The Queen's Vow: A Novel of Isabella of Castile (57 page)

Finally he spoke in a trembling voice. “It is blood money. Torquemada is right: We bought our triumph with blood money and now we must atone for it. We must issue the edict, Isabella. No Jew can stay in our realm, lest we too are damned for it.”

I swallowed. My mouth and throat felt as if I had just drunk a cup of sand.

“We bought our triumph with loans,” I managed to say, “like countless kings before us. The Jews have always managed our finances; you know that as well as I. They have been valued advisors, treasurers, and counselors to us. What will we do without them, if they do not choose to convert?”

He passed his hands over his chin; the touch of his fingers bristling his beard was loud in the silence. “Are you saying you can live with it?” He turned his stare to me. “You can live with the fear that we might burn in Hell for eternity because we succored them?”

I did not tremble. I did not look away or evade his question. I met his eyes and I let myself fall into the chasm; I made myself see, feel, and taste the torments he posited, which might be ours if I heeded the reluctance in my heart.

“No,” I whispered, and I bowed my head, as though the burden of the choice had already fallen upon my shoulders. “I cannot live with it. I cannot ask Spain to live with it. But it may mean the exile of their entire people. How can I be responsible for that?”

He reached across our thrones, taking my hand. “We have no other choice.” He lifted my hand to his lips. “Do you need time?” he murmured and I nodded, fighting back a surge of sudden, bitter tears.

“No matter what you decide, I will abide by it,” I heard him say. “It is your decision; it has always been your decision. You are Castile’s queen.”

.  .  .

THAT NIGHT IN
my rooms, where the musk of vanquished odalisques clung to the enameled walls, as the nightingales of Granada keened outside my window, I went before my altar, with its illuminated Book of Hours, wrought gold candlesticks, and soft-faced Virgin with the Christ Child in arms, her mauve robes floating about her as she stood, posed, upon a cloud, ready to ascend….

The Jews had children; they had daughters, sons. They were mothers, fathers, grandparents. Families. Could I do this? Could I, with one stroke of a quill, banish centuries of tradition, of
convivencia
?

It’s always been your decision
.

I remained anchored before the altar all night, until the last of the votives sputtered and extinguished in molten wax, until my body was numb and I could scarcely rise. I struggled against this final act, wondering how it would define my reign, fearing it would destroy my peace of mind and haunt me for the rest of my days. I had always resisted it because of the implications; I had made concessions, sought out any other means at my disposal to resolve the growing abyss between them and us. But now, I no longer had that choice.

If I protected the Jews, I risked alienating the very kingdom I had spent my life fighting to protect; I would deny the very God that had led me to this triumphant hour, the God that had allowed me, a mere woman, a frail vessel of bone and dust, to do what centuries of my ancestors had failed to accomplish—expel the infidel and bring Spain together under one crown, as one country, in one faith.

I risked my immortal soul, which would be all I had in the hour of my death.

Dawn came, limpid and wary as dawn in the mountains is apt to be. That morning after I bathed, broke my fast, and allowed Beatriz to tend to my bleeding knees, I sent word to my ministers to draw up my edict, known as the Alhambra Decree.

By royal command, every Jew who did not convert to the Catholic faith must leave.

“
WHAT?” I LOOKED
wearily up at Chacón. My old steward’s enormous belly ballooned below his loose-cut doublet, and his gait was much slower now, pained by recurrent gout. Yet his mind remained keen as ever, and he still watched faithfully over Juan, shadowing my son’s every move. His appearance at this hour of the afternoon, when most of the court slept away the heat and I attended to my correspondence, signified something of import.

“That navigator,” he repeated, his bushy brows furrowing. “He’s here again. He’s outside, waiting. Apparently he doesn’t understand the meaning of the word ‘no.’ ”

I sighed, glancing at my ink-stained fingers. “Very well, give me a moment.”

As I rose from my chair, Cárdenas glanced up. He was working with Luis de Santángel to devise a lasting solution to our disrupted finances. Though our decree of expulsion would not go into effect until May, its early promulgation throughout Castile had roused widespread chaos, and the payment of taxes and other required tariffs had suffered accordingly.

I’d been personally besieged by appeals from lord mayors and officials from every corner of the realm, all unsure as to my ultimate intent, obliging me to create a systematic method for how the edict would be implemented. Those Jews who chose to leave the kingdom would have to depart by the first of August from one of several designated ports. They were forbidden to take any gold, silver, or minted coin, though other valuables were allowed; they must sell or transfer homes and businesses to verified Christians. I had reluctantly authorized that everyone who chose to leave should be searched at the ports, with any proscribed items hidden on their person confiscated; the potential economic devastation from the loss of taxes and other revenues was a consequence of the decree I was determined to mitigate.

Santángel, a converso himself, had proven of immeasurable assistance. He’d already convinced Rabbi Señeor and his family to accept Holy Baptism, but other influential Jewish leaders, who had collaborated with me for years, supplying my armies and financing my efforts, resisted my decree, prompting many in their communities to do the
same. This exposed the Jews to extortion and other forms of abuse from those officials charged with promulgating the decree and ensuring conformity, though all Jews were, by the same edict, under our royal protection until their departure. I had hardened my heart to the expressions of horrified disbelief, the fear and panic, the wailing in the plazas and implorations for mercy, for I still held out hope that, as in the past, such harsh measures would prompt mass conversions, preventing an actual exodus of these people who had for so long called this land their home.

Nevertheless, regardless of the outcome, Castile was my priority.

My realm must survive.

Inés bustled up to me, attentive as ever to my needs. “Shall I fetch Your Majesty’s shawl? It’s still a bit cold outside.”

I nodded gratefully and passed my dirty hands over my rumpled gown, attempting to smooth out the wrinkles. I let Inés drape the length of thick wool about me and walked with her into my antechamber, thinking as I did that the navigator certainly had a knack for catching me off guard. Fortunately, Fernando was not here; he’d gone hunting. The stifling inactivity of court life after years of crusade had made him surly and impatient and he’d been difficult at best these past few months. I did not want my husband to direct his temper against Master Colón, who, after all, was not to blame for our continued indecision regarding his enterprise.

As I entered the hall, Colón went to one knee. I motioned for him to rise, noting as he did that he was thinner than the last time I had seen him, though his doublet and cape were of much finer quality—costly black velvet that would have suited any grandee. His pale blue eyes were arresting as ever, as was his voice.

“Majestad,”
he declared, without preamble, “I’ve waited six years for your answer.”

“Answer?” I gave him a vague smile. “But I am told that my committee had assured you that, while admirable in intent, your plan to sail the Ocean Sea is too unfounded and too risky. Indeed, it might ultimately cost you your life.”

“Danger, as you know, does not scare me” was his reply. “And you’ve
continued to provide me with a stipend, despite your committee’s recommendations to cease. Perhaps I am mistaken, but I was of the belief that the queen of Castile makes her own decisions.”

I gave him a pensive look. Beatriz sat sewing in an alcove nearby with Juana; both eyed us with undisguised fascination. Beatriz had always found the navigator an object of curiosity, and I could tell that Juana, a fellow adventurer at heart, shared her interest.

“Come,” I said. “Let us walk in the garden.”

We exited through the Patio of the Lions, toward the fountain ringed by the carved stone beasts. He seemed at ease walking beside me, as if we were alone, without an entourage of attendants at our heels. I was again struck by his effortless carriage; he had the air of a man who believed he was entitled to an important place in the world.

The spring day was brisk, as often happened in the mountains, but at least there was none of the torrential rain that inundated Andalucía this time of year. I was glad of the wan sun, even if it provided little warmth. I shut my eyes, lifting my chin to let the light touch my face. I felt an age had passed since I had been outdoors, away from my responsibilities.

When I started to attention, I found Colón regarding me with bemusement.

“You will not do it,” he said.

I shook my head. “I cannot. It … it is still not the right time. I know I told you this before, but we’ve pressing commitments, so much yet to do. It’s not feasible. Even if we could afford it, many who advise us think the idea would be madness.”

“I should think you can heed whatever advice you choose,” he replied, “seeing as some would also say your own actions from the beginning are a form of madness.”

My voice hardened. “Do you dare reproach me?”

The sun highlighted his balding pate as he inclined his head. He was losing his tawny hair; like me, he had aged. This poignant reminder of our shared mortality moved through me like a presentiment.

“I would never presume,” he said. “What I meant was, you act according to your conscience and have proven a worthier monarch than
any of your predecessors because of it. I have no doubt your reign will become legendary. I only wish I could play some small part in it.”

My anger melted away. “I too wish for it,” I said softly. “You are welcome to stay with us; I can secure you a position of influence at court. I’m certain you’d be of value to us.”

His smile did not touch his eyes. “Thank you,
Majestad
, but I fear that as your heart belongs to Castile, mine seeks the sea.” He bowed low, though I’d not given him leave to depart. Before I realized what he was doing, I felt his strong fingers pry my own apart, setting something small into my palm.

He left swiftly. I stood there, silent. Only after he disappeared did I lower my eyes to see what he had given me, the object still warm from the heat of his hands.

A miniature galleon sculpted of pale rose gold.

My vision blurred. I heard myself call out, “Stop him. Bring him back.”

Chacón hustled off. Beatriz remarked archly, “I do believe my lady has a secret.”

Turning away from her, I pressed the tiny galleon to my heart. And I smiled.

ON FRIDAY, AUGUST 3, 1492
, Don Cristóbal Colón—newly entitled as High Admiral and newly appointed a noble of our court—departs the port of Palos. He travels with three ships—the
Niña
, the
Pinta
, and the
Santa María
. Serenaded by his crew, he stands at the prow of the
Santa María
, the wind ruffling his silvery hair. He looks ahead, always ahead, to the horizon.

I imagine him sailing downstream, past the monastery where his son studies his letters, crossing the River Saltes to reach that first expanse of salt-steeped water, whose currents will guide him past our Canary Islands into the immensity of the Ocean Sea.

I have no way of knowing what he will find, if anything; whether he will succeed in discovering his elusive passage or encounter endless storms and enormous white-capped waves, where ships flounder and sea dragons roam. He goes armed only with his faith and his dreams—much
as a young infanta did many years ago when she first left her home in Arévalo for a destiny unknown.

No, I cannot say what Colón will find. But of one thing I am certain: He will return. We are alike, he and I; once, long ago, no one believed I was destined for greatness.

Now, I am Isabella, Queen of Spain.

AUTHOR’S AFTERWORD