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

by C. W. Gortner

  Of course, his claims were unproven, far-fetched; his demands for putting them into action outrageous; his request for titles and bounty from his discoveries almost delusional. No man had ever come before any monarch asking for so much, while offering so little in return.

  Yet when he finished, standing with arms extended and his voice echoing about us, there was utter silence in the hall; even my children had paused in their games to hear him, and I realized I’d unwittingly leaned forward in my chair, so that now I sat with my chin resting on my folded hands, regarding him with rapt attention.

  Then I discerned a faint drumming of fingers on wood and turned to see Fernando, his hand rapping the map-littered table. Beside him, his chancellor, Santángel, was wide-eyed and oblivious; Mendoza had a faint smile on his thin lips, as if he were amused.

  Fernando snorted. “That was quite a lot of hot air. Perhaps you could put it to better use blowing up Moorish fortifications for us, navigator.”

  I cringed inwardly as Mendoza chortled. To his credit, Master Colón merely inclined his head, as if he understood that he had nothing more than theories to commend him.

  “You are aware we are at war, yes?” Fernando went on, betraying that while he’d seemed otherwise preoccupied, he had overheard everything. “Yet you expect us to fund this impossible enterprise on your word alone?”

  “Your Majesties’ war is one that will bring the light of God to thousands,” replied Colón. “I can help you bring the same to thousands more, and build you a lasting empire for your children the infantes, one on which our sun will never set.”

  “If you are right,” said Fernando. “If you don’t end up falling off the edge of the world and disappearing forever with our money and ships.”

  Colón assented. “There is always risk. But Your Majesties have never seemed averse to such. In fact, some might say your attempt to evict the Moors after centuries of their dominion over Granada, when so many before have failed, constitutes the height of folly.”

  “Folly it might be,” retorted my husband, “but we’ll prove them wrong.” He turned his gaze to me. “We’ve important business to attend to. This is not the time for dreams.”

  I had to agree. What Master Colón requested, given our circumstances—it was too much. But I didn’t want to send him away unrewarded; deep inside, I shared his passion. I believed that what he said had merit, though I had no justifiable reason why.

  “I would speak with him more,” I heard myself say, coming to my feet, and Fernando gave me a terse nod, swerving back to the table to snap his fingers at Santángel, who rushed to refill his goblet. The spell Colón had cast was broken; all of a sudden, daily life resumed, with Catalina waking up and starting to cry, Juana hushing her as Beatriz went to attend them; María playing with her dolls, and the ladies whispering amongst themselves as Isabel resumed her reading and Juan stifled a yawn.

  I heard it all and did not heed any of it. Inés fetched my cloak. Colón kept his eyes fixed on me as I folded the lynx-lined brocade about my shoulders and motioned to him.

  “Come,” I said. “We’ll walk in the gallery.”

  THOUGH INÉS TRAILED at a discreet pace behind us, she ceased to exist as I walked with the navigator, subsumed by my keen appreciation of his presence. His height obliged me to crane my eyes toward his strong, aquiline profile. The silence in the gallery magnified the clack of his boot heel on the cold flagstone, the rustle of his well-worn velvet breeches; the hall’s subdued lighting had flattered his costume—in the harsh glare outside, I could see his clothes were not new. Again, I was struck by his confidence. Few men I knew would have dared come before their queen in anything but the most costly garb, even if they had to mortgage their estate to buy it.

  The cloister gallery enclosed a private garden, filled with topiary and now-bare flower beds. Around us, the enameled spires of the monastery cluttered the azure sky. A lone stork circled a nest high above; as I paused to watch it, Colón murmured, “It is truly a miraculous thing, that they may go so effortlessly to where not even we, for all our superiority, dare venture.”

  I glanced at him. “Do you speak of flight or sail, Master Colón?”

  He gave me a subtle smile. “To me, they’re one and the same.” He paused. “The Italian artist Leonardo da Vinci believes that one day we can construct machines that will enable us to take to the sky. He says that we will surpass even the birds in our ability to navigate the world.”

  “That would indeed be wondrous,” I said. “But won’t it make everything smaller?”

  “The world is only as small as we see it, my lady. Imagination knows no limits.”

  I wasn’t quite sure how to respond to this, or to the fact that he’d dropped my royal title in favor of a most informal, and improper, mode of address.

  “My husband the king is right,” I eventually said, as we turned a corner and proceeded down the vaulted corridor. Outside, a light snow began to fall, the swirling flakes dissolving before they reached the ground. “We are in the midst of a great and arduous crusade, into which we have poured all our efforts.”

  My innuendo lingered; I hoped I wouldn’t have to state the obvious: Our treasury could not possibly support a plan as ambitious as his, not while we were at war.

  He let out a resigned sigh. “It is not unexpected. Abroad you are hailed as a visionary warrior queen, who, by the strength of your will, shall raise this once-beleaguered nation to power.” He paused, staring out toward the dancing snow. “However, I was warned by some that your vision does not extend beyond your realm’s borders.”

  I laughed shortly, though his comment stung. “Gossip was never a concern of mine.”

  He turned to me. He did not speak, and I felt inexplicably compelled to fill his silence with my defense. “However, those who criticize me fail to understand my purpose. Indeed, though I have not made it public, I’m in the midst of arranging a match between the Habsburg emperor’s daughter and my heir Prince Juan, as well as one with the Habsburg heir and my daughter Juana. My eldest daughter, Isabel, is already promised to Portugal and I hope to see one of my other daughters wed to England. So, as you can see, I do look beyond my borders, even if for the moment my main concern lies within. I would not be a good queen were it not so. But Castile must come first. That was my vow on the day I took the throne.”

  He bowed his head. “I meant no offense. I am privileged beyond words that you consented to see me today, given the circumstances. I realize you have much to do and that time spent with family is a rare luxury.”

  All of a sudden, I wanted to touch his shoulder, reassure him somehow. Instead I said, “I do not wish for you to take this proposal elsewhere. Though it is not within our means at this time to grant your requests, I will appoint a committee to look into your claims, headed by my confessor, Talavera, a man of great wisdom. And I would grant you a stipend, enough so you needn’t be dependent on others. Are you alone?”

  “No, Majestad. I have a son, Diego; he is being taught in the Monastery of La Rábida.”

  “And your wife …?”

  A shadow crossed his face. “She died years ago, before we left Lisbon.”

  “I am sorry,” I murmured. “God keep her. Then I shall make the stipend such that you have enough to care for your boy.” I extended my hand; as he leaned over it, faintly touching his lips to my ring, he said, “Thank you, Majestad. You are indeed a great queen, whom I’d be honored to serve with my body and heart.”

  To my disconcertion, I felt heat rise in my cheeks. What was it about this man, that he could rouse such emotion in me? If I hadn’t known myself better, I would have feared I was attracted to him, though I knew that physical appeal was too simple an explanation for the depth of feeling he evoked in me. I now believed he was indeed someone I’d been destined to meet, an act of fate I could neither resist nor evade.

  I withdrew my hand, took a step back. “You are welcome to travel with our court when we return to the south. But I should warn you, i
t is hard business we are about; it requires all of one’s faith and endurance, for it is God’s work.”

  “I have never been afraid of God’s work,” he replied.

  When he turned and walked away, a swagger in his step, without so much as a by-your-leave, I had to smile. He was not one to shirk divine challenge. I’d assumed as much.

  Though he had offered nothing save his word, I’d been captivated by this enigmatic stranger, who had given me a glimpse of the world’s larger mystery.

  And I vowed that were it ever within my power, I would see to it that he had his voyage.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  I paced the colonnade, sweltering in Andalucía’s unremitting heat, my every sense attuned to the officials and other court servants bustling through the alcazar patio around me. I was waiting for news from the front.

  “Where is he?” I asked, for no doubt the hundredth time, as my poor Inés tried to keep up with my erratic perambulations, perspiration dripping off her brow onto her damp bodice. “How long can it take for one messenger to arrive? Fernando and our men left for Loja over two weeks ago; surely, there must be some news by now.”

  “My lady, His Majesty warned the siege on Loja might take time,” Inés said, as she had so many times before. “It is not so easy, he said, with my lord Boabdil determined to hold on to the city as part of his kingly rights.”

  “He has no rights,” I snapped, “not after he turned on us to unite with that wolf, El Zagal.” I paused, immediately contrite about taking out my anger on her. “Forgive me. I’m at wits’ end, it seems. I long to do something; I can’t bear to be kept apart from the reconquest of my realm anymore.”

  She nodded in sympathy; the fight for Loja was particularly symbolic. It was the site of Fernando’s first shattering defeat at the hands of the Moors, now taken over by that worm Boabdil as part of his new alliance with El Zagal. Our decision to wrest it back and send Boabdil packing to Granada with a taste of what was yet to come could have important ramifications, not the least of which being that if we failed, we would give El Zagal and his roving bands of warriors the incentive they needed to challenge all our previous accomplishments. It would ignite sieges and sweep attacks on several fronts.

  I was about to regale Inés with all my worries again when I heard the sudden clatter of running footsteps, accompanied by the clamor of courtiers. As I turned, I caught sight of a messenger in our livery rushing toward me, an excited crowd in his wake. He fell to one knee, extending a square of parchment.

  I was unable to move. I couldn’t even reach for the paper. My gaze was fixed on the bowed man’s head, so Inés took the missive in my stead and, at my near-imperceptible nod, cracked the seal.

  “What … what does it say?” I whispered, feeling the eyes of every courtier watching me.

  Inés replied with a catch in her voice. “Loja has fallen, Majestad!”

  “I’M GOING TO Loja and that’s the end of it.”

  My councilors greeted my declaration with a stunned hush, followed immediately by an anxious outcry. “Your Majesty cannot! Think of your safety, of the risks. A Moorish assassin, any mishap on the road, not to mention the conditions at camp—none of these are conducive to a gentlewoman’s state, let alone that of a sovereign queen.”

  I allowed myself a smile. “I cannot account for mishaps on the road or conditions at camp; these are in God’s hands. As for assassins, if they pose such a threat, I shall have a light suit of armor crafted especially for me, to protect my person.”

  “A suit of armor?” they gasped in chorus, as if I had said I would don a codpiece.

  I resisted a roll of my eyes. Chacón eyed me in amusement from his position in the corner of the chamber, arms crossed at his burly chest.

  “Fine,” I conceded, “no armor. It’s too hot anyway. Just a breastplate and sword,” I added, “in case I should run into one of those mishaps you seem so concerned about.”

  The lords couldn’t conceal their dismay, but I felt it was less for me and more about the possibility that they’d be obliged to accompany me; older nobles all, they would not set foot near the front if they could avoid it. They preferred to dispatch their retainers, sons, whomever they could find to fight in their place. Their cowardice made me want to laugh. All of our younger nobility had flocked to our standard; indeed, even middle-aged lords such as Medina Sidonia had waded knee-deep in infidel blood for our greater glory.

  “As you remind me, I am their sovereign queen,” I said. “If I go to my husband’s side at his hour of victory, it will inspire our men to greater feats of courage. And I intend to go not as a timid woman, but as a warrior, ready to fight and die, as they do, for Castile.”

  Chacón broke into a grin as I walked past him to the doors; a week later, the royal goldsmith delivered to my rooms the beautiful embossed breastplate, crafted of tempered iron and embellished with black-and-gold trellis tracery, its interior padded with fustian-stuffed crimson velvet shaped cleverly to accommodate my bosom.

  As he helped me into it and fastened the straps, I felt as if I were encased in stone. “It’s so heavy,” I said, turning awkwardly to my mirror. “Are they always this heavy?”

  The goldsmith shifted forward to adjust the fit. “This is one of the lightest I’ve ever crafted, Majestad. The armor that our lords and His Majesty wear is almost double this weight, as it’s composed of more sections to protect the body.”

  “Double?” I had a newfound appreciation for our men. I wondered how it must feel to be surging up a steep escarpment in the blazing heat while wearing one of these things. I turned to retrieve the sword—a slim, shining length of blade with a ruby-and-emerald-studded hilt shaped like a crown. It too was heavier than I expected. As I returned to the mirror, the sword held aloft in my hand, I vividly recalled the moment from my childhood when Beatriz and I had watched the sun ebb over Ávila, arguing over the merits of our gender.

  Who said a woman can’t take up the sword and cross, and march on Granada to vanquish the Moors?

  “She was right,” I mused aloud, and Inés met my eyes in the glass.

  “Who, my lady?”

  I smiled, shaking my head. Beatriz was in Castile, finishing up the packing of my household and preparing my younger children for the trip south to join us.

  Oh, but wouldn’t she be furious when she heard she had missed this!

  EXHAUSTED AND BLOODIED as they were, the soldiers lifted a deafening cheer at the unexpected sight of me riding into camp on my white steed, clad in my breastplate, with my ornamental sword strapped to my waist. The men’s welcome resounded across the gaping fortifications of the shattered city, and I saw by their joy that I had been right to come as one of them, rather than as the lofty queen arrived to reap their hard-earned laurels. The captured infidels fell to their knees in supplication, scraping the dirt with their foreheads; their women scooped up handfuls of burnt earth and poured it, wailing, over their heads in abject grief.

  “Look at them,” said Fernando, in awe. “They’re terrified of you.”

  “They should be,” I replied. Ascending a dais to face our men, I declared, “I commend you this day, because as knights you’ve defended our faith from the infidel danger that threatens our land. God knows our cause is just and will not forget the hardships you have endured. He shall grant us our reward in Paradise. As for me, I thank you with all my heart for your sacrifices!”

  I swiped off my broad-brimmed, tasseled hat, exposing my hair—darkened to deeper auburn in my maturity—to the glaring sunlight, as a sign of deference to their courage. The roar of acclaim that ensued caused the captive infidels to fall into cowering silence. In elation, I clasped Fernando, holding our twined hands aloft as I cried, “Tanto monta, monta tanto! Onward to Málaga and to victory!”

  That night, Fernando took me with such a passion. “You are my warrior-queen,” he whispered, thrusting inside me. “Now, make us a son, my luna. Make us another prince.”

  But within weeks, my menses
had returned. When Beatriz arrived with my other children, I confided to her that since Catalina’s birth, my bleeding had become sporadic, sometimes accompanied by harsh cramping, though I was not yet forty.

  As I paced Córdoba’s alcazar, restless as a caged lioness, without even the excuse of needing to safeguard a child in my womb, I knew what I must do. As soon as I heard that our army had entrenched itself before Málaga, I donned my breastplate and sword, left the younger children in Ines’s care and rode out with Beatriz and Isabel to inspire our troops.

  My first sight of Málaga, fringed by the Sierra Blanca and lapped by the sapphire sea, took my breath away. The sultry May wind rustled the spiked fronds of palm and date trees; above the city’s high ramparts hung a succulent thickness of smoke, incense, and that rich, indefinable musk of herbs and spices.

  The Moors knew what we intended; they’d had ample warning since Loja. The rotted heads of our fallen stared sightlessly down from the battlements as we approached; we were now an army of fifty thousand strong, spreading onto the scorched plain like avenging angels.