The Queen's Vow: A Novel of Isabella of Castile (27 page)

As I took her in my arms I whispered, “You shouldn’t have. It’s too dangerous.”

“Nonsense,” she scoffed. She drew back. “As if Villena and the entire royal guard could have stopped me! I wouldn’t miss this for anything.” She was rounder, rosy-cheeked; while still disarmingly beautiful, she had a new serenity about her. Marriage evidently suited her. She unfastened her cloak. “Now, give me a spare needle and let me help you. Ines, look at that sleeve—it’s a mess! Did no one teach you to properly hide a seam?”

We sat up all night, laughing and sharing confidences, as we had in our childhood. The months of separation dwindled and vanished, until
I clasped her hand and confessed, “I could not imagine this day without you,” and rare tears glistened in her eyes.

She helped me dress that morning, just as she had so many times before when we were young girls. She wove silk flowers in my waist-length hair and arranged the gossamer, gold-threaded veil. She and Inés accompanied me into the hall and stood behind me as I joined Fernando, who’d been titled king of Sicily by his father especially for the occasion. Carrillo read aloud the papal dispensation sanctifying our marriage within the degree of consanguinity, but just before my turn came to recite the vows I froze in a moment of paralyzing panic.

What was I doing? I was defying my king, threatening everything I cherished. I risked being branded a traitor, endangering my very future as heir—and all to marry this man I did not know.

Sweat broke out under my azure brocade gown. Fernando stood rigid beside me in a high-collared matching doublet trimmed in gold; as though he sensed my doubt, he slid his gaze to me. And he winked.

Relief washed over me, cool as rain. I had to repress the urge to laugh as the nuptial rings were slipped on our fingers and we made our way to the open balcony overlooking the courtyard. People had been gathering there since dawn, with banners and bouquets of autumn flowers. When we appeared, they waved them at us, men hoisting children on their shoulders to better see us, wives and daughters clasping hands, gnarled widows and grandmothers peering upward and smiling.

“Their Royal Highnesses Isabella and Fernando, prince and princess of Asturias and Aragón, and king and queen of Sicily,” trumpeted the heralds.

The sky arched over us, a vault of unbroken cerulean; the air was redolent of roast meat from the banquet being laid out inside the palace hall. I gazed upon the hundreds of anonymous faces beaming at us, their tribulations momentarily set aside in their zeal to share our moment of joy, and euphoria swept through me.

“We do this for them,” I said, “to bring them justice and honor. To give them peace.”

Fernando chuckled. “Yes. But there will be time enough to care for them. Today, wife, we do this for us,” and before I realized his intention,
he turned me to him, and in full view of our court and future subjects, he kissed me with unrestrained passion—our first real kiss as a married couple.

His mouth was warm. He tasted of an indefinable spice and the tang of claret. His body was chiseled, incredibly strong; his arms enveloped me like muscular wings, sheltering and all-encompassing, making me want to melt inside their embrace. I—who had never before experienced that urgency of the flesh which poets so often exalt—felt such heat inside me that I let out an involuntary gasp. Again he chuckled, only this time his mirth was saturated with unmistakable intent, and I felt him harden where he pressed against my thighs.

When he finally drew back, his kiss still tingled on my lips and the entire room seemed to sway. From outside came lewd whistles and hearty applause.

“You’re blushing,” he said, and I bit the inside of my lip, hard, forcing myself to feel the pain rather than my searing desire. I glanced over at the spectators in the hall, all of whom, including the servitors and pages, had paused to watch us.

“Must everything we do be witnessed for posterity?” I muttered.

Fernando threw back his head and laughed—a bold, hearty laugh that made me wonder at his apparent indifference to propriety. Again, I was reminded of the fact that he was still a stranger to me and I breathed deeply, pushing my misgivings aside. He was a man, and men liked to display their prowess, both on the field and in the bedchamber. It was only natural that he’d want to stake his claim on me.

And I couldn’t deny that I enjoyed being claimed as his.

As we moved to our garland-festooned dais, I met Beatriz’s knowing eyes. I wished I could sneak off with her. All of a sudden I had a thousand urgent questions. From the way Fernando had kissed me, I was certain he had carnal experience, and I didn’t want to prove a disappointment, though exactly how I might evade this possibility eluded me. It was disconcerting. I was required to be a virgin; indeed, it was this one aspect that princes prized above most others in a bride. Yet now I found myself worrying that I’d not be able to properly satisfy my prince in the ways he might have become accustomed to.

My appetite vanished, despite the rich platters of roast piglet, duck,
and heron drenched in plum and fig sauces. I kept looking at Fernando’s square hands as he cut into his meat or raised his goblet. Though he abstained from wine, opting instead for cider, he displayed a healthy appetite and he laughed boisterously at Carrillo’s insistent muttering in his ear (the archbishop, as our most esteemed advisor, sat to his left) and smiled at everyone who approached the dais to offer felicitations. He didn’t appear as though
he
were contemplating our upcoming nuptial night with any trepidation, while in my head it loomed large as a shuttered gatehouse into an unknown world.

During the last course, however, before the dancing began, I suddenly sensed a shift in his mood. Setting his goblet down, he turned to me. His regard was so direct, so sober, in a hall where the flushed faces of our guests testified to their liberal intake of wine, that I thought for a moment I’d done something to displease him. I couldn’t think what it might be; I’d been as occupied as he was, entertaining the grandees at my side with small talk and feigning interest in every anecdote or remark thrown my way.

Before I could speak, his hand fell over mine. “You mustn’t fear,” he said. “I promise you, I will kick them out, every last one. There’ll be no witnesses in our chamber but us.” He paused, a gleam in his eye. “I think the display of the sheet afterward will be more than enough evidence to satisfy.”

I dared not look away, even as I wondered if anyone at our table had overheard him. I didn’t know whether to be mortified or relieved as he drew me from my seat, leaving the ravaged trenchers on the soiled tablecloth to open the dance. We were only expected to perform once before being accompanied to our bedchamber, but as the music swelled, cocooning us in its invisible bubble, I remembered the first time we had danced. It now seemed a lifetime ago; then we’d been little more than children, strangers in a strange court. I had rebuffed him for his impertinence, not knowing that he had in fact foreseen our future struggles. Now we were husband and wife, about to embark on our new life together, and I found myself reveling in my newfound right to clasp his hand openly, and knowing that at long last, I was his. I forgot my trepidation over the upcoming nuptial night, enjoying the chance to indulge my passion for dancing, in which I’d had so little occasion to
enjoy. I noted that despite his own travails in Aragón, Fernando had evidently not neglected his courtly training, for he danced with ease and exuberance. And the sudden kiss he bestowed me as we turned toward the courtiers caused a loud crack of spontaneous applause.

I must have flushed to the roots of my hair, especially as we were swept upstairs by the cajoling crowd right after, ushered into separate rooms first, where our attendants waited to prepare us. Before entering his chamber, he glanced over his shoulder at me and I saw only that same unimpeachable confidence in his smile.

Beatriz and Inés had laid out my embroidered linen shift and damask robe; as they divested me of my gown and veil, careful to not dislodge the flowers in my hair, I couldn’t bear the silence any longer.

“Well?” I demanded, glaring at them. “Isn’t one of you going to say something? Or will you let me go into that bedchamber like a lamb to the slaughter?”

Inés gasped. “It’s Your Highness’s wedding night, not a crucifixion! And what can I possibly tell you? I am a virgin.” She glanced markedly at Beatriz, whose lips pursed, as if she fought back a smile.

“What is it Your Highness wants to know?” Beatriz said.

“The truth.” I paused. My voice dropped to a whisper. “Will … will it hurt?”

“Yes. At first, it usually does. But if he is gentle with you as he should be, after a few times it won’t hurt so much. And after a few more times … well, I’ll leave it to you to decide.” Beatriz couldn’t restrain her smile anymore; it curled the corners of her mouth, as it had when we were young and she’d committed some mischief.

I almost began to laugh myself. I suddenly felt ridiculous, dreading the bed in which I must lie, after everything I’d gone through to get there. I lifted my chin, turned without another word and marched down the short passageway to the nuptial chamber, where the crowd had assembled outside the door. I ignored them, entering the candlelit room, which was dominated by a large brocade-draped tester bed. Fernando stood next to it, with his small entourage of gentlemen.

He glanced up, goblet in hand. He wore an open robe of muted red cloth; I could see the muscles of his bronzed chest under the loose lacings of his knee-length under-chemise. I knew without seeing it that his
goblet now contained wine. I could smell it in the air, a rich Rioja mixing with the scented beeswax of the tapers in the candelabrum.

He looked at me in silence, his focus so intense that even the eager speculations of those gathered at the door came to a halt.

“Out,” he said, without taking his eyes from me. “All of you.”

Beatriz quickly came forward to help me with my robe, but I waved her aside. She guided Inés to the doorway instead, where she confronted the stubborn few who had remained, believing it their right to witness my deflowering, for such was the barbaric custom in every court in Europe. With an indignant wave of her hand she saw them out and clicked the door shut behind her.

Fernando and I were finally alone.

I found it difficult to believe he was actually my husband. What he lacked in stature he more than compensated for in presence and vitality; with his strong nose and penetrating eyes, well-shaped mouth and broad forehead, I thought him possibly the most handsome man I’d ever seen. I reached this conclusion with a detachment that surprised me, considering the circumstances. My heart did not flutter. My palms did not sweat. I felt none of the agitation I’d experienced earlier, as if now that the moment was here, impervious calm had conquered the tumult I should be experiencing.

Men and women had been doing this since time began, and as far as I knew, no one had died of it.

“Would you like …?” He motioned toward the pewter decanter and extra goblet on the sideboard. “We were expected to drink from one cup together, in bed. Naked.”

“I know.” I smiled faintly at this reminder of what he had spared us. “But I don’t like wine. It makes my head ache.”

He nodded, set his goblet aside. “Mine, too. I almost never drink, but tonight it seemed necessary.” He paused. His hands, empty now of the goblet, hung awkwardly at his sides, as if he didn’t know what to do with them.

“Why?” I asked.

He frowned. “What?”

“Why did you think it necessary? Are you nervous?” The question was out before I realized it. As soon as I spoke, I wondered why I had
said it. As if any man would admit to being nervous on his wedding night!

“Yes,” he said quietly, startling me. “I am. I’ve never felt like this, not even before going into battle.” He parted his chemise, showing me more of his chest. It gleamed like brown satin, tight curls of dark hair caught in the cleft between the muscled broadness. “My heart races,” he said. He stepped to me. “See?”

I lifted my hand, set it on his skin. He was right. I could feel how fast it beat.

“I can’t believe you are mine,” he whispered, echoing my own thoughts. He looked directly into my eyes as he spoke, for without our shoes, we were almost of equal height. I had a sudden memory of our hands entwined; of how I’d thought they resembled separate strands of silk off the same skein….

“Tanto monta, monta tanto,”
I whispered, and he blinked.

“What?”

“It is to be our saying. It means, ‘We are the same.’ ” I paused. “Did you not read it? I made it part of our prenuptial agreement, our Capitulations.”

“I did read the Capitulations, yes,” he replied, a husky timbre in his voice. “But to be honest, I didn’t pay much attention. All I cared about was that they made you mine.” His hands came up to either side of my face and he drew me against him. “All mine,” he whispered, and his mouth covered my lips, drenching me with an abrupt blossoming of sensation, like a field of fiery petals unfurling within me.

He guided me to the bed, his tongue probing, his fingers scattering my clothing, tugging a lace here, undoing a ribbon there, until I felt my shift fall with a whisper about my ankles. The brazier heat of the room flushed my pale skin to rose.

He worshipped me with his eyes.
“Eres mi luna,”
he whispered in my ear. “You are my moon. So white. So pure….”

Though I knew deep inside me that I wasn’t his first, that no man could know how to touch a woman like this his first time, I let myself believe we were both innocents. I surrendered to the garden of pleasure he sowed in me, my body growing taut, moist, desperate for his, until I was hearing myself gasp from the exquisite sensation of it all.

When I felt him enter me, the pain Beatriz had mentioned was so sharp it tore away my breath. But I did not let him see it. I wrapped my legs tighter around him and urged him to plunge faster, deeper, even as the spoils of my virginity seeped beneath us, reddening the sheet.

Afterward, as we lay entangled, my hair tousled across his chest, he asked, “Was I too rough?” I shook my head, though I ached. He chuckled, his hands roving over my curves, lazily at first, then more quickly, with increasing ardor. I saw desire flare again in his eyes and I lay back to welcome him once more. Even if it hurt, I told myself, it might hurt less the more we did it.