The Queen's Vow: A Novel of Isabella of Castile (34 page)

I clasped her hand. “Forgive me. I don’t care how you address me in private.” I smiled at Beatriz, outstretching my other hand. “I still can’t believe this is happening. How can I be queen of Castile?”

“Well, you are,” said Beatriz. “And you’ll be a very tardy one if we don’t start dressing you now.”

While they bustled about me, removing my robe and commencing the process of layering my gown over me, I realized that the past two days had been such a whirlwind of conflicting emotion that a part of me had transformed into an impartial witness to my own upheaval. I’d experienced conflicting emotions over Enrique since his death, just as I had during his life. I had donned the white serge of mourning to attend his obsequies and heard in quiet from the newly elevated Cardinal Mendoza the dreadful account of Enrique’s final hours. He had agonized in a freezing chamber in Madrid’s old alcazar, with no one to attend him save his loyal Moors. His servants and intimates, including the faithless Diego Villena, forsook him the moment it was clear he
would not survive. They left him with no more respect than for a dying dog, Mendoza told me; and he himself had to hire outsiders to prepare Enrique’s corpse for entombment.

As customary, I did not attend my half brother’s funeral. Instead I ordered a Mass sung in the Segovia Cathedral, while his cortege wound its way to the Monastery of Santa María de Guadalupe, where he was laid to rest. As I prayed for his soul, I made myself remember not the capricious king I’d grown to mistrust and fear, but rather the odd, timid man I’d met years before, who’d shown me affection. I couldn’t honestly say I would miss him, not after all that had passed between us, but I felt his loss in some intrinsic part of me, a loneliness born of the knowledge that of the three of us who had shared our father’s blood, only I remained.

But even if I’d wanted to mourn more, pressing decisions intruded. The most difficult had been whether to announce my accession at once or delay until Fernando could be with me. Carrillo argued we had no time to waste. Like Cabrera, he believed any postponement would threaten my hold on the throne. Moreover, we had no assurance that Fernando could come at all, given the ongoing trouble in Aragón. Still, I vacillated almost a full day until I had the chance to consult with Cardinal Mendoza upon his return from Enrique’s funeral. I trusted the moderate prelate who’d supported me without ever betraying his loyalty to Enrique; he heard in silence my outpouring of doubt, my fear that I’d insult Fernando and bring harm upon our marriage if I proclaimed myself queen while he was absent.

Mendoza said quietly, “I understand how difficult these last days have been and how much you now must contend with, but you are the sole heiress of this realm. As your husband, Fernando of Aragón will hold the title of king-consort, but he has no other hereditary rights in Castile, as he himself agreed by his signature on your prenuptial Capitulations. The right to the throne, my child, is yours alone.”

I spent the evening in an agony of indecision, anchored before the altar in my rooms. I implored guidance, an answer that would lift the burden of self-reproach from my shoulders. While Castile had had other queens, none had reigned successfully for long. Was I committing a sin of pride, believing I could accomplish what no woman before me
had? The kingdom I stood to inherit was a cauldron of vice and duplicity; our treasury was near-bankrupt, our people sunk in calamity. Many, if not all, of the grandees—not to mention the Holy Father in Rome and powers abroad—would say Castile required the firm rule of a prince like Fernando, whose courage and vigor were forged in war, and thus tempered to the many obstacles we faced.

I had the uneasy feeling Fernando himself would say the same.

Yet even as I sought to persuade myself of my innate unsuitability, part of me rebelled. I’d not fought all this time to shirk my duty now. The crown was indeed mine to bear as a princess of Trastámara; in my veins ran the blood of a dynasty that had ruled Castile for more than a hundred years. My subjects expected me to assume the throne and would not suffer Aragón to reign in my stead. To delay or compromise could be seen as a sign of weakness. I must never let it be said that Isabella of Castile lacked conviction.

Even so, as Beatriz set the rounded headdress on my brow, carefully arranging the white silk veil that cascaded from it, and Inés knelt to slip the leather pattens on my feet, I wondered what would happen once Fernando read the letter I’d sent.

The cathedral bells tolled, summoning the crowds to the cordoned streets through which I would ride with my entourage to the
plaza mayor
.

“Quickly!” said Beatriz, and after she affixed the clasp of my black damask cloak, she and Inés lifted between them its long train and we made hasty progress to the keep. There, under a brilliant winter sky so blue it hurt the eyes, waited the clergy and the select lords invited to attend my accession. They bowed low, caps swiped from brows, exposing balding pates, thinning fringes, or manicured tumbles of locks to the morning chill. I recognized Carrillo in his signature scarlet cape, Cardinal Mendoza attired in gem-studded vestments, and Beatriz’s beloved Andrés, impeccable as always in black velvet.

I paused. Except for me and my ladies, no other women were present. Though I knew that these men’s mothers, wives, daughters, and even mistresses were arrayed along the route in all their finery, straining to catch a glimpse of me, I felt as if a shaft of light had pierced the sky to fall solely upon my person, marking me apart.

I made my way to Canela, who snorted impatiently under his rich caparison of damask adorned with the castle and lion rampant of Castile, his reins bedecked with silly tassels. He looked as if he had half a mind to munch on them.

Don Chacón was holding the reins. He wore a stiff green doublet and had trimmed his thick, dark beard; as his brown eyes met mine I saw pride shining in their depths. He’d remained steadfast at my side since Alfonso’s death, a companion and trusted servant I could always rely upon. His presence bolstered my confidence. Today, in honor of his service, he had the privilege of leading me through Segovia’s streets.

The procession assembled; ahead of us walked Cárdenas carrying aloft an unsheathed sword. The crowds went silent as he passed and I caught furtive astonishment in the faces of those nobles who held coveted positions along the route. The old blackened sword—excavated at my insistence from under piles of rusting armor in the treasury—was a hallowed relic of Trastámara kings, symbol of justice and authority; no queen had ever had it carried before her during her ceremony of ascension. I raised my chin, focusing on the central square ahead, where my throne awaited on a dais hung with crimson bunting in front of the Church of San Miguel.

Chacón carefully assisted me off my horse. Standing alone on the bloodred carpet of the dais, with thousands of Segovians arrayed before me, I listened to the royal pennons snap in the wind and heard the herald cry out into the diamond-crisp air, “Castile! Castile for Her Majesty Doña Isabella, proprietress of these realms, and for His Highness Don Fernando, her husband!”

In shouting unison that sparked sudden tears in my eyes, the crowd repeated the words.

Mendoza mounted the dais, holding the Bible.
“Majestad,”
he intoned, “do you accept the acclamation and vow to uphold the sacred duties that God has set before you?”

I put my hand on the Holy Book, opened my mouth to utter the speech I’d carefully rehearsed. But something stopped me. Among the thousands watching I caught sight of a spectral figure, standing apart, his pale eyes smoldering, his face white as bone….

A knot filled my throat. I could not look away.

“Majesty?” murmured Mendoza. “The vows, if you please.”

I blinked; when I looked again, the figure was gone. I tore my gaze from the spot, swallowed and recited in a slightly quavering voice: “I accept this great honor bestowed upon me and swear by these holy
evangelios
to obey the commandments of our Church, to uphold the statutes of this realm and defend the common welfare of all my subjects, aggrandizing these kingdoms in the custom of my glorious progenitors, and safeguarding our customs, liberties, and privileges as your lawfully anointed queen.”

A rustle like the wings of an enormous falcon passing overhead whispered across the square as everyone went to their knees. The nobles came forth one by one to swear their oaths of allegiance. The court officials handed their wands of service to Cabrera, signaling a change in regime, and I knelt before Mendoza as he described the sign of the cross above my head.

“God bless Queen Isabella!”

And my subjects, the people of Castile, roared their approval.

IT WAS PAST
midnight when I finally returned to my rooms. My feet ached. My jaw was sore from the constant smile I’d been required to keep on my face. I’d heard a solemn Te Deum, returned to dine in the alcazar, and then assumed my seat on the dais to receive for hours a long queue of well-wishers, including the wary grandees, who must have wondered as they bowed before me what my next move would be.

I’d seen myself reflected in their pupils as if I stood before a mirror. I beheld the white hand I extended, each finger decorated with rings, the shimmering gold fabric of my sleeve, draping the rounded arm of an inexperienced twenty-three-year-old woman. I saw their disdain in the twitch of their mouths, which turned their mellifluous greetings to sneers.

To them, I would not be a queen until I proved myself stronger than them.

The very thought exhausted me. As soon as my equally weary ladies undressed me and staggered out, bleary-eyed, dousing the candles as they left, I curled up in bed and shut my eyes. I must send for my child, I thought. I wanted my Isabel with me.

Before I drifted into sleep, I whispered, “Fernando, I am waiting. Come home.”

SNOW-FLECKED WIND STIFFENED
the colored pennants and carpets hung from balconies to welcome my husband. As soon as word came that he was on his way, I had requested that Archbishop Carrillo, Admiral Enríquez, and several high-ranking grandees meet him halfway and escort him to Segovia, with all the dignity and honor his status merited. He’d delayed a day to rest and don the new clothes I’d had made for him—a tunic of burgundy velvet trimmed in sable, half-boots of tooled cordovan leather, perfumed gauntlets, and a gold necklace that had belonged to Enrique, newly polished and adorned with our emblem of the arrows and yoke, crafted by the finest goldsmith in Toledo. Through these gifts I hoped to convey my pleasure at his return; now, I waited eagerly in the
sala
, seeing in my mind the wintry wind buffeting his passage and hearing the muffled cries of the crowds that had gathered to cheer him as he entered the city.

I wore violet silk, my hair plaited about my head in what I hoped was a fetching style. I tugged insistently at a loose thread on my cuff. I wanted to rush out into the keep, to welcome him with open arms after so long an absence—but a queen did not display her emotion in public. Moreover, as I was the queen, it was his duty to first come to me.

Sweat pooled between my shoulders, trickling down my back under my gown as I strained my eyes toward the far doors. The heat was stifling, cast from too many braziers and oil lamps lit to ward off the afternoon chill. Where was he? What was taking him so long—

I heard voices, the clatter of booted heels. I almost bolted forth as a collection of men burst through the doors. The courtiers bowed in unison. I recognized him at once, even from a distance—that compact muscular figure in his new doublet, striding toward me. As he neared, I stepped to the edge of the dais, my smile breaking free, unrestrained.

“My lord husband,” I whispered, almost in tears at the sight of him so proud and strong before me. He removed his cap. His hair had grown; it now draped past his broad shoulders like a curtain of deep brown silk. A new, close-cut beard framed his square jaw.

He lowered his head.
“Majestad,”
he said in stilted formality, “it is my great honor to reunite with you at long last.”

I faltered. The hand I held out remained untouched between us. “And mine, as well,” I finally said. I stepped from the dais to embrace him. His body was lean, hard, toned from months of warfare against the French. He did not embrace me in return. When I drew back, he regarded me with icy focus.

He looked as if I were the last person he wanted to see.

“
HOW COULD YOU
do it? How could you do this to me?”

We stood together in my private chamber, to which we had retreated as soon as politely possible, following the interminable banquet during which I sat at his side, my apprehension a lump in my throat. He’d barely eaten from the fifty courses I’d ordered served; scarcely touched his goblet. When our little girl was presented to him, he greeted her with a perfunctory kiss and then he sat brooding as the court dined below us, his anger coiled about him like a tail.

Now, he unleashed it—without reserve.

“I am humiliated,” he went on, his voice sharp as a blade. “I had to hear it from you in a letter, in the middle of my father’s court in Zaragoza. I had to hear the news that my wife had had herself declared queen while I was miles away.” He swerved to the table, where Ines had left a platter of dried fruit and a beaker of wine. He poured liberally, his hand visibly shaking.