The Queen's Vow: A Novel of Isabella of Castile (11 page)

“For someone who was raised away from the court, you dance well,” he said, his breath coming fast. “Everyone is watching.”

“They … they’re watching me?”

He nodded. “They are. And none more intently than Beltrán de la Cueva.”

I looked around to see a striking man in crimson velvet staring at me, sweat on his brow. Beltrán de la Cueva stood next to the queen, with whom he’d just danced. His mane of thick fair hair rippled to his broad shoulders like sunlit copper; his nose was finely sculpted, his lips full, and his high cheekbones complemented by a red-gold beard, a rarity
in a court of mostly clean-shaven men. He was almost too beautiful, this royal favorite, whose right to dine on the dais I’d unwittingly usurped. He held the queen’s hand, though the dancing was over; his smile was indolent, seductive; his piercing emerald-green gaze so intimate I felt as if I dared not look away.

Queen Juana saw me; with a glare she cupped Beltrán’s chin with her other hand and turned his face to her. She murmured; he laughed aloud—a brash laugh, full of confidence.

“They say she’s besotted with him,” Fernando murmured, bringing my gaze back to him. “They say he gives her what the king cannot. That is why they call her child la Beltraneja, the daughter of Beltrán.”

I’d heard similar calumny from my mother and Beatriz, had seen enough by now to suspect that anything was possible. But I raised my chin anyway, for I’d not condone such open defamation of my half brother’s consort.

“You forget of whom you speak. Whatever they may say, she is still our queen.”

“And you,” he replied, “mustn’t let your emotion show so clearly. Your face gives you away. At court you must learn to dissemble if you are going to survive.”

His blunt words cut through me. I took a step back. “I thank you for your advice and for the dance. But I fear it is late. I must retire.”

He went pale. “I did not mean to offend—”

“You did not,” I interrupted. “Good night, cousin.” I extended my hand. He bowed over it, his lips warm as they grazed my skin. He lifted his eyes to me; I saw a mute appeal there but before he could say anything else, I turned to the dais. It was empty, the table with its mess of napkins being dismantled by pages. As I searched the nearby environs, Beatriz shoved her way through the crowd to me, my cloak in her hand. I glanced back at Fernando; he still regarded me with a stricken look.

“Did you find Don Chacón?” I asked as Beatriz clasped the cloak about me.

“No, but I asked Andrés de Cabrera and he did. The marquis of Villena had ordered Chacón to stay put and unpack. But he’s coming now to fetch Alfonso.”

“If he can find him,” I said. The air had turned thick with laughter and smoke; courtiers swayed drunkenly while couples slinked into the shadows. I’d never seen such brazen behavior, the women shoving down their bodices to reveal their flesh, the men fondling them, without shame. When we came to the hall doors I glanced toward the arcade and caught sight of Alfonso sprawled on pillows, being plied with a goblet by Girón. A woman knelt at their feet, her bodice completely unlaced to expose her nipples. Her hand was sliding up Alfonso’s leg.

I let out a horrified gasp; Beatriz gripped my arm to detain me from marching over to them. As she steered me into the corridor I saw with relief that Chacón strode toward my brother, his expression thunderous.

Cabrera waited with four of the formidable Moorish sentries and a torchbearer. “I’m afraid the alcazar is not safe at night,” he explained when he saw me looking at the sentries with confusion.

“Not safe? But I am the king’s sister; how can his palace not be safe for me?”

Cabrera regarded me sadly. “I regret many here do not recognize his authority or the law. I would never forgive myself if harm should befall Your Highness.”

I looked at Beatriz; her grim expression warned me not to protest further. I pulled up my hood as Cabrera led us into the alcazar hallways, where inebriated courtiers sprawled in the corners, decanters at their sides. The acrid smell of spilt wine clogged the air; members of the grandees’ retinues—identifiable by the distinctive badges on their sleeves—lolled by the light of candles stuck in wax on the floor. They leered at us; one cupped his groin and called, “Come over here,
hermosas
, and play with this.” The others guffawed, adding their own lewd suggestions.

The sentries shifted closer; we quickened our pace. It was as though the hallowed splendor of this fortress had fallen under a midnight curse. I heard moans, grunting; I saw hounds roaming everywhere, snarling, as couples rutted in the alcoves like beasts.

Finally, we were moving through empty arcades to emerge outside, under the expanse of the spangled night sky. Cabrera unlocked a stout
wooden door in a high stone wall. We encountered sudden silence, the air redolent with moisture—a stretch of fragrant garden abutting the
casa real
, the same garden my new rooms overlooked.

We’d not come this way earlier. Under other circumstances, I would have delighted in the display of early spring blooms, in the delicate fountains and tiled pathways that reminded me of the Convent of Santa Ana. But I could scarcely pay attention; my entire being was overcome by an urgent sense of peril. Only after Cabrera had seen us to our apartment, lighting the candles and leaving the sentries posted outside our door, did I vent my emotion.

“We cannot stay here another day! I will speak with Enrique tomorrow; even he must understand that under the circumstances this is no place for me or Alfonso.”

“Say whatever you like but I’m afraid he will do nothing.” Beatriz met my stare. “He left the hall as soon as you and the prince went to dance. He had his … friend with him.”

I stood utterly still.

“What I was trying to tell you earlier,” she added, lowering her voice, as if unseen ears listened from the woodwork. Never in Arévalo had we felt the need to conceal our words. “I overheard courtiers talking; they say the queen hates Alfonso and you because of the threat you pose to her daughter. They say she’ll keep you both prisoners, do anything she can to see you removed from the succession. And if she fears you so much, if she’d go to such extremes, then perhaps the rumors are true. Perhaps this child of hers is not …” Her voice faded into wary silence; I had reprimanded her on the way to Ávila for this very discussion, but this time her intimation hung over us, inarguable in its malevolent logic.

I shut my eyes. I heard the caged beasts roar nearby, imagined the hedonism overtaking the alcazar and the corruption seething underneath. I saw again the painted youth fondling Enrique, that horrifying glimpse of Girón and Alfonso; and as I recalled Beltrán de la Cueva’s smile and the queen’s jealous glare, I felt suffocated.

What if the queen had played the wanton to save herself? What if this newborn princess was illegitimate, the by-blow of the queen and Beltrán de la Cueva? If so, then the disaster my mother predicted
would come to pass; if Enrique made a bastard his heir, it would be an affront to his divine right to rule. He would divide the realm, anger the grandees, and invoke chaos. He would invite God’s wrath upon Castile—and upon all of us.

You’re at court now. Here, you must learn to dissemble if you are to survive
.

“What shall we do?” Beatriz whispered and I opened my eyes. She stood with her hands clasped, pale with worry. I had to be strong, for her and Alfonso. I had to see us safe.

“Whatever we must.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

I
spent an uneasy night, plagued by a dream in which I found myself walking endlessly down a dark corridor. Ahead an arched doorway beckoned, flooded with bright winter light, but as hard as I tried I could not reach it.

I awoke gasping, tangled in my sheets, Beatriz at my side. She huddled in the bed with me, both of us so unsettled that we had clung to each other even in our sleep. When I told her about my dream she said it was a premonition that my future held both promise and danger. For an otherwise practical soul, she had a superstitious side—the legacy, she claimed, of her converso heritage. I shrugged aside her talk of portents; those of Jewish descent might favor such things, but I did not. I had my faith in God; I must trust in that alone to guide me.

When we peeped out the door, the sentries were gone and cool May sunshine softened the gardens beyond. Cabrera brought us a breakfast of warm bread, fresh fruit, and cheese; a bath was drawn by a maid supervised by an elegant elderly woman who identified herself as Doña Cabrera, Andrés’s mother. Beatriz and I gratefully luxuriated in hot rosemary-scented water, splashing and giggling like the girls we were.

But once we donned our gowns and went to assemble under the gilded, coffered ceiling of the Sala de los Reyes in the alcazar, my worries returned. I had no idea what to expect from today’s event and was inordinately glad to catch sight of Fernando. His presence reassured me, as did his quick smile when I passed him on my way to the dais. Of everyone at court, only he seemed normal, unfettered by secret agendas or intrigue.

Alfonso had already arrived. He waited on the dais with the royal family. He looked tired and pale, no doubt from all the wine he’d imbibed the previous night, his blue-and-gold embroidered doublet and
jaunty feathered cap offsetting his chalky complexion. Close beside him stood Archbishop Carrillo, who gave me his usual warm smile—only now I found myself regarding him with more wariness, knowing that he might have deliberately contrived to keep our mother from coming to court with us. I found the calculating serenity of his eyes unsettling, as if he were looking through me into a future only he could see.

The princess lay in Queen Juana’s arms, swaddled in trailing lengths of pearl-studded white velvet. Juana thrust the baby at me after I curtsied, obliging me to kiss her soft milky cheek; little Joanna was sleeping, and for a moment I melted at the sight of her. Surely such an innocent creature couldn’t be the cause of any tumult.

“You shall be her godmother,” Juana informed me, with a smile as artificial as the carmine color of her lips. “We’ve had a gift made especially for you to bestow on her during the festivities tonight—a silver baptismal font, with her name inscribed on it. After all, how would it look if the godmother came empty-handed?”

I muttered my gratitude, turned from her sharp eyes. If she felt any shame at what she had allegedly done, she did not show it; and I found myself now doubting the sordid rumors I had almost believed just hours before. In the cold light of day, it was inconceivable that she, a Portuguese princess, sister of that nation’s current king and relative of my own mother, would go as far as to risk the very crown on her head.

I took my place beside Alfonso. Enrique sat on his throne, looking uncomfortable in a gem-encrusted coronet and mantle. He had stubble on his face; his eyes were shadowed, red-rimmed. He did not look at me. Instead he nervously eyed the assembly as his herald intoned the words of the patent conferring upon baby Joanna the royal title of princess of Asturias, which made her heir to the throne.

Castile’s Cortes, the parliamentary body composed of representatives from each of the kingdom’s important provinces, had to approve the new succession by vote, but as the grandees approached the dais to kneel and swear to uphold the princess’s rights, their faces were like granite, and they uttered their oaths in monotones, imbuing the occasion with a funereal air.

“Where are the counts of Alba, Cabra, and Paredes?” I heard the queen hiss to Enrique as the last of the queue of grandees made their
obeisance. “Where are the Andalucían grandees, Medina Sidonia and Cádiz? Are we to be insulted by them? They were summoned weeks ago; they should
all
be here to honor our daughter.”

Enrique’s chin sank deeper into his ermine collar. When Alfonso’s turn came, Carrillo reached out and I thought for a heart-stopping moment that he would hold Alfonso back. But he simply patted my brother’s arm, as if in reassurance. Once Alfonso recited the vow and stepped aside, it was my turn. I kneeled before Enrique’s pained gaze and said, “I, Isabella de Trastámara, infanta of Castile, do solemnly swear to uphold the Princess Joanna as the legitimate first heir to the throne, barring all others.”

The words were like ash in my mouth. I did not know if I believed them or not, if I had just committed a sin by acknowledging this child whose paternity was in doubt; but as I returned to my place I was overcome by relief. My mother might rail when she heard of it; the nobles might continue to grumble and courtiers to spread vile conjecture, but the deed was done. Little Joanna was now Enrique’s heir unless the Cortes said otherwise. We’d done her homage. We had sworn an oath. We could not go back on our word.

Leaden silence ensued.

Enrique stood, his raiment lending him an awkward regality. I thought he might speak but instead he turned on his heel and strode abruptly from the dais. From the crowd stepped his companion of the night before, now clad in a simple doublet and hose. Together they left through a side door, prompting the rest of the assembly to quickly disperse.