The Queen's Vow: A Novel of Isabella of Castile (42 page)

I had caught a glimpse into a future I was determined to avoid at any cost. This simmering discord between Jews and Christians could spread and kindle a conflagration that would affect the rest of the realm. I could not afford to have our fragile, newfound unity threatened now, after so much strife.

“We must take further action in defense of the Jews,” I declared at a morning council meeting the next day. “Though I don’t share their beliefs, I’ll not abide them being maltreated or accused of inciting conversos, who, by all accounts, are faithful Christians.”

I paused, watching my confessor, Fray Talavera, exchange a knowing look with Don Chacón. My steward had grown grizzled, his hair thinning, his big, muscular figure softening with age. But his character remained as discerning as ever, and I’d come to respect those rare occasions when he offered his opinion.

“Perhaps Your Majesty should join us for a sermon tomorrow,” he said.

“A sermon?” I frowned. “By whom? On what?”

“It’s best if you simply came,” explained Talavera, his dark eyes solemn. “No one need know you’re there. I can arrange for you to sit behind a screen, above the pulpit.”

“Why on earth would I wish to hide?”

“Because if the orator knows you are there, he might not be as candid,” replied my confessor. “Trust me,
Majestad
, you’ll be most interested in what he has to say.”

The following day, I sat behind a celosia with Inés at my side, as a thundering voice belonging to a Dominican priest, one Father de Hojeda, sent cold horror through me.

“They deliberately cultivate a false face so they can practice their foul rites,” Hojeda thundered. “They abhor our Holy Sacraments, the
sanctity of the saints, and deny the chastity of our blessed Virgin. They go to Mass by day, these two-faced Marranos, but by night they refute the rites by which they were welcomed into our Holy Mother Church, communing with their foul brethren, who abet their defiance. They must be found, revealed, expunged in the flesh, before their infection rots us all!”

His words left me deeply unsettled. As soon as we returned to the alcazar, I queried Fray Talavera, who related that he had heard similar reports of Jews inciting conversos to secretly embrace their forsaken faith, even as they feigned conformity to ours. Indeed, many claimed it had been happening throughout Castile for centuries; only indolent priests looked the other way, mired as they were in their own ignorance and venality.

“Of course, it could be an exaggeration,” he said, “but I also believe you should know all the facts before you take up this cause.” He paused, with marked emphasis. “It is fraught with peril,” he went on, uncannily echoing the bishop of Sevilla’s warning. “Few will support the defense of those deemed responsible for our Savior’s crucifixion. Though we’ve had a policy for many years of
convivencia
with Jews, it doesn’t mean everyone agrees with it. In fact, I would venture to say that few Christians would have them in our midst, given the choice.”

“I understand,” I said. “Thank you, as ever, for your candor. I shall write at once to Cardinal Mendoza and seek his esteemed counsel on this matter.”

That evening, after I sent my letter, I gazed out of my fluted windows into the sultry night. While I would condemn any harm done to the Jews, who served me at court faithfully and from whom many of my nobles, including my own beloved Beatriz, were descended, I couldn’t afford to ignore the potential undermining of our already severely degraded Church. My ancestors’ reigns had been less than exemplary as far as religious conformity was concerned. Years of civil warfare and struggle with the nobility had corroded the Church’s foundations; it was common knowledge that many of our clerics kept concubines, while licentiousness and the lack of the most basic scriptural adherence ran rampant amongst Castile’s convents and monasteries. I was resolved
to restore our Church to its prior glory. But in the upheaval since my accession, I’d not yet found the time to dedicate myself to such a monumental task.

Con blandura
had been my motto—with a soft touch. I did not want to repeat the past; the mere thought of persecution, of bloodshed and suffering, after everything Castile had undergone, only stiffened my resolve, even as I recognized I could not forever evade this potential threat to my kingdom’s unity. In order to compete internationally, to forge alliances with foreign powers that would keep France at bay and establish us as sovereigns worthy of respect, Spain would have to present a united front—a Catholic front, from which no dissent could be kindled to undermine our strength.

I would have to authorize an investigation to verify the troubling claims surrounding the conversos, and, if found true, establish a remedy. As a Christian queen, I could do nothing less. The spiritual welfare of my people was as vital to me as their physical well-being, perhaps even more so, for while the body was a temporary vessel, destined to return to dust, our soul was eternal.

I longed for Fernando. I’d received letters from him, detailing his exploits in Extremadura, where he’d tracked down the pockets of rebel Portuguese and their sympathizers with fervor. I wanted to curl next to him in our bed and pour out my concerns, to hear his sage assessment and know I was not alone, that whatever occurred he was always there beside me.

I closed my eyes. I could almost conjure him, his hand at my waist, his voice, husky with the night’s wine, at my ear….

A knock came at my door. I started, pulling my robe closer about me as Inés hustled to open it, her tawny hair unbraided for the night.

Chacón stood silhouetted by the flickering torches set on the corridor walls. “Forgive the intrusion,
Majestad
, but the marquis of Cádiz has arrived. He requests audience with you.”

“At this hour?” I started to refuse, then paused. If Cádiz was actually here, I’d best receive him. Given their mutual hatred I didn’t want him running into Medina Sidonia before I had the chance to gauge Cádiz’s nature for myself. “Very well,” I said, “show him into my private patio.”

When I stepped out through my bedchamber doors onto the alabaster
patio, where the evening air was redolent with the scent of jasmine, I was completely taken aback by the man waiting for me. Medina Sidonia’s complaints about Cádiz had conjured in my mind the image of an unruly predator. Instead, the noble who bowed low seemed impossibly young, little more than my own twenty-six years. He was of medium stature and lean build, with a shock of fiery hair, freckled skin, and verdant eyes fringed in long ginger lashes—gorgeous eyes that seemed to hold flecks of gold in their depths and that only the intermingled bloods of this region could produce.

He wore violet satin trimmed in silver; as he swept into his elegant obeisance, the silk lining of his cape rustled. It was an affected gesture, calculated to appeal, and I had to suppress my smile. If Medina Sidonia personified the stringency of Andalucía’s aristocratic privilege, then Cádiz exemplified its flair for the dramatic.

But I stiffened my spine and my voice, for no man, no matter how well attired, should think he could flatter his way past my displeasure. “You were summoned a month ago, my lord marquis. I trust you have an explanation for your untimely delay?”

“Majestad,”
he replied, in a dulcet tone that would have made a troubadour envious, “I have no excuse other than that it took your messenger many days to reach my castle in Jerez, seeing as he had to cross lands hostile to me because of the enmity of Medina Sidonia, whose patrols illegally infiltrate my borders. Likewise, I had to re-cross those same lands in disguise, in order to reach you with body and soul together.”

I tapped my foot, loud enough so he could hear. “I sincerely hope you did not come all this way to tell me that. Lest you need reminding, I am your queen. I don’t take kindly to those who flout my authority. Nobleman or commoner, when I send a summons I expect to be obeyed.”

He dropped to one knee, lifting his beautiful eyes with such endearing humility that I heard Inés let out a small, unwitting gasp. Though I made no indication I was affected in any way by his posturing, secretly I had to agree the man was breathtaking.

“Your Majesty, I am in your power,” he said, holding his hands out wide, “with no safeguard other than the declaration of my innocence
against the wrath which my enemy, with his lies, has fostered in you. Nor,” he went on, his voice lilting with a passionate resonance, “do I come to speak mere words—I come to act. Send, my queen, to receive from my hand your fortresses of Jerez and Alcalá, and should anything else in my patrimony serve you, I will surrender it, as I surrender my person to you in utter obedience.”

Silence echoed in the wake of his lavish speech. I glanced at Chacón. He stood with arms crossed at his burly chest, his eyebrow arched in skepticism. Castilian to his marrow, he wasn’t impressed by good looks or pomposity. But as I returned my gaze to the still-kneeling marquis, I was suddenly of a mind to accept his avowal at face value. Oh, there was expediency here, no doubt; he knew when to recognize his advantage. But if he’d caught wind of my intent to submit his lawless region to order, as I was doing throughout Sevilla, and had thus decided it would be wiser to comply than continue to engage in treasonous demonstrations of his might, it suited me like pearls. With his capitulation, half of western Andalucía—most of it appropriated illegally during my father’s and late brother’s reigns—would revert to my sovereign control, along with its numerous castles, cities, and vassals.

“My lord marquis,” I said, “while it’s true I’ve not heard the best accounts of you, your offer shows good faith. Deliver to me these fortresses and I promise to mediate your quarrel with Medina Sidonia, safeguarding both your honors.”

His smile was exuberant, revealing perfect white teeth. “Your Majesty, I am your most humble servant. Everything I have is at your command.”

I let myself smile in return. The man might be a rogue but he was an irresistible one.

“My secretary Cárdenas will draw up the deeds. Once the keys to these castles are in my possession, then we can discuss the terms of this humble servitude.”

I extended my hand; he actually dared to press his lips to my fingers. It was blatant flirtation, almost outrageous, and I couldn’t have been more pleased. Cádiz might have scored a victory over Medina Sidonia, who, once informed of this midnight meeting, would have no other choice but to submit as well, but in the end it was I who had truly won.

I had tamed Andalucía’s most powerful lords without spilling a drop of blood.

AS I EXPECTED
, Medina Sidonia hastened to outdo Cádiz by surrendering six of his fifteen castles; Cádiz then offered up ten more of his. Mediation between them proved simple enough, seeing that both their holdings were now severely reduced. I proportioned the rest of their contested domains equally, keeping the largest share for Castile. In return, Cádiz vowed to wage holy war for me against the Moors, a brash statement that made me chuckle, and Medina Sidonia offered to introduce me to a Genovese navigator he patronized, who had a scheme to bypass the usual Turk-plagued routes and discover the riches of Cathay, a proposition I politely refused until a more opportune time, even as I stifled a chuckle at his supposed largesse. Medina Sidonia might have been tamed, but he’d not willingly part with any more of his wealth or risk his person if he could avoid it, preferring instead to surrender a client he no doubt had decided was no longer worth the expense.

With the southern regions of my domain thus pacified, I began preparing for my reunion with Fernando, embarking on a thorough refurbishment of the antiquated apartments in Sevilla’s alcazar. His triumphs in Castile were no less important than mine; he’d brought to heel the last of the recalcitrant grandees in Extremadura and pacified the area, strengthening our vulnerable border with Portugal against future attacks. He deserved a worthy reception, and I was determined to provide it.

I was weary of discord. I just wanted to be with my family again.

SEPTEMBER SMOTHERED SEVILLA
with intense heat; by midday, an egg could be fried on the street and everyone retired to sweat away the afternoon hours behind closed shutters. It was unfortunate that Fernando made his entry at just this hour, but as he sailed down the Guadalquivir in a barge decked in velvet bunting and garlands, enthroned under a canopy, his crown on his brow and a new beard framing his broad features, the heralds’ shrill trumpeting more than made up for the scarcity of the crowd.

I was almost unable to contain myself as he helped Isabel and Beatriz
disembark from the barge. Though I believed in proper etiquette at all times in public (for how else could we instill in our unruly subjects a healthy respect for our authority?) I eagerly moved forth, obliging my equally overdressed and heat-struck entourage to follow me across the bridge.

Fernando’s eyes gleamed.
“Mi luna,”
he murmured as he took my hands, “you look well. You’ve even got some color in your cheeks.” He was teasing, as he often joked that the sun reflected off me like a shield. I’d not even noticed in the excitement of the past days, the mirror being one of my lesser vanities; but of course all my comings and goings must have bronzed my usually pallid skin. He, too, looked well. The months of campaigning had pared him to trim muscularity, his compact body exuding energy, like that of a tireless young steer.

As I tore my gaze from his mischievous smile, I saw my daughter drop into a curtsey.
“Majestad,”
she said, in a solemn tone that betrayed painstaking rehearsal, “I am honored to be here with you and to congratulate you on your victorious labors.”

I had a lump in my throat. “Thank you,
hija mía
. Please, rise. Let me look at you.”

She was so beautiful I found it almost impossible to believe she’d come from my womb. At nearly seven years she had already budded to a willowy height inherited from my side of the family. Her hair was a darker auburn than mine, her eyes flecked with amber, like gold-veined turquoise. Gazing into those eyes, still limpid with innocence, I was overcome by guilt. Isabel looked just as my mother must have at her age, before the ravages of solitude and widowhood had taken their toll. I had not been back to Arévalo to see my mother in nearly two years….