The Queen's Vow: A Novel of Isabella of Castile (2 page)

The knowing smile he gave me sent a chill down my spine.

The archbishop gathered me in his arms, marching from the room as though there was nothing of any importance left there for us. Over his thick shoulder, I saw the courtiers and grandees converge around the bed; I heard the monks’ chants grow louder and saw Enrique incline intently, almost eagerly, over the moribund king.

In that moment, our father, Juan II, breathed his last.

WE DID NOT
return to my rooms. Held tight against the archbishop’s powerful chest, I watched in a daze as he brusquely motioned to my
aya
, waiting outside the apartment doors, and brought us down the spiral back staircase into the keep. An anemic moon in the night sky barely pierced the veil of cloud and mist.

As we emerged from the castle’s protective shadow, the archbishop peered toward the postern gate, a darker square inset in the far curtain wall.

“Where are they?” he said in a taut voice.

“I … I don’t know,” quavered Doña Clara. “I sent word just as you bade me, telling Her Highness to meet us here. I hope something hasn’t happened to—”

He held up a hand. “I think I see them.” He stepped forward; I felt him stiffen as the hasty sound of slippers on cobblestones reached us. He let out a sharp exhalation when he saw the figures moving toward us, led by my mother. She was pale, the hood of her cloak bunched about her slim shoulders, sweat-drenched auburn hair escaping her coif. Behind her were her wide-eyed Portuguese ladies and Don Gonzalo Chacón, governor of my one-year-old brother, whom he cradled in his burly arms. I wondered why we were all here, outside in the dead of night. My brother was so young, and it was cold.

“Is he …?” said my mother breathlessly.

Carrillo nodded. A sob cracked my mother’s voice, her startling blue-green eyes fixed on me in the archbishop’s arms. She held out her hands. “Isabella,
hija mía
.”

Carrillo let me down. Unexpectedly, I did not want to leave him. But I shifted forth, my oversized cloak draping me in a shapeless cocoon. I curtsied as I’d been taught to do whenever I was presented to my beautiful mother, as I’d always done on the rare times I was brought to her before the court. She cast back my hood, her wide-set blue-green eyes meeting mine. Everyone said I had my mother’s eyes, only mine were a darker hue.

“My child,” she whispered, and I detected a quivering desperation in her tone. “My dearest daughter, all we have now is each other.”

“Your Highness must concentrate on what is important,” I heard Carrillo say. “Your children must be kept safe. With your husband the king’s demise, they are—”

“I know what my children are,” interrupted my mother. “What I want to know is how much longer do we have, Carrillo? How much time before we must abandon everything we’ve known for a forgotten refuge in the middle of nowhere?”

“A few hours at best” was the archbishop’s flat reply. “The bells have not yet rung because such an announcement takes time to prepare.” He paused. “But it will come soon enough, by the morning at the latest. You must place your trust in me. I promise you, I’ll see to it that you and the infantes are kept from harm.”

My mother turned her gaze to him, pressed a hand to her mouth as if to stifle her laughter. “How will you do that? Enrique of Trastámara is about to become king. If my eyes haven’t deceived me these many years, he’ll prove as susceptible to his favorites as Juan ever was. What safety can you possibly provide us, save a company of your guards and sanctuary in a convent? Yes, why not? A nunnery is no doubt best suited for the hated foreign widow and her brood.”

“Children cannot be raised in a convent,” Carrillo said. “Nor should they be separated at such a tender age from their mother. Your son, Alfonso, is now Enrique’s heir by law until his wife bears him a child. I assure you, the Council will not see the infantes’ rights impugned. In fact, they’ve agreed to let you raise the prince and his sister in the castle of Arévalo in Ávila, which shall be given to you as part of your widow’s dower.”

Silence fell. I stood quiet, observing the glazed look that came over my mother’s face as she echoed, “Arévalo,” as if she had heard wrong.

Carrillo went on, “His Majesty’s testament leaves ample provision for the infantes, with separate towns to be granted to each of them upon their thirteenth year. I promise you shall not want for anything.”

My mother’s gaze narrowed. “Juan barely saw our children. He never cared about them. He never cared about anyone except that awful man, Constable Luna. Yet now you say he left provision for them. How can you possibly know this?”

“I was his confessor, remember? He heeded my advice because he feared the fires of everlasting Hell if he did not.” The sudden intensity in Carrillo’s tone made me glance at him. “But I cannot protect you if you do not place your trust in me. In Castile, it is customary for a widowed queen to retire from the court, but she doesn’t usually get to keep her children, especially when the new king lacks an heir. That is why you must leave tonight. Take only the infantes and what you can carry. I’ll send the rest of your possessions as soon as I’m able. Once you’re in
Arévalo and the king’s testament is proclaimed, no one will dare touch you, not even Enrique.”

“I see. But you and I were never friends, Carrillo. Why risk yourself for my sake?”

“Let us say I offer you a favor,” he said, “in exchange for a favor.”

This time, my mother couldn’t suppress her bitter laughter. “What favor can I grant you, the wealthiest prelate in Castile? I’m a widow on a pension, with two small children and a household to feed.”

“You will know when the time comes. Rest assured, it will not be to your disadvantage.” With these words, Carrillo turned to instruct her servants, who had overheard everything and stood staring at us with wide, fearful eyes.

I slowly reached up to take my mother’s hand. I had never dared touch her before without leave. To me, she’d always been a beautiful but distant figure in glittering gowns, laughter spilling from her lips, surrounded by fawning admirers—a mother to be loved from afar. Now she looked as if she had walked miles across a stony landscape, her expression so anguished it made me wish I was older, bigger; that somehow I could be strong enough to protect her from the cruel fate that had taken my father from her.

“It’s not your fault, Mama,” I said. “Papa went to Heaven. That’s why we must leave.”

She nodded, tears filling her eyes as she gazed into some unseen distance.

“And we’re going to Ávila,” I added. “It’s not far, is it, Mama?”

“No,” she said softly, “not far,
hija mía;
not far at all….”

But I could tell that for her, it was already a lifetime away.

 

CHAPTER ONE

H
old the reins firmly, Isabella. Don’t let him sense your fear. If he does, he’ll think he’s in control and he’ll try to throw you.”

Perched atop the elegant black stallion, I nodded, gripping the reins. I could feel the taut leather through the weather-worn tips of my gloves. Belatedly I thought I should have let Beatriz’s father, Don Pedro de Bobadilla, buy me the new gloves he had offered for my recent thirteenth birthday. Instead, pride—a sin I tried hard, but usually failed, to overcome—had refused to let me admit our penury by accepting the gift, though he lived with us and surely knew quite well how impoverished we were. Just as pride hadn’t let me refuse my brother’s challenge that it was time I learned to ride a proper horse.

So, here I sat, with old leather gloves that felt thin as silk to protect my hands, atop a magnificent animal. Though it was not a large horse it was still frightening; the creature shifted and pawed the ground as though it were ready to bolt at any moment, regardless of whether I could stay on or not.

Alfonso shook his head, leaning from his roan to pry my fingers further apart, so that the reins draped through them.

“Like that,” he said. “Firm, but not so firm that you’ll injure his mouth. And remember to sit straight when you canter and lean forward at a gallop. Canela isn’t one of those stupid mules you and Beatriz ride. He’s a purebred Arabian jennet, worthy of a caliph. He needs to know his rider is in charge at all times.”

I straightened my spine, settling my buttocks on the embossed saddle. I felt light as a thistle. Though I was of an age when most girls begin to develop, I remained so flat and thin that my friend and lady-in-waiting Beatriz, Don Bobadilla’s daughter, was constantly cajoling me to eat more. She eyed me now with concern, her significantly more
curvaceous figure so gracefully erect upon her dappled gelding that it seemed she’d been riding one her entire life, her thick black hair coiled above her aquiline features under a fillet and veil.

She said to Alfonso, “I assume Your Highness has ensured this princely jennet of yours is properly broken. We wouldn’t want anything untoward to happen to your sister.”

“Of course he’s broken. Don Chacón and I broke him ourselves. Isabella will be fine. Won’t you,
hermana
?”

Even as I nodded, near-paralyzing doubt overcame me. How could I possibly be expected to show this beast that
I
was in charge? As if he sensed my thoughts, Canela pranced sideways. I let out a gasp, yanking at the reins. He came to a snorting halt, ears flattened, clearly displeased at the effort I’d exerted on his bit.

Alfonso winked at me. “See? She can handle him.” He looked at Beatriz. “Do you need any assistance, my lady?” he asked, in a jocular tone that hinted at his years of verbal sparring with our castle custodian’s headstrong only daughter.

“I can manage fine, thank you,” said Beatriz tartly. “Indeed, Her Highness and I will both be fine as soon as we get a feel for these Moorish steeds of yours. Lest you forget, we have ridden before, even if our mounts were, as you say, only stupid mules.”

Alfonso chuckled, pivoting on his roan with practiced ease for his mere ten years. His brilliant blue eyes glistened; his thick fair hair, shorn bluntly at his shoulders, enhanced his full, handsome face. “And lest you forget,” he said, “I’ve been riding every day since I was five. It is experience that makes for good horsemanship.”

“True,” rumbled Alfonso’s governor, Don Chacón, from his own massive horse. “The Infante Alfonso is already an accomplished equestrian. Riding is second nature to him.”

“We don’t doubt it,” I interjected before Beatriz could respond. I forced out a smile. “I believe we’re ready, brother. But, pray, not too fast.”

Alfonso nudged his roan forward, leading the way out of Arévalo’s enclosed inner courtyard, under the portcullis and through the main gates.

I shot a disapproving look at Beatriz.

Of course, this was all her doing. Bored by our daily regimen of lessons, prayer, and needlework, she had announced this morning that we must get some exercise, or we would turn into crones before our time. We’d been cooped up indoors too long, she said, which was true enough, winter having been particularly harsh this year. And when she asked our governess, Doña Clara, for permission, my
aya
had agreed because riding for us invariably consisted of taking the castle’s elderly mules on a leisurely jaunt around the curtain wall surrounding the castle and its adjoining township for an hour before supper.

But after I changed into my riding clothes and went with Beatriz into the courtyard, I found Alfonso standing there with Don Chacón and two impressive stallions—gifts sent by our half brother, King Enrique. The black horse was for me, Alfonso said. His name was Canela.

I had suppressed my alarm as I mounted the stallion with the aid of a footstool. I was even more alarmed, however, when it became clear I was expected to ride astride,
a la jineta
, the way the Moors did, perched on the narrow leather saddle with the stirrups drawn up high—an unfamiliar and unsettling sensation.

“An odd name for a horse,” I’d remarked, to disguise my apprehension. “Cinnamon is a light color, while this creature is black as night.”