The Queen's Vow: A Novel of Isabella of Castile (13 page)

He had gone mad. He was actually going to do it. He was going to dance.

“This dance,” he said, raking his hair from his brow, “is one the peasants perform after the harvest, to celebrate nature’s bounty.”

And a peasant dance, no less, of pagan origin! I should walk away. This was unseemly.
He
was unseemly. But I couldn’t. I remained locked in place, riveted by his sturdy, confident body as he threw back his shoulders, arms akimbo, and with a loud trill from his lips, leapt up and crisscrossed his legs in swift, razor-sharp precision.

“It symbolizes the sheaving of the wheat,” he called to me, as he swirled about, while still executing the amazing kicks and leaps. “Come! I’ll show you.”

He held out a hand, beckoning. I couldn’t believe what I was doing even as I moved toward him. There could be courtiers watching us from the palace windows, scandalized; anyone passing through the cloisters might see. By now, I was certain Beatriz had been alerted and was at this very moment watching, openmouthed, as I reached for Fernando’s hand and felt his hot fingers enclose mine.

He was sweating, his grin wide. “Those skirts will trip you,” he said, raising an eyebrow at my gown.

I froze.

He leaned to me. He whispered, “Be brave, Isabella.”

My throat had gone dry. With a few deft movements, I bent over, gathered up my trailing skirts and tied them to the side of my calf in a knot. I looked at him.

“You’ve done that before,” he said, his gaze roving with unmistakable insolence over my ivory-hosed ankles. I did not like my bony ankles; they made my feet look too big.

“Contrary to what you may think about pampered infantas,” I replied, with enough tartness in my voice to bring his eyes back to mine, “I did grow up in a working castle, with livestock. Mud and muck were a daily hazard. And I have few dresses to spoil.”

He bowed, moving next to me, one arm sliding about my waist. “It’s easier than it looks,” he murmured, so close I could smell the salt of his skin. “Just follow me.”

At first, I almost fell, so fast and sudden was his leap, followed by that complicated leg movement. I clumsily managed it the second time, to his clap of encouragement; then, as he again hummed his wordless tune, which reminded me of the piping of goatherds on a windswept cliff, he took my hand in his, turned me so we faced each other, and
said, “To the beat of three, we leap together, kick, swivel, and do it again.”

“Impossible,” I said, as I braced myself, closing my eyes to better catch the nuance in his tune. When I heard the lilt and felt the pressure of his fingers tighten, I caught my breath. I jumped, kicking my legs back and forth. As we touched the ground, I turned with him so quickly my headdress almost flew off. And then I lost all sense of myself, of what was proper and what was not. With my blood beating in my ears, I heard my laughter burst from me like a long-captive bird set free, and we did it again.

Then we stood panting, hands entwined, as the water in the fountain splashed its applause. The throbbing in my ears subsided as Fernando met my gaze. A cloud drifted overhead, veiling the sun. In the interplay of sudden shadow and light I saw how he might appear years from now, in adulthood, when his cheeks grew more angular, his brow broader, but still with those lively eyes and that exuberant air. I had the sense that however how old he became, his smile would never change.

“You’re blushing.” Removing his hand, he lifted it to my face. “You’ve such fair skin, white as the moon….”

I did not move. I let his fingertips graze my skin, welcoming the tendrils of heat he sent spiraling through my veins, until everything inside me tingled.

A cacophony of bells rang out from the cathedral, heralding midday and sparing me a response. Behind me I heard a clatter of footsteps. Fernando stepped back. Turning, I saw Beatriz hustling to me, her reddened cheeks making her look as flustered as I felt. Cabrera stood by the bench, a bewildered expression on his face. Could it be they had not seen us, so engrossed in each other that only the bells had alerted them to propriety?

“My lady, please forgive me.” Beatriz dipped into one of her awkward curtseys. “Time got away with me. Are you finished walking? Have you been waiting long?” Her questions were hasty, but I detected the mirth in her voice, indicating that while she may have been otherwise entertained, she had indeed seen us.

“No,” I said, wondering if my delight was as transparent as hers, “not long….” As I spoke the haze of the dance dissipated, like scented
smoke or a lovely dream. I wanted to grasp it in my hands before it slipped away, encase it in nacre, a rare pearl. For a moment, I felt as though I hadn’t an obligation in the world, a single worry or fear or doubt.

For a moment that was quickly escaping me, I had been free.

“I’m afraid we must go,” I said softly to Fernando. “We are due to hear Sext and then we must change for the banquet. Will I see you in the hall later?”

“I regret to say, no,” he replied. “My servants must be wondering where I’ve gotten to; we were due to leave long before Sext. The trip to Aragón will take at least two days.”

“Oh.” I forced out a smile, despite my disappointment. “Thank you. It’s been a delight, cousin. I do hope we will meet again.”

“As do I, my infanta.” I did not miss the emphasis he placed on “my” as he bowed over my hand. Beatriz jabbed me; I shot a glare at her. Fernando said to her, “My lady de Bobadilla, a pleasure,” and she curtsied, simpering, “An honor, Your Highness.”

He looked into my eyes. “I will write.”

And before I could utter a word he strode back through the garden toward his rooms, as though he’d trod upon the unfamiliar winding paths a hundred times before.

I watched him disappear into the palace; I had to curb the urge to call out to him, to tell him he was right. I had liked the dance, very much.

“He pleases you,” Beatriz said.

I nodded, feigning nonchalance. “He’s rather entertaining, for a boy.”

“He won’t be a boy for long. And he’s bold, for one so young.”

“Indeed, and you appear to have enjoyed your chat with Don Cabrera.”

I took satisfaction in watching her flush deepen, even as she tossed her head and said with a flippant air, “Cabrera? Bah. He means nothing to me.”

AFTER SEXT, WE
returned to our rooms and hastily changed into our court gowns. As we returned to the alcazar, I mentioned to Beatriz that
I could see how we’d need a more extensive wardrobe, given the amount of functions we apparently were expected to attend. But the idea of asking Mencia de Mendoza or the queen for assistance, especially after I’d so impulsively turned it away already, was not pleasant to contemplate.

“Perhaps we could ask Andrés—I mean, Don Cabrera—for his mother’s help,” Beatriz said. “She’s been so kind to us. I’m sure she’d be happy to oblige.”

I nodded. “Indeed, and maybe she can also help us make the gowns. With the right patterns, I can do well enough. Your stitches, however, are about as hopeless as your curtsey.”

She scowled. “As if anyone cares what I wear.”

“Don Andrés de Cabrera seems to,” I replied.

She set her hands on her hips with an indignant air. “Are you going to tease me about him all day? If so, please let me know now so I can ignore you.”

“Such a temper you have.” I kissed her cheek. “Forgive me. I promise, I’ll not mention it again.”

“Good. For there’s nothing to mention: I found him entertaining, is all.” She winked at me and we both choked back our giggles as we entered the hall, the floor strewn with rosemary-scented rushes crunching under our feet.

I made my way to the dais, where Alfonso was already seated beside Enrique and the queen. Juana’s snide regard as I breathlessly assumed my seat made me think I’d best watch my time more accurately from now on. Thus far, I appeared to always be running late.

The queen wore a purple velvet gown designed solely to display her perfect cleavage; clasped about her throat was a shimmering diamond-and-pearl necklace that caught the light with fiery luster. Catching me staring at it—for I’d never seen such magnificent jewels—she touched it knowingly and purred, “Do you like it?”

“It’s very beautiful.” I did not add that it also looked incredibly expensive.

“A token from Enrique, to celebrate our daughter’s birth.” She cast an indulgent smile at the king before she returned her gaze to me. The cordial exasperation in her tone barely masked her contempt. “Isn’t that the same gown you wore last night? Isabella, my dear, you really must
allow me to see to your wardrobe. You should appear as befits your rank at all times. This isn’t Arévalo; at court, appearances are very important.”

It was as though she had thrown cold water on me. How did she know I’d just been worrying over this very issue? For a moment, I remembered how Fernando had looked at me as we danced in the garden, the admiration in his eyes. He hadn’t seemed to care what I was wearing.

Enrique gave me a timorous smile. “Yes, Isabella, do let Juana help you. She knows all the latest fashions.”

“And,” she added, with a hint of malice in her honeyed voice, “I can also give you some of my older jewelry to wear. Every princess must have pretty jewels, yes?”

I averted my eyes. “Your Highness is most kind. I’d be honored.”

“Of course you would.” She turned her attention to the hall as servitors entered with the first dishes. I assumed she and Enrique must have settled whatever differences they’d had the day before, because she laughed and whispered with him as if nothing untoward had occurred. I also noted that her handsome dance partner from the previous night, Beltrán de la Cueva, dined with her ladies and was paying conspicuous attention to Mencia de Mendoza. In the light of day, he was even more striking, his rich azure doublet slashed in the Italian style, the sleeves and collar of his shirt peeping through gores rimmed in tiny diamonds. But the queen acted as if she didn’t see him at all and I soon became preoccupied by Alfonso’s unusual silence.

Finally, I asked him how his day had gone.

“Fine.” He jabbed a piece of roast venison with his knife.

“You don’t sound fine.” I eyed him. “What’s wrong? Are they making you study too hard? If you want, I could ask Archbishop Carrillo to let me help you—”

His voice flared. “You don’t understand anything, Isabella. You’re just a silly girl.”

Enrique glanced at us. I tried to force out a smile, though I was hurt by my brother’s unexpected attack. He’d always been carefree, rarely given to moods. All of a sudden he seemed like a stranger and I found
myself fighting back a horrifying surge of tears. The last thing I wanted to do after being called a silly girl was to cry like one.

“Now, Alfonso,” said the king, betraying that he’d overheard us. “I’m sure Isabella is just concerned for you and—”

A loud bang of the hall doors preceded the marquis of Villena, accompanied by his gigantic brother Girón and six of their retainers. As they stalked toward us, the hiss of Girón unsheathing his sword sounded like a serpent in the sudden silence.

Alfonso went rigid; under the table, I felt him grip my knee. Enrique likewise froze on his throne. When the grandees came before the dais, the queen let out a frightened yelp and Beltrán de la Cueva leapt from his chair.

Villena smiled. Girón swerved on the queen’s favorite, narrowly missing him with the broad swing of his sword.

“Whoreson,” spat Girón. “Get one inch closer and I’ll skewer you alive and feed you to my dogs.”

Cueva was unarmed; no courtier by law was allowed to bear weapons before the king. He stood panting, realizing too late his mistake. Girón made a menacing gesture. As Mencia and the ladies scrambled out of the way, Girón delivered a resounding blow to Cueva’s face with his fist that sent the favorite sprawling across the table, cutlery and goblets and platters smashing to the floor.

The queen wailed. The Moorish sentries rushed from the wall, scimitars in hand, to form a barrier before the dais. Enrique gripped the armrests of his throne.

“What … what is the meaning of this, my lord marquis?” he quavered.

Villena pointed to Cueva, who was sodden with spilt wine and food, his face already showing a massive bruise. A weeping Mencia helped him to his feet. Courtiers had backed away, some of them running to the far doors as though they anticipated a conflagration.

Villena’s voice rang out. “You’d give that prancing fool the mastership of Santiago, the highest military order in Castile. After everything I have done for you, you’d accord him an honor that by all rights belongs to me!”

“How dare you—” shrieked Juana but she was cut off by Enrique.

“You forget yourself, lord marquis. I am king here. I honor whomever I please.”

“Honor who pleases your Portuguese whore is more like it,” said Villena. Icy hatred gleamed in his yellow-green eyes as he and Enrique stared at each other. There was history between them, tortured and shared—history I knew nothing about. But I could not believe any grandee, no matter how offended, would dare behave like this before his sovereign.

“She’s not yours,” Villena said. “That babe you have made your heir is not yours. I thought you didn’t know, but now I see you do. You must, for only a knowing cuckold would bestow titles on his wife’s man-whore.”

“Yes,” added Girón, spraying spit as he eyed the sentries, his fist clenching his sword as if he longed to lunge at the impassive Moors. “You can hide behind your infidel filth all you like, but in the end God’s truth
will
prevail!”

For a terrifying instant I thought Enrique would order his sentries to cut the marquis, his brother, and their men down; but he only stood there, trembling, his bewildered expression revealing he couldn’t believe any of this was happening.

“Do something,” Juana hissed at him. “Arrest them. They are lying; it is treason.”

“Is it?” said Enrique coldly. She recoiled. He looked at Villena. “You have my leave to depart this court if you no longer agree with my policies. But let me warn you, treason will not be tolerated, no matter how righteous you may think the cause.”

“I’ll remember that,” said Villena. With a mocking bow, he turned and made his way out. Girón brandished his sword again at Cueva, whose bruised face drained to sickly white. Then the marquis’s brother trudged out, barking lewd comments at a group of terrified court women huddled by the doors.