The Queen's Vow: A Novel of Isabella of Castile (23 page)

“His Majesty would have a word with Your Highness,” Villena informed me in his irritatingly nasal voice, after a bow that was so cursory it bordered on insulting. “It is a matter of some urgency. Would tomorrow morning suit?”

I assented; relieved he’d made no move to escort me to the floor. “Naturally. Tell His Majesty I am at his disposal.”

“That,” he replied, “remains to be seen.” Before I could respond he walked back to Enrique. As they whispered, Enrique looked at me for the first time that day.

The mistrust in his eyes chilled me to my bones.

I COULDN’T REST
that night. I paced my rooms in the alcazar while poor Inés looked on, not knowing what to say or do to soothe me. She and I had not yet established a rapport, and though she served me with devotion, she was not my Beatriz. All she could think to do was brew endless drafts of chamomile, which, instead of producing their intended drowsiness, obliged me to pass water every half hour.

The walls of this gilded cage, where I had spent so much lonely and anguished time in my youth, seemed to close in around me. I kept seeing Queen Juana’s malicious smile in my mind, hearing Mencia de Mendoza’s triumphant laughter. Carrillo’s words repeated in my head like the dread roll of an execution drum:
They will take you prisoner
.

Why had I come here, when I knew what Enrique was capable of? I should have given Beatriz my gift in Ocaña, explained I could not see her wed in person. She would have understood; no one desired my safety more than she. But instead I’d disdained Carrillo’s warning. With habitual obstinacy, I’d refused to consider even for a minute that Enrique
might go back on his word. Now I was trapped in his alcazar, just as I’d been during Alfonso’s rebellion, with only Cárdenas and Chacón to protect me. Carrillo was miles away; even if I sent word now, by the time he cajoled his allies to action, it would be too late.

I would be captive once again.

By the time dawn crept over the horizon, I was ready to bolt from Segovia in my shift. I made myself take slow deep breaths as Inés dressed me. I chose a sedate blue velvet gown with draping canary-yellow sleeves and had Ines coil my hair into a tourmaline-studded net. Over my shoulders and bosom went an opaque silk partlet, edged in black lace-work. The regalia afforded me a sense of protection as Cárdenas and Chacón escorted me to the private
sala
where Enrique awaited me.

As we neared the oak double doors set below an elaborate arabesque, I said to Chacón, “If I do not come out in an hour, send Cárdenas to the archbishop’s palace at once.”

Chacón nodded, and Cárdenas’s beautiful green eyes fixed on me in adoration. I knew he would run barefoot to Yepes, if necessary, to alert Carrillo, and I felt a measure of relief that I was not without friends.

I entered the room to find Villena and Enrique waiting for me. There were no others present—no guards or attendants or hovering secretaries. I straightened my shoulders as I came before them. The very fact that I had been summoned here and they had cleared the room of prying ears and eyes indicated I was about to be dealt an upset.

“You have deceived me,” Enrique declared, without preamble.

I met his gaze, recalling how quickly and irrationally his suspicions could escalate. “Deceived you?” I said, feigning calm. “How so, my lord brother?”

“You lied to me. You said you would obey me in all matters, but then you went behind my back to seek betrothal with Fernando of Aragón. Please, do not try to deny it. We intercepted several of your letters, though after we read them we resealed them and let them go on to King Juan.” He tapped a finger on his throne’s gilded armrest. “You are evidently very committed to the prince and I too, as you know, am fond of him, but, of course, I cannot allow it. You will not marry anyone without my permission.”

Standing behind the throne, Villena smiled.

I stood silent, stunned. They had found out. How naïve I had been! I should have known they would be watching me like hawks. What would they do now? How could I escape whatever trap they had prepared for me?

When I finally spoke, I sounded hoarse. “I regret to have caused you distress, but by the terms of our treaty I do retain the right—”

“No.” Enrique cut me off. “You have no right save that which I see fit to give you.” He regarded me with an icy composure that was far more disconcerting than his previous flares of temper. He’d obviously been waiting a long time to enact this revenge; he was wilier than anyone had supposed. He had fooled us all.

“That treaty of ours,” he continued, “was a farce, a grave insult to my dignity. I should have arrested the traitors and beheaded the lot. They left me a beggar in my own realm, forced to seek terms with those who abused my trust. I was humiliated.”

This time, I could not stop myself from taking a step back as he stood, looming over me with his shoulders hunched, so immense he seemed to fill the room.

“Your brother should have died on the scaffold,” he said. “He escaped my wrath but you, beloved sister—you shall not, not if you dare defy me again.”

I couldn’t take my gaze from him, not even when I heard Villena drawl, “The king was forced to sign the treaty of Guisando under duress. Princess Joanna, his child by his queen, is by right of birth the true heiress of Castile.”

I said to Enrique, “So now you once again believe she is your daughter?”

He bit his lip; he’d not forgotten his confession to me years ago. But before I could exploit the advantage, Villena added, “But we are willing to keep you in the succession if you agree to marry where we deem fit.”

“We?”
I turned to him in stony disbelief.

“Yes.” Villena tripped to a side table and took up a red leather portfolio. He brandished it in my direction. “Your Highness shall wed Afonso V, king of Portugal.”

While his pronouncement was not unexpected—the queen had espoused this match for me before—it felt as if I’d been kicked in the
stomach. Enrique had taken the path he knew I was least likely to accept, which meant there could be no doubt he sought revenge. Captivity would have been preferable; at least in a prison, I could hope for rescue. But marriage to the Portuguese king, often called El Africano for his seafaring exploits, brother to Queen Juana—it was exactly what Carrillo had warned me against. I would be a prisoner for life, barred from inheriting Castile, while Villena turned the realm into his private trough.

“No.” I spoke before I knew it, a sudden core of strength taking shape inside me. “Absolutely not. Though I owe fealty to my king, I can never consent to such a match.”

“Who are you, to speak thus?” spat Villena. “If we say you’ll wed King Afonso, then you will. By all that is holy, either you obey us or you will suffer the consequences.”

I met his stare. “By all that is holy, my lord,
you
are not my king.”

“But I am.” Enrique stared hard at me. “I am your king and brother; and I say you will do this. In fact, I command it.”

I regarded him in silence. I saw nothing in his stance to denote any loss of control brought on through weeks of manipulation by Villena. Enrique was treating me as if I were one of his helpless creatures in his menageries, though I suspected he would have felt more for a captive animal’s suffering than he did for mine.

In that moment my last remnant of affection for him, which I’d tried so hard to retain, which had kept me from assuming Alfonso’s cause and inured me to Carrillo’s disdain, was extinguished. I saw only a man unworthy to rule this ancient realm and I was not afraid anymore. Not of him.

“I will consider this request, as it comes from my king,” I said, ignoring Villena. “Now, by your leave, may I depart for my house in Ocaña? The air here does not suit me.”

Villena started to bark something but Enrique held up his hand. “No,” he replied, without looking away from me. “Let her go. Send an escort with her to Ocaña. I believe she can just as easily consider my orders from there.”

“Sire, she will try to escape,” said Villena. “Remember, she is a liar; like all women, she has Eve’s own cunning. Keep her here, under guard,
until spring, when we are due to negotiate the terms of our Portuguese alliance—”

“I will not escape,” I interrupted, keeping my gaze fixed on Enrique. “You have my solemn word as your sister.”

He returned my stare for a long moment before he gave a curt nod. I sank to the floor in a curtsey. If they thought they’d cajoled me into submission, so be it.

For I would never let them seize control of my fate.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

V
illena undertook my escort to Ocaña, along with two hundred armed men. I kept my head high as we entered the city, where the people had gathered to welcome me back, the women and children with bouquets of autumn flowers and the men with their caps doffed. Their spontaneous cheers sputtered and faded when they saw me surrounded by pikes and helmets; their surprise soon turned to outright alarm when they found themselves playing unwilling host to Villena’s posse, who would remain in Ocaña to ensure I did not flee.

Villena may not have dared to set his men in my palace but he’d managed to lure Mencia de Mendoza back into service. I found her waiting in my rooms the moment I entered. As she swept into a curtsey, she announced that she had been appointed my matron of honor by the king, now that Beatriz resided in Segovia with her husband.

Inés scowled. Our adventures at court had finally created a bond between us and her spine was rigid at the sight of the woman who had first hired her to spy and whom she had turned against in order to serve me.

“You will not attend my lady in her bedchamber,” she announced. “That is my duty.”

Mencia’s lips pursed. She was about to say something no doubt disagreeable about her noble status and Inés’s utter lack thereof, when I stopped her cold. “You will see to our supper now, Doña de la Cueva.” My deliberate use of her married name and the order to perform a menial task did not go unnoticed; with another, stiffer curtsey, she stormed off.

“Sweet Mother save us,” said Inés as she unfastened my cloak. “Why is she here?”

“The same reason she first sent you to me: to spy, of course.” I went
to my oak desk, wondering if Mencia had already rifled through it. Before I had left for court, I’d hidden a portfolio with copies of my letters to Fernando and his replies, as well as copies of the archbishop’s correspondence with King Juan of Aragón, and my own with Torquemada; it was all in a secret compartment under the bottom drawer. To my relief, I saw that Mencia had not yet found it. But now that she was here, nothing in my palace would remain private for long.

“Inés,” I said, and she turned to me, alert. I handed her the portfolio. “Give this to Cárdenas. Tell him to hide it in the stables.” I allowed myself a smile. “I believe Mencia thinks of herself as too much of a lady to go digging in horse muck.”

Inés left. Alone in my chambers, I paced. What was I going to do? What
could
I do? With Villena’s men scattered throughout the city and Mencia in my house, how was I going to elude their trap? Villena had returned to Segovia, but only after threatening me with an unpleasant end if I dared leave Ocaña for any reason. Winter approached; nothing of import could transpire while the winds and snows blew, but by March, at the latest, they would meet with the Portuguese. They could conclude their arrangements within days and immediately have me sent for. I could find myself betrothed to King Afonso before my eighteenth birthday, in April.

I dug my nails into my palms to stop myself from spiraling into useless rumination. I would not let it happen. I must escape. I must elude them and find a safe place. Enrique and I were now at war; it might be undeclared but war it was, nonetheless.

For, no matter what my half brother threatened, I would wed no one but Fernando.

IT WAS A
moonless night, frigid and hushed as March nights in Castile often were, the land still dormant under the grip of winter.

Inés had told me Chacón would bring Carrillo through the city gates in disguise; a nervous chuckle escaped me when I heard this. However would Chacón manage it? Surely the archbishop was the most recognizable man in the realm—a formidable figure in his signature crimson cape, his sword strapped to his waist. I couldn’t envision him
going anywhere unperceived. But the letters we’d exchanged through Cárdenas, who’d braved freezing gales to slip in and out of Ocaña with the stealth of a hawk, had assured me Carrillo would find a way.