The Queen's Vow: A Novel of Isabella of Castile (47 page)

My gaze strained toward the front of the procession, where I knew Fernando rode with Juan in front of him on the saddle, waving and smiling. I had to clamp my lips to stop myself from ordering that my son be brought to me this instant.

“His Highness the infante will be fine,” said Beatriz from her mass of pillows opposite me. Ines and my daughters rode in a separate litter; Beatriz had recently confided to me that she was finally with child and I’d insisted she share my transportation, knowing well how hard travel can be when in that state. “Just listen to the Aragonese acclaim him! And His Majesty and Chacón are right there in case the infante tires.”

“I know.” I lifted my hand to wave, realizing the crowds had seen
me. I’d wanted to ride on horseback as well, to be close to Juan, but I’d tripped on the staircase as we left the alcazar in Segovia and hurt my ankle, so now I was confined to this carriage, which was probably just as well. After fretting over the long hours of journeying from Castile; of the cleanliness of the various places along the way where we had to stop; of the need for fresh water and foodstuffs, not to mention my son’s health, I was not at my best. Moreover, I thought, glancing at the leather portfolio beside me, bulging with grievances and petitions, I had more than enough to do before we reached Zaragoza.

“His colic has improved,” Beatriz added, as I reluctantly let the window curtain fall back in place. “And he hasn’t had a fever in over a month. Surely, this means the physicians are right and his health is improving.”

“They should be right,” I muttered, “considering how many of them I’ve hired and how much they charge.” I paused, seeing the pained look of understanding that crossed my friend’s face. “Isabel never suffered as much as Juan did in her childhood,” I said, my voice catching, “and at only a year old, Juana has a vigor that’s almost insulting. Why does God test us so? We’ve done everything we can for Juan; his household is devoted to him, and that crowd of physicians has nearly bled him dry with their leeches and potions. And still he has those rashes, that dry cough, and awful fever—” I shuddered, recalling the many nights spent in sleepless vigil at my son’s bedside. “It’s as though we’re being punished.”

“Stop that, no one’s being punished,” said Beatriz. “Why would God seek to punish you or your son? Juan is just delicate. But he will grow strong, you’ll see.”

I nodded, distracted. I could hear the welcoming cries and knew it was good for Juan, who was rarely allowed out in public, and for Fernando, who reveled in the opportunity to show our son to his realm. It was also good for the people of Aragón themselves, who were fiercely independent and would have to be coaxed into union with Castile. But all I could think of was the hidden threats lurking everywhere, from unseen stones in the road that might throw a horse, to pestilential scabs on someone’s reaching hand.

I took a deep breath and forced myself to turn to the portfolio. As I
took out the first batch of reports, my stomach sank. Beatriz must have noticed the change in my expression, for she chuckled. “From Torquemada, again? What does our crow have to say this time?”

I resisted laughter. Incorrigible as ever, Beatriz had taken to calling my chief inquisitor this in private, because she said he was forever caw-cawing doom wherever he went.

“What else?” I skimmed the first paragraph of his dense handwriting. “He needs more money to pay his informants. He says that since he first set up our Tribunal in Sevilla, over eighty suspects have been arrested, with six more condemned this week, may our blessed Virgin have mercy on their souls.” I crossed myself, sickened by the thought. While I knew it was the only way, that only fire could save those who refused to recant—for by suffering the torments of Hell on earth might their souls be saved in Heaven—I could not abide imagining the stench of burning flesh fouling that fragrant city.

“That makes how many he’s burned so far? Twelve, thirteen?” asked Beatriz, picking at a stray thread on her bodice. I did not answer, reading onward, flabbergasted.

“Listen to this,” I exclaimed. “He reports he needs the money because hundreds of conversos are fleeing into the kingdom of Granada, where the Moors promise them refuge.” I looked up at her. “They actually prefer to live among infidels? But the Holy Tribunal has only been in Andalucía for six months; surely so few deaths aren’t excessive? Torquemada says the exodus could affect the south’s economy. Trade is fast coming to a halt as conversos abandon their homes and businesses, often without notice.”

“And what does he expect you to do?” said Beatriz. “It’s not as if you can ask the Moors to refuse the conversos entry into their kingdom, though I’ll wager they’re fleecing every last one of their wealth as soon as they cross the border.”

With a frown, I set the report aside. “Well, I must do something. It’s unacceptable for our subjects to flee rather than abide by our dictates. I’ll send him the money and as soon as we reach Zaragoza, issue an order with Fernando forbidding all unauthorized departures from those cities where the Inquisition is at work. As Fernando says, true Christians needn’t fear, for they have nothing to hide.”

“Indeed,” said Beatriz, evidently relieved that my distress at the news had overtaken my worry over my son. I opened the next report and was soon immersed in my work, which, as always, proved an all-engrossing task that kept other concerns at bay. At least here I could direct my path; here, in the minutiae of my kingdom, I was the ultimate arbitrator after God, rarely prey to the helpless anxieties that motherhood often caused.

WE REACHED ZARAGOZA
two days later, arriving under a luminous northern sky that shimmered like silvery canvas over the breadth of the Ebro River, the spindle spires of the Cathedral of San Salvador, and the alabaster bastions of the Aljafería Palace, birthplace of my own ancestress Saint Isabel of Portugal. This would be our official residence for the duration of our stay. The people of Zaragoza celebrated our arrival with days of festivities; several weeks later, exhausted by a schedule of events that included offering piles of flowers to the city’s patron La Virgen del Pilar, Fernando and I proudly watched our son sworn in as heir by Aragón’s Cortes.

We tarried in Zaragoza until November before returning to Castile and our palace of Medina del Campo, where we planned to stay for the winter. Here I discovered that, like Beatriz, I was with child. It was also here, one chill afternoon, that we received the news that would decide our fate.

Fernando lounged by the fire with his hunting dogs at his feet as Isabel and I embroidered an altar cloth we’d been making for the local cathedral. I kept one eye on the group of ladies sewing nearby; with her pregnancy advancing, Beatriz had elected to return to Segovia to be closer to Cabrera and had left in her place a parcel of local noblewomen, most of whom were young and gauche, and therefore in need of constant supervision lest their foolish airs got the better of them and they succumbed to improper behavior. The last thing I needed was to be forced to arrange hasty marriages as reward for wantonness. Among them was one of Beatriz’s distant cousins, María de Bobadilla—a dark-haired, curvaceous beauty with startling green eyes. More sophisticated than the other girls, María understood the value of her assets and had
excited interest among our men within days of her arrival. However, only one man in particular concerned me and I now watched as María coyly directed her gaze at my husband only to find herself pierced by my basilisk stare.

Inés came hurrying in; accompanying her was a cloaked youth, so coated in dust and mud that his livery was almost unrecognizable. He fell to his knees before me, drawing forth from his soiled doublet an equally soiled envelope. “I bring urgent word from the marquis of Cádiz,” he gasped, his voice croaking with exhaustion. “The city of Zahara has fallen to the Moors. My lord fought back and seized the Moorish citadel of Alhama de Granada, but he needs reinforcements urgently, if he is to hold it and avenge Zahara’s fall.”

At my side, my ten-year-old Isabel went still, her beautiful blue-green eyes wide. Fernando sputtered awake, having caught the messenger’s last few words. “Impossible,” he said. “Zahara’s impregnable as a cloister. And Alhama has those famous hot springs; it’s a favored retreat of the caliphs, close as it is to Granada. King Abu al-Hasan Ali would fall on his own sword before he let anyone take Alhama.”

“Yes,” I added, even as my heart started to pound, “and since our war with Portugal we’ve a treaty with King al-Hasan. He’d never break it so flagrantly.”

“Though he’s yet to pay us one nugget of his promised tribute,” remarked Fernando sourly, staggering to his feet to swipe the missive from the messenger. I motioned to Inés, who poured the poor man a goblet of wine while Fernando cracked the parchment’s seal.

He read in silence, his brow furrowed. He lifted astounded eyes to me. “It’s true,” he said, cold fury in his voice. “Zahara has fallen to al-Hasan; that Moorish dog seized it in retaliation for the border skirmishes he’s been having with Cádiz. The Moors slaughtered every man; the women and children are enslaved, taken to the mountain city of Ronda. In return, Cádiz stormed Alhama in a stealth attack. God save him, he has struck at the heart of the Moors’ domain!”

He thrust the paper at me. I took it with trembling hands, my eyes racing over the lines. “ ‘
Ay de mí
, Alhama!’ al-Hasan wailed when he heard of Alhama’s fall,” I read aloud, to the now-silent chamber. A gasp
rose in my throat. “Cádiz claims al-Hasan has leveraged terrible retribution on him and his men, assaulting them with such force that he had to send to his wife and the duke of Medina Sidonia for help.”

The messenger, throat wetted now, said hoarsely, “
Majestad
, my master has kept al-Hasan and his curs at bay thus far, but he’ll need more men if he’s to hold on to Alhama and reclaim Zahara. He also bid me tell you that al-Hasan is estranged from his son Prince Boabdil, who’s thrown al-Hasan out of Granada and claimed his throne; the entire Moorish kingdom is vulnerable because of their quarrels, my master says.”

Isabel whispered, “Are the Moors going to hurt us, Mama?”

Her tremulous voice jolted me out of my horrified daze. “No,” I said quickly, turning to her, “of course not,
hija mía
. They are in Andalucía. We have no Moors here.”

“But we did.” Her wide, frightened eyes met mine. “The Moors once held parts of Castile, didn’t they? What’s to stop them from coming here again?”

I went still. I had no idea how to answer her startling, and horrifying, question.

“We will stop them,” said Fernando. “Your mother and I will drive that entire filthy horde into the sea if it’s the last thing we do.” He looked at me. “Isabella, we cannot delay. We must help Cádiz. And al-Hasan’s discord with Boabdil could work to our favor if we’re quick enough to take advantage of it.”

“Advantage?” I echoed. “Are you saying we … that we should …?”

He nodded; María de Bobadilla clapped her hands in excitement.
“Sí, Majestad!”
she exulted, with no more restraint than a fishwife. “The Moors are vermin. If you don’t exterminate them, they’ll overrun us!”

Isabel blanched; I could see her nights haunted by dreams of turbaned demons, despite the fact that for centuries Granada had been a fractured kingdom, weakened by its own internal discords and sheltered only by its geographic position in the Sierra and lucrative trade with the Turks and other eastern neighbors.

“You are frightening the infanta,” I snapped. María dropped into an apologetic curtsey, treating everyone to a full view of her enticing cleavage.
As I caught Fernando’s eyes lingering on her breasts, I said with more sharpness than I had intended, “My lord husband and I must discuss this in private. Inés, see our messenger attended to; the rest of you, please accompany the infanta to the gallery. I will join you as soon as I can.”

They left Fernando and me alone. Jealousy coiled in the pit of my stomach. I had to force it aside, giving Fernando my full attention as he said, “We must declare the Reconquista, Isabella. I know it’s not the way we hoped it would come about, but we can’t let the infidel claim as much as a single stone on Christian soil. My ancestor Fernando I wrested Zahara from the Moors four hundred years ago; now we must go to its defense.”

A shudder went through me; this was the last thing I’d expected, the last thing I wanted to contemplate. “You know as well as I do that our history is strewn with the mistakes of our ancestors. For every gain made by fighting the Moors, something was lost. The reconquest is always more easily embarked upon than won.”

“We still must try.” He came to me, set his hands on my shoulders. “It is our sacred duty as monarchs, but more than that, it is time we ended eight hundred years of infidel arrogance, of bad treaties, false tribute, and lies. The Moors know, as we do, that this stalemate could not last forever. For centuries, they’ve held on to the best lands in Andalucía, the Mediterranean ports, and the city of Granada itself. Now we must reclaim what is ours.”

I met his fervent gaze. “Can’t we simply side with Boabdil against King al-Hasan and send reinforcements to Cádiz?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what we’ll do! We will use Boabdil to drive a wedge into the heart of the Moorish kingdom, and then, once we’ve weakened them, we will destroy them, utterly. Granada and its riches will be ours.” He let out a crack of laughter, of sheer exultation. “Think of it,
mi luna
—all of Spain will finally be united under one crown, one country, one faith. This is our destiny; we must rise to the challenge and show the world what Isabella and Fernando are made of.”

Everything warned me against this costly, potentially catastrophic enterprise which we had no guarantee of winning. Few kings had ever
succeeded against the Moors, and never completely. But Fernando expressed such fervent impatience to prove our mettle in this, the most important venture of our lives, that I kept my misgivings to myself.

Whatever I said would fall on deaf ears. The uproar at court once news spread of Zahara’s fall was unstoppable; regardless of the immense practical considerations that this enterprise entailed, we had to respond. Besides, Fernando was right: The holy war against the Moors was our destiny. We could not allow them to remain on our soil as rulers, holding in their thrall a rich and coveted portion of our southern domain. I had wanted the war to come about on my terms, after our coffers were full and the rest of our realm was in order; I had wanted to make the decision as to when and where we would fight because I knew from history that such a crusade would be costly, disruptive, and extremely trying.