The Queen's Vow: A Novel of Isabella of Castile (43 page)

“Look how pretty you are,” I said, and Isabel beamed, revealing she had recently lost one of her teeth; as if she suddenly remembered this, her hand flew up to cover her mouth and she flushed crimson. I took her by the hand, holding her at my side as I smiled at Beatriz, who’d cared for Isabel in Segovia during Fernando’s and my absence.

“You are well, my friend?” I asked softly, and she nodded, proud and beautiful as ever in azure silk, her olive-toned skin flushed with the heat, tiny beads of sweat on her voluptuous chest, and her black eyes
sparkling. I had a sudden urge to clasp her hand and rush upstairs to share secrets, as we had when we were girls.

That evening, I sat on an outdoor dais in the alcazar courtyard with my husband and daughter beside me, dining and laughing, sharing anecdotes with Beatriz as the city outdid itself in its zeal to welcome their king and princess to Sevilla. Fernando drank more than habitually, his hand slipping under the tablecloth to fondle my thigh.

That very same night, I conceived.

A FEW WEEKS
later, we sailed down the Guadalquivir for a much-deserved respite in the coastal castle of Medina Sidonia.

There, for the first time in my life, I beheld the sea.

From the moment I laid eyes on it, I was captivated by the way the sunlight cast spears of fire across the colors of its ever-changing surface, which the waves tossed aside like so many garments, from indigo to deep emerald to the amethyst of twilight. And the sound, so loud where it pounded against the rocks, yet becoming a mere whisper as it slipped, warm and enticing, between my bare toes on the sand. Hiking up my skirts while the breeze, tinged with salt (which I’d later taste everywhere, as if it had soaked into my skin), tugged my veil, I wanted to plunge into that rippling Mediterranean sheen, though I’d never learned to swim.

I felt its call in the deepest part of me, like some pagan yearning, strong as sin.

I knew then that I was with child, in that moment when the vast waters before me called upon the hidden water inside. I turned, exulted, to call to Fernando. He stood on the shore with Medina Sidonia, scanning the contents of a missive the duke had just given him. Before I could say a word, he turned and strode toward me, his grave features revealing his disquiet.

“What is it?” I asked him. “What has happened?”

He handed me the parchment. “From Cardinal Mendoza: He has reviewed your request for an ecclesiastical investigation into the state of the conversos throughout the realm. He writes that the reports you
heard in Sevilla barely skim the surface. According to his officials, there are many incidents of conversos upholding proscribed Jewish practices while pretending to adhere to our faith.”

My mouth went dry. I didn’t even want to look at the letter.

“Mendoza asks our leave to request an edict from Rome to establish the Holy Tribunal of the Inquisition in Castile,” Fernando went on. “This is serious, Isabella. He has the support of Torquemada, who apparently has been informed of your forbearance toward the Jews in Sevilla and is not pleased; he complains that we are less than diligent in our sovereign duty. Both he and Mendoza believe reviving the Inquisition can help root out the false Christians and pave the way toward your stated desire to reform the Church.”

Standing with him on that endless beach suffused in dusk, our child’s laughter floating in the spindrift that webbed the air, with the knowledge that another child even now grew inside me, I felt a profound chill.

I folded the parchment and shoved it, seal and all, into the silk pouch at my waist. “Their request is premature,” I said. “The Holy Tribunal has not functioned in Castile for many years; it’s in as much need of reform as the Church itself. And we’ve much to consider already. We still have to convene our Cortes to revise the legal codes and curtail the nobles’ privileges, not to mention that, like every king before us, we’ll be expected to take up the Reconquista against the Moors. This is hardly the time to assume another burden, especially one of such magnitude.”

Fernando looked toward the crash and ebb of the waves, his aquiline profile softened by the lingering twilight. At length he said thoughtfully, “No doubt you’re right, but it would be a mistake to ignore the cardinal’s request. Since we assumed charge, the entire world has been watching, waiting for us to fail like our predecessors. I’d not want our own churchmen griping to Rome that we’re less than devout, for if we’re expected to take up the Reconquista against the Moors, as you say, we’ll need Rome to sanction the crusade. His Holiness could deny us his blessing if we don’t show willingness to rid Spain of heresy. Besides,” he added, “how burdensome can it be to deal with a few lapsed conversos?”

I touched his arm. “Fernando, it may not be a few. Don’t you understand? If what Mendoza and Torquemada say is true, it could mean subjecting hundreds, maybe thousands, of our subjects to arrest and inquiry by our authorities. It would create fear among our people at a time when we seek their trust.”

“But that is how these things work. The Inquisition was designed by Saint Dominic to separate the defiled from the faithful, to salvage and purify those whose souls run the peril of damnation. I personally cannot believe there are thousands; but if such is the case, wouldn’t it be better to contend with them now?”

He spoke as if it were a foregone conclusion, as though he had no doubt that reviving the Holy Tribunal was the only sensible solution. For a moment I didn’t know how to respond. I knew he shared my piety; we were both unfailing in our attendance at Mass and private devotions. For us, there could only be one church, one faith. So how could I explain this baseless fear that overcame me at the thought of embarking down this path?

“Is that really what we want?” I ventured. “To authorize an institution answerable to Rome, whose jurisdiction over us will be absolute? If we request this edict from His Holiness, we must also accept his authority over this matter. I, for one, am not so eager to let Rome dictate how or when we should act.”

His frown relieved me. Like me, he was loath to invite Rome into our affairs. While we did not seek quarrel with the Holy See, we did not want the fruit of our endeavors to be usurped by the bottomless need of the Vatican, not when our coffers were nearly empty. For our country to prosper, we must dictate our internal policies, even in such delicate matters as religious unity.

“What if we request that the Inquisition be placed under our control?” he suggested. “As rulers of Castile, we could supervise its activities, appoint its tribunals and overseers; we could devise a
new
Holy Office according to our requirements.”

“We could,” I replied, taken aback by his quick solution. Sometimes, Fernando had an uncanny way of cutting through a problem. “But will His Holiness agree? No monarch that I am aware of has ever been granted such license before.”

“Perhaps no monarch has ever asked.”

I turned away. The breeze grew stronger, whipping the water to gold-tipped foam. In my purse, the letter weighed like stone. Was this what God intended? Had He appointed Fernando and me as His vessels of fire, to purify our faith? I did not know; my own conviction, usually so steadfast, had deserted me.

“If I grant this,” I finally said, without taking my gaze from the tumbling water, “we must proceed carefully, with due diligence. Cardinal Mendoza must promise to ensure that every effort is made to return those who’ve erred back to the Church by peaceful means. I will not authorize harsher measures unless left with no other choice. And I do not want the Jews harmed. Only those whose adherence to our faith has come under doubt are to be investigated.”

I looked at Fernando. He met my searching eyes, his expression somber. “It shall be as you command,” he said. “I will see to it personally.”

“Then do it,” I said softly. “Write to Mendoza and tell him we approve his request. But only to obtain the edict; I reserve the right to implement it in my own time.”

He nodded and reached for my hands. “
Dios mío
, you’re like ice.” He glanced sharply at Inés, who tarried with my other ladies nearby. “Her Majesty is cold! Bring her cloak.”

Within minutes, we were hustling back up the cliff-side pathway to Medina Sidonia’s castle, the ladies chattering, my Isabel’s cheeks reddened from the sun. She was elated, all decorum forgotten in the novelty of an afternoon spent in frolic.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it, Mama?” she breathed, slipping her hand in mine as we paused at the crest to look out upon the sea, unfurling toward the horizon like endless silk. “But so big. Beatriz says you could sail across it forever and never reach the end. It must be lonely.”

“Yes,” I said, wistful. “I think it must be.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

A
ll the midwives—and there were far too many, in my opinion—assured us that I would bear a son. Everything indicated it, they said, as they hovered over the particulars of my various minor complaints, including the very odor of my urine. Of course, we’d heard all this before; we’d been told much the same when I was pregnant with Isabel. But as the days passed in Sevilla’s alcazar, a luxurious haven in which to withstand the upcoming travails of pregnancy, I watched the crones’ blandishments exert a powerful influence over Fernando. The more impatient I grew with the constant fussing over me, the more solicitous he became.

Despising the societal penchant for turning expectant women into useless creatures and determined to serve of some use while I awaited the child’s birth, I began seeking a tutor to teach me Latin. I regretted my deficiency in this language of international diplomacy every day; I hated having to rely on translators, feeling it exposed me as a provincial queen, with no formal learning or training. But I was distracted from my quest when an envoy from England arrived bearing another extravagant baptismal font as a gift (we had dozens by now) and during its presentation, he mentioned that his king had authorized that nation’s first printing press.

“Is that so?” I leaned forward in my throne, forgetting my swollen feet in my too-tight slippers. “I’ve heard of an astonishing renaissance taking place in Italy, where once lost or forgotten ancient texts are now being made available again through these presses.”

The envoy smiled. “Indeed, Your Majesty. Painting, music, poetry, and sculpture are flourishing under the patronage of many learned rulers, from the Medici in Florence to the Habsburgs in Austria, who provide their artists with access to classical texts. His Grace King Edward
IV is determined that this unparalleled wealth, learning, and knowledge should also flourish in England.”

“How marvelous!” I was enthralled. I had heard that the printing press could produce hundreds of books in less than half the time required for hand reproduction by scribes; with a fleet of these remarkable devices, I could begin to replenish our sorely depleted libraries, neglected by the years of tumult and civil war. Literacy in Castile was restricted to monks, enterprising scholars, and the very wealthy; few ordinary people could afford books, much less read them.

Here, at last, was something important I could contribute.

I decided at once to set up charitable funds for education. I had Cárdenas purchase twenty presses from Germany and ordered them installed in Salamanca and other major university seats. In honor of my efforts, the new press in Valencia sent me its first printed product—a book of hymns to the Virgin, dedicated to me and my unborn child. The exquisite volume, bound in calf skin and with a sharp tang of ink, fascinated me. I couldn’t quite believe a machine had made it, as I kept repeating to Fernando, who chuckled and said, “I hardly see the fuss. It’s still just a book, yes?”

I regarded him in astonishment, my belly jutting before me. “Do you not see that with these presses, we can begin to further the education of everyone in our realm?”

He eyed me in amusement over his goblet, the remnants of a greasy partridge lying dismembered on his plate. We had taken to dining in my rooms in the evening because it was more comfortable and didn’t require me to maneuver the treacherous steps of the dais now that I entered the sixth month of my pregnancy.