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

by C. W. Gortner

  I kept swallowing against the lump in my throat as I beheld her stoic acceptance of her fate. I had planned for this day with painstaking care and yet the very thought that she would soon be far from me, in her own court, wed to a prince I had never met, made me falter; I had to resist the urge to clutch her to me and never let go. She was the first of my daughters to leave; how could I do this three more times? How would I bear it?

  Beatriz knew how distraught I was; she stayed by my side right to the final farewell at the border between Spain and Portugal, where amidst fanfare and billowing silk banners, I surrendered Isabel to my aunt Beatrice and her entourage. Portugal had sent hundreds of ladies, nobles, and officials to accompany my daughter to Lisbon with all the appropriate distinction, but according to ancient custom dictating that royal grooms did not fetch their brides, her husband-to-be was not present.

  As I embraced Isabel in that windswept field, she asked tentatively, “Do you think he’ll love me as Papa loves you?”

  It was her first admission of the fear she had kept from everyone, hidden behind her serene visage. Holding her face between my palms, I whispered, “Yes, hija mía, he will. I promise you.”

  She tried to smile; I would have promised her anything in that moment to ease her anxiety, but I couldn’t possibly predict whether her husband would care for her, and she knew it. Meeting my gaze one more time, she stepped back, turning resolutely to the hundreds of strangers awaiting her, and crossed those few paces of grass into her new realm.

  Beatriz stood beside me as I watched my child being swallowed by the Portuguese. They surrounded her and led her to her waiting mare for her journey; all she had left of Castile were the clothes on her back and the coffers filled with her trousseau.

  I thought my heart might break as I returned to Sevilla. I was unable to utter a word despite my ladies’ anxious inquiries; I feared any admission of sorrow would set me to crying in front of everyone. I missed my Isabel with a silent, aching helplessness in the ensuing days; even the dented cushion on the window seat, where she used to sit and sew or read with me in the afternoons, served as a stark reminder of her absence. My other daughters were still too young to fill the void left by Isabel, and at eleven, Juan was immersed in his impending manhood, his princely activities taking up all of his attention and time. Even the weather reflected my low spirits: a rare spate of intemperate storms inundated Andalucía, causing rivers to flood, spoiling the harvest and sweeping away entire hamlets as if they were children’s toys.

  A few months after Isabel left, I received word from Fernando, entrenched in his siege on Baeza.

  We are beyond despair. The city withstands us with the fiend’s own obstinacy and infidel ambushes fall upon us in the middle of the night only to retreat like mist, leaving our dead in pools of blood. The storms have turned our camp into a sea of mud, so we can scarcely pitch our tents, nor care for our few remaining beasts. Because of the rain, the fodder rots, as does everything else in this forsaken place. I set the men to cutting back the miles of woods and huertas, as the ground is so sodden we cannot scorch it, but it will take months of labor and rations run low. Now flux threatens to take hold, our wells having been poisoned by corpses dumped into the source waters by the Moors. The horses are dying and many of our men are so despondent, they threaten to desert. They say God has turned His face from us….

  I summoned the council. “We must send aid to my lord husband and his men at once. They need livestock, supplies, medicine, and food. The Moors have everything in Baeza to withstand months of siege, so we cannot hope to starve them out. We must be as well-provisioned as they are, if we are to win.”

  The council greeted my declaration with grim silence; it was Cardinal Mendoza who finally said, “Majestad, we allocated everything we had when His Majesty first embarked on this expedition. And with the recent expenses for the Infanta Isabel’s trousseau … I fear there is nothing left.”

  “Nothing left?” I echoed, incredulous. “Whatever does that mean?”

  “Exactly that: There is not enough in the treasury to meet the sums you require.”

  “Impossible!” I said, unwilling to believe what he was telling me. But as I regarded the grave faces of those seated around the table, my heart sank. I knew I had spared no expense on Isabel’s leave-taking; I had been so concerned for her well-being, I’d not let myself give thought to the possibility that Baeza might resist us for as long as it had.

  “But surely there must be something we can do,” I said to Mendoza.

  He sighed. “There is always the option of increasing taxation, but the nobility will no doubt resist, and the Cortes must approve any additional requests—”

  “That’ll take months! Am I supposed to leave the king and our army outside Baeza without any aid while we plead with the nobility and wait for the Cortes to make up their minds? My lords, you are our appointed council. You must have better advice to give.”

  None of them replied, but the way they uncomfortably averted their faces gave me all the answer I needed. They had no other advice.

  “So be it,” I declared. “I’ll resolve the matter myself.” I waved them out angrily, disgusted by their lack of initiative. I didn’t even look up as they filed out; when I finally lifted my eyes, I was met with only Mendoza’s steely gaze. Now in his early sixties, leather-skinned and wiry from his own considerable participation in our crusade—which had including charging into battle numerous times at the head of his retainers—he was a guiding force for me in Castile not only through his passion for architecture and education, but also in his dedicated administrative oversight of our new Holy Office. He shared my desire to shape our nascent kingdom into a power as grand, as enticing, as any in Europe, an accomplished realm celebrated and courted by every nation.

  “I know what Your Majesty is thinking,” he said, “and I beg you not to consider it any further. You’ve ventured down that path too many times, and they hold too much of your patrimony already. Would you hand over the entire kingdom to the Jews to win this war?”

  “You know I would. I’d pawn my very petticoat, if that were what was required.”

  “You cannot.” He stepped to me. “Torquemada watches every step you take. You refused him before when he asked you to expel them and he will ask again as soon as the Reconquista is over. You cannot grant them so much power over you that they would be able to consider mounting resistance.”

  “The Reconquista is not over yet” was my reply, “and if the council cannot help me, then I have no other recourse. Please tell Rabbi Señeor I will see him.”

  “Majestad, I implore you. What else do you have to give?”

  “Better you do not know, if it causes you such distress,” I replied and I looked pointedly at the door. He left without another word. While I waited for Rabbi Señeor, Ines slipped in to see if I needed anything.

  “Yes,” I told her. “Fetch my casket with my nuptial necklace.”

  She stared at me, stunned, and I clicked my tongue impatiently. “Must I repeat myself? Do it. Now.”

  When she returned, I unlatched the casket lid and took a long look at the ceremonial ruby-and-pearl collar from Aragón that Fernando had sent to me before our wedding. I had flaunted it many times to the envious admiration of our court; it was the tangible symbol of our love, my most treasured possession after my crown.

  I shut the casket with a resolute click and closed my eyes.

  “Let my sacrifice be worthy of Your divine favor,” I whispered.

  I entrusted the casket for safekeeping to Rabbi Señeor that very evening, in exchange for a substantial personal loan. Then I gathered my entourage and, without further ado, I embarked the next day through a blustering storm to Baeza.

  The viscous mud in the passes sucked at my horse’s hooves; the roads crumbled away entirely in parts, forcing us to build makeshift bridges over streambeds that raged with torrential waters. As I huddled on my saddle, narrowing my eyes against the needles of sleet and rain, I to
o began to doubt God heeded us anymore. Never had I witnessed such misery as what I saw when I finally reached the encampment.

  Fernando emerged from his tent to meet us—haggard and soiled, with sleeplessness engraved in dark circles under his eyes. The mess about him was evidence enough for his despair; the few living horses that remained stood covered in sores, bones showing. The livestock pens were broken and empty. The camp itself was mired in muck, with half-naked men wandering about with listless faces, while others crouched moaning in the open, emptying their bloody bowels. A miasmic stench assaulted me, the putrid odor of death curdling the very air.

  As Fernando kissed me wearily and led me about the camp, I knew the situation was the worst we had ever faced. Over half of our army was dead. The other half was ill or slowly dying from the flux. As I made my visit to the crowded infirmaries, where men lay on file after file of sagging, louse-infested cots, they gazed up at me and wept like children.

  That night, I told Fernando that I had secured us more money. “We will import grain and dig new wells,” I said. “Rebuild the washed-out roads and summon every man in Andalucía. If necessary we’ll send to Castile for additional recruits and raise whatever extra funds we need. We will not give up.” I clasped his hand from across the table. “Never.”

  “As always, your strength brings hope,” he said. “But hope will not win this city, my luna. Winter is coming. How are we supposed to survive it? Once you counseled me to retreat from Málaga but I resisted. Now, I fear, retreat is our only choice.”

  I’d never heard him so dejected, as if all his zeal had been sapped from him. I understood at that moment that he’d reached the limit of his seemingly indefatigable reserves; he was thirty-seven, an age when most kings looked forward to reaping the rewards of their youthful exploits. He had not known more than a few isolated months of peace in our entire marriage, forever at war or preparing for it. Now here he sat, battle-worn and heartsick, believing himself responsible for the collapse of our seemingly unattainable dream of a united Spain.

  “No,” I said quietly, “hope cannot win this city. But we can. We must. You’ve done so much. Leave this to me.”

  He sighed his assent. “If anyone can conquer Baeza, my luna, it’s you.”

  I had never thought to hear such words from him; though I had known in my heart that he appreciated and respected my fortitude, I had not imagined he’d voluntarily entrust such an important task as the downfall of a city to my hands alone. If I failed, we would likely lose the crusade. We would spend the next ten years engaged in minor skirmishes, lengthy sieges, and abortive battles, taking back with blood and sweat and expense in the spring and summer what the Moors would filch from us in the winter. Eventually, our funds and the ability to raise them would dwindle; the pope, our fellow Catholic monarchs abroad—while all wanted to see the infidel herded back over the Strait of Gibraltar and cornered, none would part with so much wealth as to ensure that our crusade could continue indefinitely.

  If we were to take Granada, Baeza must be ours. And though it came with some risks, I had an idea of how to accomplish it.

  Leaving Fernando to rest for a few days, I met with the other commanders to review our situation. While we lacked almost every supply imaginable, I pointed out that we certainly had enough lumber left from the early efforts of cutting back the forest that surrounded us, which acted as a natural bastion between us and Baeza. My plan was to stockpile the wood and cut even more; while we did that, I would send for supplies and specialists who knew a thing or two about bringing down stubborn citadels.

  Marshaling all the men who were well enough to work, I set them to chopping down everything. They had trimmed the woodlands around the camp, carving a labyrinthine opening toward the insolent city on its hill, but they had spared the fruit-bearing trees, for we were still a people who had known famine. Now I had them demolish every tree, scorching and razing without discrimination until we had cleared vast swaths of land. With all the newly felled wood, I ordered palisades erected, high walls and towers—a new fort to confront Baeza, standing on the shorn vale like a monstrous toadstool.

  Here we dug in for the winter, the fort offering protection from the Moors’ raids. While it was too cold and snowy outside for the army to engage in physical assault, I would not be dissuaded by mere weather. I ordered all the livestock, rations, extra cannons, and siege engines I had bought with my necklace to be lugged up in tarp-covered wagons over the treacherous passes. We would assemble our munitions in the spring before Baeza’s disbelieving eyes.

  “We’ll need even more men, especially harquebusiers, gunners, and archers,” remarked Fernando, who had recovered from his ordeal and was helping to oversee the camp’s restoration with his usual penchant for detail.

  “I’ve already sent for them,” I assured him, “but hopefully we will not need them.”

  I turned to my cluttered portable desk and handed him the letter I’d spent the last six weeks composing, laboring over every word, every phrase, until I was confident I had it right.

  Fernando read it in utter silence before lifting his eyes. “Isabella, what you propose,” he said carefully, “is nothing short of treachery. Boabdil is faithless, yes, with no more sense of honor than a cur, but not even he would agree to these terms. There’s nothing in it for him, except the promise of his life, which for now he needn’t worry about.”

  “Oh?” I eyed him. “Boabdil sold himself to us before, did he not? And he’s not such a fool that he cannot know by now that we’ll come to him again eventually, either with a pact or with troops storming his gates. And he has no one left to betray us to once we take Baeza. Under the circumstances, I think my proposal is quite reasonable.”

  “Reasonable?” Fernando let out a guffaw. “You’re asking him to give up everything, to turn on his own kind. If he agrees to this, he’s even more of a craven idiot than I thought.” He paused. An admiring grin spread across his face. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  “When it comes to our kingdom,” I said, “I have this in me, and much more.”

  I sent my letter off in secret to Granada. We did not wait for an answer long; within a few weeks, I received word from my envoys that Boabdil had readily accepted my terms, just as I knew he would. Once I had his response in writing, I sat down to compose a letter to El Zagal, who I knew had spies in Granada and was watching everything I did from his citadel, powerless to affect or alter my course.

  My offer to him was concise: Unless he wanted to suffer another crushing defeat as he had in Málaga, he must surrender. I warned him that if he did not, this time I would give no quarter. I would order my army not only to raze but also to salt the very earth on which Baeza sat and to kill everyone in it. But if he accepted my terms, I would be merciful. I would spare his life and grant him refuge in a specially appointed domain in Las Alpujarras, where he could live with his people in peace, retaining all his customs without interference. I added that he must realize by now that, in the end, we would prevail; even if it took a lifetime, we would never give up. Moreover, I took pleasure in pointing out that his nephew Boabdil would not come to his aid, and to prove it I enclosed a signed copy of our new treaty with that traitor, which stipulated that once El Zagal was defeated, Boabdil promised to relinquish his realm in its entirety to us, in exchange for his own safety.

  It took a month, during which I had our weapons assembled right below his walls and cut down the last of the magnificent forest. Finally, El Zagal returned his reply.

  He was weary of the fight. He appreciated my offer but he preferred to leave Spain for North Africa. As for his nephew Boabdil, he wrote:

  Let Granada fall.

  WE FIRST SAW Granada in the spring of 1491, after our wholesale devastation of the surrounding vega. Once again I ordered the orchards, wheat fields, and olive groves to fall beneath our scythes and torches, so there could be no possibility of relief for the entrapped citizens.

  Despite the blackened fields, never
had any city looked as beautiful as that sprawling metropolis we’d coveted for so long—a fantasy framed by the snow-tipped sierra, the honeyed towers of the Alhambra encircled by garlands of cypress and pine. Streets cascaded in twisting mazes, crowded with thousands of refugees, Jews and Moors and false conversos, all of whom had fled the devastation of our crusade.

  Boabdil, at the last moment, had reneged on our treaty; reality had come crashing down on him when he heard of Baeza’s fall. Clearly, he had not expected his uncle El Zagal to surrender and he hastily manned his own walls with cannon, vowing to defend Granada till his dying breath. I was outraged by his blatant disregard of the terms we’d set, but after Baeza, with the fragments of the once-supreme Moorish emirate at our feet, Fernando and I decided this final victory must be bloodless. The time had come for the pomegranate to yield its fruit without any coercion from us, and so we set up our silk tents and pavilions as if we were on holiday, bringing our children with us to witness the historic occasion.

  Tragedy had struck our family; only nine months after their marriage, Isabel’s young Portuguese prince had died tragically from a fall from his horse, and she had returned home a widow. I had ridden all the way to the border to escort her home, and had been sadly shocked by the change in her. Thin as a twig in her black widow’s weeds, her beautiful hair shorn to stubble, she went about either weeping or declaring her desire to enter a convent. To my consternation, she claimed that God must want her for Himself, to make her suffer so. I tried to tell her that while I believed God instilled in some of us a vocation to serve Him alone, hers seemed more a response to overwhelming sorrow, but nothing I said moved her. She refused all consolation, so much so that I had to appoint physicians and a special household to ensure that she ate and slept, and to restrict the time she spent on her knees in the chapel.