The Queen's Vow: A Novel of Isabella of Castile (29 page)

“Pope Pius has been dead for five years,” I interrupted. “Pope Paul should have issued the dispensation.” I saw him wince. “But you’ve answered my question, at least. Evidently, you knew the dispensation was falsified even before we said our vows.”

“Isabella.” He drained the cup and came to me, taking my hands in his. “
Dios mío
, you’re like ice,” he murmured.

I withdrew my hands. “I do not like being lied to.”

He let out an impatient exhale. “What were we supposed to do? Tell me. You wrote to say you were in danger, that Enrique plotted to wed you to Portugal and you needed me in Castile, without delay. But Aragón was at war with France; we had nothing with which to bribe the pope, who’d already accepted offers from Villena to refuse us the dispensation.” He paused, searching my eyes. “Yes, it is true: Villena sent envoys to Rome to thwart us. But my father has friends in the Curia and our own Cardinal Borgia from Valencia finally sent us the dispensation, backdated to Pius’s last year of life.”

“And the signature …?”

Fernando averted his gaze. “Carrillo had other papers with Pius’s handwriting.”

“So a man of the Church forged a late pope’s name.” I turned to the window. Outside, heavy rain mixed with sleet obscured my view of the city. “And now you and I are accused by my brother the king of living together in sin, our marriage invalid in the eyes of God.”

“It’s not invalid.” Fernando did not move, but I detected a hint of imploration in his voice. “Carrillo has assured me, we are legally and canonically, under the saints and Church and God Himself, most firmly wed.”

“Do not blaspheme.” I stared, unseeing, out the window.

“The dispensation is just a technicality. We are related, yes, but by distant kinship; it’s not as if we’re brother and sister. Royal couples with far more shared blood than ours have done worse.”

“Is that what it is to you?” I turned to him. “A contest to see what we can get away with?”

“No, of course not. I only meant that—”

“Because to me, it is a grave matter indeed. We require a dispensation; whether or not it’s a technicality is beside the point. A pontiff’s name and signature were falsified; we must make it right. We must request another—one that is legal and binding.”

“And so we shall.” He finally moved to me, clasping my hands again, more firmly this time, so I wouldn’t pull away. “I promise, I’ll write to
Cardinal Borgia myself. But now is not the time. We have more serious issues to deal with.”

“What could be more serious than the validity of our union? Enrique accuses us of a graceless state so he can put the queen’s illegitimate child on the throne in my place.” My voice rose, despite my efforts to control it. “Because of you, your father, and Carrillo, my entire claim to Castile could be in jeopardy!”

“So is our safety,” he said, and I went still. “You left before Carrillo could tell us the rest of his news. Villena has lured the grandees into an alliance against us. We are the enemy, Isabella—you and me. We cannot stay here. Valladolid sits on a plain and as such, we are defenseless. My grandfather has offered us his retainers as protection, but we must take refuge in a castle with a moat and walls thick enough to keep the king’s men out.”

I looked into his eyes—those revealing brown eyes that I’d begun to know so well and suspected could never lie to me, regardless of what his lips said. I found no deceit.

“Where can we go?” I whispered, shuddering at the thought of another hurried and secretive departure, another rush through the night to a fortified structure. It seemed as if all I’d done since Enrique had come into my life was flee him.

“Carrillo says the castle of Dueñas will suffice, for the time being.”

“Dueñas,” I echoed, dejected. “But that’s miles away from anywhere.”

“Yes, but Carrillo’s brother is lord mayor of the town. We’ll be safe there.” He went quiet, caressing my hand before he ventured, “Am I forgiven?”

I nodded. “But you must never lie to me again, Fernando. Promise me.”

He leaned to me, murmured against my lips, “I promise.”

I was warmed as ever by his touch, by the desire that flared between us, but as we returned to the
sala
, I had the disquieting sensation that we had offended God in our zeal to wed. Though I did not know what trials awaited us, I feared we would be sorely tested.

And already, I sensed a new life stirring inside me.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I
nés hovered at my chair, one of her reliable herbal drafts in hand. “Doctor Santillana says you must drink it. Chamomile helps with the vile humors.”

I grimaced. “I’m with child. Vile humors are normal. All chamomile will do is constipate me, and that’s the last thing I need.”

I waved her aside and stood awkwardly, my hand on my jutting stomach. I was in my seventh month and I felt as if I were about to give birth at any moment—my feet and ankles swollen, my digestion in an uproar, and my temperament uneven at best. The entire experience had caught me off guard; I’d expected to remain active and energetic up to my confinement. After all, I was just nineteen, and the midwife had coarsely assured me that girls my age bred “like cows in the field.”

So far, that had not been the case. Along with my other ailments, I’d been plagued by insomnia, and my appetite seemed to be the only part of me that hadn’t undergone some bewildering transformation. Fernando kept telling me I was beautiful, that I resembled a lush Madonna such as those being painted in Italy, but I wasn’t convinced. While vanity had never been integral to my well-being, I’d begun to secretly fret that my figure would never recover from its distorted shape, molded by the unseen being now kicking at my insides with obstinate determination.

A boy, the midwife had said: it must be a boy; this naturally made Fernando all the more attentive and had prompted a torrent of premature congratulatory gifts from his father in Aragón. Carrillo shared the sentiment; every time he came to visit, armed with the latest news and money to pay our expenses, he never failed to remind me that a boy would turn the tide in our favor. No matter how much damage Enrique inflicted, if I gave birth to an infante, all would change. A boy could
inherit Castile
and
Aragón. Our son would be the first king to rule both realms.

“A male heir to succeed us,” I muttered, “while Enrique has nothing but that child everyone calls la Beltraneja.” I leaned against the windowsill of my chamber to peer through the uneven panes. “The entire country will flock to our standard….”

“My lady?” said Inés, not hearing me from where she busied herself at my coffers.

I turned about with a sigh. Poor Inés had borne the brunt of my enforced cloistering in what I’d come to call “our prison of Dueñas.” With my activity curtailed, Fernando often went out with his men all day to hunt, braving the unseasonably humid autumn to hunt the deer, rabbits, and other creatures whose meat we needed to survive winter.

Beatriz had reluctantly returned to Segovia. With Enrique back in Castile, the pressure exerted on her husband by Villena to release the treasury had increased, and Cabrera needed her at his side. Unfathomably, Enrique had developed a liking for Beatriz; she was the only one capable of dissuading him from surrendering to Villena’s mad demands, such as sending an army against me. I knew by her letters that she’d single-handedly persuaded Enrique to leave us alone for the time being, citing my pregnancy as reason for him to show his forbearance. However, though she might have succeeded in forestalling his official denial of my status as his heir, not even she had been able to stop him from refusing me income and reducing us to poverty. I worried that as soon as my child was born, he’d do far more than that.

“Did my letter leave yet?” I asked, pacing back to my upholstered chair and the pile of poor linens I’d taken to making, to help the numerous widows and beggars in the town that had sheltered me, many of whom suffered privations because of the prolonged instability in the kingdom.

“Yes, Cárdenas took it to Segovia himself this morning.” Inés paused, regarding me. “My lady, it’s not my position to say anything, but do you really expect His Majesty to respond? This will be the sixth letter you’ve sent in as many months.”

“I know.” I sat. Those few steps across the room had exhausted me, to my chagrin. “But I dare not stop. Even if he ignores them, if I keep
sending letters reiterating my loyalty to him as my king and brother, perhaps he’ll not go any farther than he already has.”

“He’s not the problem, though,” countered Inés, and I paused, looking at her.

“Indeed,” I said softly. “He is not. Villena holds complete sway. While that man has Enrique’s heart and ear, the most I can hope for is reprieve from—”

An abrupt cramp snagged my breath. I gasped, my hands dropping instinctively to my belly. Another spasm overcame me. It couldn’t be. I was only in my seventh month; I had still two left….

The third cramp was strong enough to cause me to gasp. Warm liquid started to seep down my thighs; as the gush wet my hem, I said to Inés, “Go, quickly. Fetch the midwife. She was wrong. I’m going into labor—now.”

I SCARCELY REMEMBERED
the next fourteen hours. The midwife and her crones hovered about me as I reclined, groaning, upon an open-seated birthing stool in an overheated chamber smothered in herbal vapors and the sourness of my own sweat and urine. I had asked that a silk veil be placed over my face, so no one could see me grimace. The pains were strong but not too much so. I was still in a state to consider my dignity. I began to recite prayers to the Virgin who succors women in their hour of delivery, but as the time passed and the pain squeezed me in an inescapable vise, my prayers fractured, replaced by breathless pleas. I had never felt such agony; I would have given anything to revert to my previous, pregnant misery. By the middle of the night, as I stared at women whose faces had blurred into one anonymous visage, all urging me to “push,” I finally understood that I might die. I scarcely had any strength left to breathe.

It had always been with me, in truth—that unseen specter at my heels. It was the bane of our sex, thrust upon us by Eve’s sin. Women died every day in childbed, be they commoner or queen. I’d given the matter some contemplation when I said my daily devotions, thinking to prepare my immortal soul; but it adopted a visceral intensity in those hours as I struggled to expel the child in my womb, my shrieks sounding in my ears like the keening of a demented animal.

Then, miraculously, as the second morning in October broke over Dueñas, I opened my mouth, and instead of a bellow, I was overwhelmed by a shuddering sigh of vast release that was almost like pleasure. I looked down between my splayed, bloodied thighs to see the midwife capture a slimy body that did not resemble anything human. I managed a whisper through my parched lips: “
Dios mío
, is it …?”

The women crowded together. I heard water splash, heard the slice of a blade, and a resounding slap. Inés, drenched in perspiration and looking as if she’d gone into labor herself, swabbed my forehead with a cloth as we stared toward the black-clad women.

They turned to us. I gripped Inés’s hand so tightly that she bore the bruise for days afterward. The midwife, who’d decided she must have erred in calculating my time of conception, came to me and extended the naked mewling infant in her gnarled hands.

“A girl, Your Highness,” she said dryly, “perfectly formed, as you can see.”

At her unwilling entrance into the world, my little daughter promptly let out a wail that went straight to my beleaguered heart.

Fernando was ecstatic; as soon as he ascertained that I was well, he turned his attentions to little Isabel—named in honor of my mother—proudly taking her in his arms to show her off in her swath of velvets to all our household.

“She’s perfect,” he whispered to me at night, when he snuck into my rooms, defying the prohibition that I must not receive him until I’d been churched, cleansed of the stain of childbirth by a priest’s blessing. He sat on the bed with Isabel cradled between us, her little fists curled at her face, and he regarded her in rapt silence, as though she were the most precious thing he had ever seen.

“I thought you’d be disappointed because she’s not a boy,” I finally said.

“My father is disappointed” was his reply. “So is Carrillo. In fact, our lord Archbishop acts as though this were a personal failure, moping over the Salic Law in Aragón that forbids a woman’s succession and predicting catastrophe.”

“Such a ridiculous custom, Salic Law,” I exclaimed. “How can it be
right to exclude half the children born to a royal couple? If I—a woman—am considered capable of inheriting the crown in Castile, why shouldn’t our Isabel be equally so in Aragón?”

He smiled. “I am happy. She’s healthy and we are still young. We’ll have sons.”

I gave him a sharp look, peeved by his apparent indifference. “Yes, of course,” I said. “Only pray, let me recover from this child first.”

His chuckle awoke Isabel. She blinked, her gorgeous big blue eyes focused on him for a moment before she drifted back to sleep. Overwhelming ferocity filled me as I caressed her warm, delicate cheek.