The Queen's Vow: A Novel of Isabella of Castile (19 page)

When I saw my mother standing by the greenery-filled hearth, I had a vivid recollection of those times when I’d approached her in dread of her spells. A remnant of that fear clung to me, prickling along my nape. But in September’s saffron light spilling through the hall’s windows my mother looked beautiful, dressed in her outdated court velvets and tarnished gems. Only as I neared her did I see the febrile glitter in her eyes, a sign that she had required one of her calming drafts, and she was too gaunt, her collarbones marking her skin under her chemise, her ruby bracelets dangling from brittle wrists.

“Hija mía,”
she said, with an absent smile, as I kissed her cheek. She did not seem to hear my greeting, her gaze focused past me to the threshold, where Alfonso laughed with the man-servants who’d cared for his dogs.

She said, “See? Didn’t I tell you that Alfonso would avenge us? Look at him: My son is king of Castile. At long last, our place has been restored. Soon we can take up our estate at court and leave this horrible castle forever.”

She spoke in pride, and when Alfonso came to her and she fervently embraced him, he made no mention of any hardship. After supper, we sat before the hearth, I at my mother’s side and Beatriz at her father’s, Doña Clara knitting in the background, as Alfonso regaled us with tales of chivalric valor worthy of El Cid, describing how he had fought Enrique single-handedly, embellishing their skirmishes into an epic struggle. My mother leaned forward in her chair, clapping her hands to emphasize her delight at the vanquishing of the man she held responsible for our woes. As night fell over Arévalo, she became visibly exhausted and Alfonso escorted her to her rooms. She clung to his arm, as though she were a child.

I remembered how he’d once stayed as far from her as he could. I sat in contemplative quiet as Beatriz and Bobadilla bid us good night, leaving
me with my
aya
. At length she said, “Alfonso has made her happy. Some mothers want nothing more than a son they can depend on.”

“He didn’t tell her the truth,” I replied. “He didn’t tell her what really happened or what might yet happen. Alfonso isn’t king of Castile yet.”

“You and I know that, but she doesn’t need to; she wouldn’t know what to do with the truth anymore.” Doña Clara set aside her yarns. “You, on the other hand, appear to thrive on it. That inner fortitude you showed as a child has made you into someone she can no longer influence or control. Be grateful you’ve escaped her at long last. Better she look to your brother now for the respite she needs from this vale of tears.”

She forced herself to her feet with an aged person’s groan and trudged to the hall sideboard, unlocking one of the doors to remove a leather-and-brass casket. She set it in my lap. It was surprisingly light, despite its armorial appearance.

“The Jews make these, to store important documents and money,” she explained. “I bought it for you in Ávila when the letters started to arrive.”

“Letters?” My hand poised over the lid.

“Yes.” She met my gaze. “Go on, open it. See for yourself.”

I couldn’t contain my gasp when I saw the pile within, tied with ribbon. “There must be a dozen, at least!”

“Twenty-four, to be exact; I counted each one. Whatever you said must have impressed him. Once they started coming, they never stopped. He sent them by courier to Santa Ana.” She chuckled. “It must have cost him a fortune to use a private messenger to cross Castile. He’s determined, this prince of Aragón. I’ll leave you to read them. No doubt he has quite a lot to say.”

Alone in the hall, I cracked the seal of the first letter in the pile. His unrefined handwriting leapt at me in the flickering candlelight, the entire page covered with words:

I went completely still.

Fernando had not forgotten me. This was his reply to my anguished letter sent more than a year earlier from Madrid as I awaited Girón’s arrival. Somehow, Fernando had known he couldn’t risk sending it to me directly, so he dispatched it to my mother’s cloister instead. And he had not stopped. I read his other letters, the candles guttering low as night deepened, Alfonso’s hound slumbering at my feet. I was astounded by how closely the prince of Aragón had watched over me from afar. He was apprised of every event in my life since we’d last seen each other, even amidst his own trials, which he related with an unvarnished candor that only illustrated his inner strength.

His mother had died, finally, after a long and terrible illness. Barely had he and his father found time to grieve for her before they were plunged into war once more with the perfidious French. Though not yet fourteen at the time, Fernando had led an army against King Louis to defend the contested border counties of Roussillon and Cerdagne, rousing his men to incredible bravery against the invading forces. Severely outnumbered, he lost the battle. Now, with Aragón’s treasury in arrears and the people in near-revolt, with the French gnawing at the kingdom like the ravenous wolves they were at heart, Fernando had to fortify his borders and guard against further incursions, all while contending with his father’s crippling blindness, which had in effect, if not title, left him the ruler of his embattled realm.

“We’ve summoned a Jewish physician,” he wrote,

I smiled as I read this; it was so like him. Indeed, every line of every letter conveyed the same unswerving belief that in the end, he would prevail. And at the bottom of each letter, as if to emphasize this fact, he ended with the same words:

It wasn’t until I’d read the last letter that I realized I’d spent the entire night immersed in his words. Already the darkness lightened around me; the candles had gone out, except for the last one flickering by my side, which I’d relit several times, singeing my fingertips in the process. As it dissolved in a pool of molten wax, I sat with the casket on my knees and closed my eyes, imagining the laughing, exuberant boy I’d met so briefly in Segovia. Now he was a man I did not know, so how could I feel as if he were such an integral part of me? No matter how much I tried to tell myself I was foolish and overly sentimental to entrust my future to a confident promise, an irresistible smile, and a spontaneous dance, in truth that was what I had done. He had taught me something about myself. He had shown me I could trust my own instincts and carve my own path. And instinct told me that despite the distance between us and the many challenges we faced, there was no one in this world better suited to share my life.

Come what might, Fernando of Aragón and I were destined for each other.

CHAPTER TWELVE

T
he snows came early, drifting from leaden November skies, covering the
meseta
in a cold white mantle. I’d always loved the start of winter, forgetting that the creeping chill would eventually turn so bitter it would seem to freeze my breath in my lungs. This winter was especially poignant. Though it might seem as if we’d escaped danger to return to the safety of our former life, it was an illusion I feared would be dispelled sooner than anyone thought.

Still, we reveled in our freedom, saddling the horses every day to ride out with Don Chacón, who told us of how he’d stayed steadfast at my brother’s side, despite Villena’s efforts to discredit him.

“Archbishop Carrillo is a man I can respect,” said Chacón, his black eyes fierce in his bearded countenance. “After all, as a priest his task is to supervise the infante’s well-being. But that marquis is a devil; he did everything he could to corrupt Alfonso. I even caught him trying to sneak into Alfonso’s bed one night. You’ve never seen a man look as surprised as he did when he tripped over me on my pallet, dagger in hand.”

I glanced at Beatriz. After what we’d witnessed at court this revelation about Villena was not surprising. I’d suspected he exerted some type of intimate hold over Enrique; now, I knew what it was.

Chacón went on. “His Highness said it wasn’t the first time, either. Villena and his brother Girón both apparently behaved like boy-loving Moors whenever the mood overtook them. Disgusting, if you ask me; who needs further proof that they are damned?” He spat on the ground before he paused, flushing. “Your Highness must forgive me,” he muttered. “I’ve grown unaccustomed to the company of ladies, it seems.”

I offered him a reassuring smile. “I understand. Your loyalty to my
brother is commendable, Don Chacón. He is fortunate you were there to watch over him.”

“I would die for Alfonso. As I would for Your Highness. I will always put you and your brother first, before all other considerations.”

As he cantered forward to catch up with my brother, who was busy hunting, Beatriz said, “Do you still doubt Girón was struck down for his evil ways?”

“No.” I watched my brother veer his horse, Chacón close behind. Alfonso swiftly raised and shot his bow, catching a startled hare in midleap. “But that doesn’t mean the evil died with him. Villena is still alive and he controls Enrique entirely.”

“Is this why you’ve been so quiet of late? Are you worried for Alfonso?”

“How can I not be?” The hare twitched as Alfonso lifted it by its hindquarters, trickling beads of scarlet onto the cold white ground. “Castile still has two kings.”

Beatriz eyed me, much as she had on the day we’d learned Girón was dead. I turned from her questioning gaze to pat Canela, who was eager to stretch his muscles after having spent too much time, like us, pent up in Segovia’s alcazar.
“Brr!”
I said. “Come, Beatriz, I’ll race you back. Last one there has to pluck the pheasants for supper.”

Beatriz cried out that it wasn’t fair, for I had the faster horse, but she took the challenge anyway and we streaked onto the plain toward the huddled township and castle, laughing aloud, the wind biting our cheeks and billowing our skirts.

For a brief time, I forgot that out there, somewhere, Enrique must be plotting his revenge.

THE NATIVITY ARRIVED
with howling winds and snowstorms so blinding they turned the world beyond our gates into an impassable white void. Inside the icy castle we piled logs in the hearths, exchanged homemade gifts, and played games and music to pass the time. Shortly after Epiphany, my mother had one of her spells—the first she’d exhibited since our return. She insisted she heard ghosts wandering in the
passageways, and one night fled barefoot in her shift onto the battlements. She might have frozen to death had Doña Clara not been awake and followed her out. Still, it took all of our combined persuasions—and Chacón’s brute strength—to force my mother back inside. By then she was blue with cold, her feet and hands frostbitten.

After that, we restored the outside lock on her door and I stayed in her rooms on a cot, in case she awoke in the night. Though I hoped the spell would pass as it usually did, instead she grew worse. She fought us as we cured her hands and feet, saying she deserved to lose her limbs for her sins, growing so agitated we had to force calming drafts down her throat. Afterward, she sat in silence and stared at nothing, while I coaxed her into taking mouthfuls of broth, lest she starve.