pausing to consider the ultimate ramifications of our alliance.

  Thus, this farce of a reception—the prince in a billowing silk robe and tasseled fez, kneeling to kiss Fernando’s and my hems, acknowledging us as his overlords before signing with a flourish our new treaty—brought a caustic smile to my lips.

  Rising to our feet, we each embraced Boabdil; Fernando even kissed him on both cheeks, as if they were brothers. When my turn came, I held the Moor’s lean body a moment longer than required, whispering in his ear, “I expect you to honor your agreements. If you dare betray us again, I promise you’ll not find refuge in all this land.”

  He started, drawing back to meet my stare. I didn’t know if he understood Castilian; all our negotiations had been made through his interpreter. The sudden falter in his regard made me suspect he understood far more than he had let on.

  I gave an incline of my head, saying loudly, “Thus may we find harmony between our faiths.” Fernando clapped his hands and the brass-studded double doors of the hall were flung open to reveal servitors laden with departing gifts for our esteemed guest.

  Fernando and I exchanged a knowing glance as Boabdil let out a gasp, rushing over to examine the rich leather saddles for the eight white horses we’d prepared for him outside; the coffers of sarcenet, velvet, and damask; the embossed plate armor from Toledo. He turned, his face aglow, to babble excitedly at his interpreter, who translated, “His Highness is overwhelmed by your Majesties’ generosity. Surely, he says, there are no greater monarchs in all the Christian world.”

  Fernando guffawed, waved a dismissive hand. “Mere tokens of our esteem. Her Majesty and I believe my lord Boabdil will keep his word as befits a true prince.”

  “Indeed,” I added, smiling graciously at Boabdil, “I believe we understand one another.”

  We accompanied Boabdil to the alcazar gateway amidst the blare of horns and flurry of banners. An escort of two hundred Castilian knights handpicked by us would see him safely to the sierra of Granada. As we watched him ride out with his head held high, the route lined with cheering citizens and strewn with flowers, as I had instructed, Fernando said through his teeth, “God willing, before the year is out, I’ll see him lick the dust off my feet as I kick in the doors of his precious palace of Alhambra.”

  “Amen,” I said and I lifted my chin.

  The time had come to give the Moors a true taste of our might.

  AFTER I RETURNED to Sevilla to set up my court, I summoned my children to my side. It promised to be a long year of war. I wasn’t about to be separated from them for so much time, particularly as María was still nursing. Fernando brightened when he saw the ostentatious train lumber in from Castile; he loved our brood and the inevitable uproar they brought wherever they went.

  I would allow no idleness, however, even in my children. I organized the ladies and the noblemen’s wives accompanying the court into efficient corps to oversee the inventories of wine, bread, livestock, and other supplies. I set Isabel and Juana to sewing portable tents for ambulatory infirmaries to treat our wounded, an innovation I’d decided upon after hearing Cádiz’s horrific reports of those left to die in Ajarquía. I provided sacramental vessels for the consecration of mosques. And as I’d heard that the tolling of bells distressed the Moors, whose summons to prayer was by voice
only, I imported large bells from Galicia to be carried in portable towers with our army, as well as smaller bells to bedeck the soldiers’ sleeves and the harnesses of the mules and horses.

  Throughout Andalucía, forges were set up to craft guns and siege weapons, which would be fueled by the vast amounts of gunpowder I imported at reduced cost from Italy and Flanders and stored in vaults located along our borders for easy access; my aunt Beatrice even sent me a thousand barrels as a gift. Our old enemy King Afonso V had died, and Portugal’s new king, Juan II, supported our crusade wholeheartedly, seeing as Isabel was promised to his son.

  Four times a day, every day, I heard Mass in the chapel and prayed for victory. Every night, I sat up late with Fernando, Cádiz, and our military leaders to review our strategy, which consisted of the siege of hundreds of castles and cities we must take in order to isolate Málaga—that glorious port which opened like an oyster onto the Mediterranean and supplied the Moors with their life-sustaining trade. Only by capturing this city and destroying El Zagal in the process could we avenge the carnage of the Ajarquía, now known to every Christian as Cuesta de la Matanza, the Hill of the Slaughter.

  I refused to even entertain the thought of defeat. There wasn’t an hour of the day that I didn’t wish I could take up a sword and ride at the head of our army; it seemed impossible I’d ever believed that a woman should sit at home while men risked their lives. But my lot was patience, it seemed, for I discovered I was once again with child, even as Fernando marched upon city after city, felling them in quick succession at great cost of life and limb; always with the goal of pushing the infidel further out of his domain, cutting away, piece by bloodied piece, at the pomegranate of the Moorish emirate.

  By autumn of 1485, we’d claimed ninety-four castles and more territory than any Christian monarch before us. But Málaga was still under the Moors’ control, as was Granada itself. We had no illusion these would be easy victories; cornered as they were, the Moors were tenacious. But we held the upper hand; the infidels’ world was crumbling all around them. Leaving a garrison force to guard the cities we’d conquered, we returned to Castile for the winter, pleased with the progress we had thus far made.

  In December, in the frescoed apartments of the Palace of Alcalá, once the domain of the late Carrillo, I took to my bed to deliver my fifth child. As always, we hoped for a son, but our disappointment soon turned to concern when our daughter emerged so small that everyone feared for her life. I braced myself for another loss, but my new daughter surprised us all. She not only survived but she soon thrived. Within weeks she seemed an entirely different babe, her skin pale as an owl’s underwing, her hair the same gold-auburn tint as my own, only with a thicker curl.

  Fernando whispered to me that he thought her our prettiest child yet.

  We named her Catalina, in honor of my English paternal grandmother.

  I FIRST MET the Genovese navigator in the monastery of Guadalupe in Extremadura, where we’d come to stay shortly after the New Year celebrations.

  Preparations were under way for our spring thrust against the Moors; we had severely weakened their front, but then news had come of our foe King al-Hasan’s death. The field was left open to his brother, Zagal, who at once made overtures to Boabdil. The faithless prince took his bait and covertly sided with him, even as he feigned continued alliance with us; with al-Hasan’s demise he could claim Granada as his own and saw no further need of our support. Though the loss of our copious gifts to him—which might have been better used to bolster our treasury—rankled me, Fernando assured me that Boabdil’s breaking the treaty now would only serve us later, once we had him cornered in Granada and at our mercy. I had warned him he would find no refuge if he betrayed us, but betrayal can yield unexpected benefits, as Fernando said, and I intended to reap them in full. Invigorated by these developments, Fernando declared that this was the year to take Málaga, as the city’s fall would weaken the tenuous grip Boabdil held on our ultimate prize—Granada.

  That afternoon, he stood at the main table in the monastery hall, his breath showing in puffs, though the January weather had been mild. He pored over the battered maps with his chancellor Luis de Santángel and Cardinal Mendoza, detailing our strategy.

  I sat near the brazier, warming my feet (they felt perpetually chilled since I’d given birth) and reviewing my correspondence, which had piled up during the Christmas festivities. Inés and Beatriz were watching my children: Catalina snug in a cradle while Juana rocked her; María playing with her dolls; Isabel quietly reading from the psalms with Juan. As often happens in families the closest in age were not the closest in affection: While Isabel and Juan had grown close, Juana gravitated to Catalina. María seemed unaffected by her surroundings; at three years of age, she was so placid she astonished her attendants, who declared they’d never cared for a less troublesome child.

  As I kept an eye on Juan, who’d recently recovered from a tertian fever, Chacón strode in to inform me one Master Cristobal Colón was requesting audience. “He brings this,” said Chacón, and with a disapproving frown, he handed me a letter of introduction, sealed with the emblem of the powerful Castilian grandee the duke of Medinaceli.

  “He requests to see us now?” I asked. I was starting to feel drowsy and had been considering putting aside my letters to indulge in a rare afternoon nap. Moreover, I wasn’t dressed to receive visitors. I wore my simple black velvet house-gown belted at the waist, my hair coiled under a white veil and fillet.

  “Yes,” growled Chacón. Now in his seventies, he’d grown fat and extremely protective of our family, standing guard over us like a mastiff. “He says he’s come all the way from the south and insists on seeing you in person. He’s stubborn as a mule, that one; he’s been waiting in the outside gallery for over three hours. I told him you were at council and then dining, but he’s not moved from his spot the entire time.”

  I nodded, scanning the parchment. I now vaguely recalled that this navigator had once been a client of Medina Sidonia’s. In his letter, the duke of Medinaceli explained that Medina Sidonia had tired of the Genovese’s demands and sent him packing. Colón went to Medinaceli, who believed in the navigator’s claim that he had a viable plan to circumvent the years-long Turkish blockade of the Mediterranean and cross the Ocean Sea instead to discover an uncharted passage to the Indies. Medinaceli was willing to partially fund him and furnish ships, but Colón wanted our royal sanction. Without it, he would leave Spain and present his enterprise to the French king instead.

  “Interesting,” I mused. I folded the letter, handing it to my secretary Cárdenas. Suddenly I felt quite awake. “Fernando, did you hear this? The navigator is here.”

  My husband glanced up. Red tinged his cheeks; he was evidently in the midst of heated debate with Mendoza over battle schemes. Even at fifty-nine years old, the urbane cardinal was an experienced general who’d led our troops in battle, and he had firm ideas about how best to bring about Málaga’s downfall.

  “Navigator? What navigator?” Fernando glared at Mendoza, who sipped from his goblet, unperturbed as ever by my husband’s temper.

  “The one patronized by Medina Sidonia, remember?” Even as I asked, I knew he didn’t. He scarcely recalled what we’d eaten for supper; these days all he thought about was the crusade, as if our past year of victory was not enough to erase his one defeat. He’d never rest until he had Granada on its knees.

  “Yes, yes,” he said impatiently. “And …?”

  I smiled. “And he’s here, in Guadalupe. He wants to see us.”

  Fernando flicked his hand. “Fine, see him.” He returned to haggling with Mendoza; I nodded at Chacón. “I shall receive him. But warn him, I expect him to be succinct.”

  Chacón returned with a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a plain black doublet. He’d removed his cap, revealing a thatch of sandy hair with glinting strands of silver; as he bowed, I noted arrogance in his stance, his obeisance executed with the inbred pride of a noble.

&
nbsp; When he looked up, I was startled by the intensity in his pale blue eyes.

  “Majestad,” he said, in a deep voice. “I am honored.”

  Honored he might be, but he offered no apology for his uninvited arrival. I had to curb my chuckle. He’d indeed spent time with Medina Sidonia. Only close contact with a man of that caliber could have engendered such confidence.

  “They tell me you’ve been waiting a long time,” I said. “Perhaps you’d like some mulled wine?”

  “No, if it pleases you.” He didn’t remove his gaze from me; even my ladies began to take notice, shifting to stare at him. Most men wouldn’t have looked up without my leave, much less refused my offer of refreshment. “I have much to tell you,” he added, and I was pleased to see a slight flush in his sculpted, otherwise pale cheeks. “I’ve indeed been waiting a long time—over two years, in fact.”

  “In the cloister gallery?” piped Beatriz, and he turned his solemn regard to her.

  “I would have, if that would have given me resolution,” he said, and I had no doubt he meant it.

  “Very well, then.” I settled with deliberate poise against my chair, even as my blood quickened. He was undeniably magnetic; some might have said too much so. With his well-built frame and stark aquiline nose, brooding eyes, and resolute air, he lacked humility for a common-born man, convinced, as usually only nobles are, of his intrinsic worth. He stood before me with his chin lifted as though I should have been expecting him, as if everything that had come before was but an interlude to this crucial meeting between us.

  For a breathless moment, I shared the sentiment.

  He launched into his appeal. He had the resonance of an orator; he’d obviously practiced his speech, declaiming his absolute conviction of the world’s spherical shape, of secret maps entrusted to him, and his belief that the Ocean Sea—that vast unexplored expanse—was not nearly as vast as everyone believed. He had no discernible accent, which made me wonder at his claim that he was the son of Italian wool carders, but my doubts faded as he transported me with his tale of being shipwrecked in his youth on the shores of Portugal and of his years spent in Lisbon in the company of mariners and geographers, where the writings of the Egyptian astronomer Ptolemy and Greek mathematician Eratosthenes had opened his eyes to the possibility of distant lands, bursting with spices, jewels, and silk, waiting to be claimed. I found myself swept back to my adolescence in Segovia, where I’d huddled over ancient tomes and marveled at the spirit of adventure that propels men to brave the unknown. It was as though he instinctively knew how to stir those chords in me, employing his bold intent to dissolve the barriers of rank between us.