The Queen's Vow: A Novel of Isabella of Castile (49 page)

Then my mother whispered, “
Tan desgraciada
. So beautiful and so unfortunate, like me.”

Juana gave a frightened gasp; even at her age she understood the tenor of this pronouncement, uttered with the eerie assurance of a prophecy.

“Mama, please,” I said. “You mustn’t say such things. She’s only a child.”

“So was I, once.” My mother’s watery eyes turned distant. “So were you. Youth is no protection; in the end, life scars us all.”

After that, I wouldn’t let Juana see my mother again. I stayed long enough to ensure that the household was in order; old Doña Clara was an invalid now, near-blind with cataracts and crippled by gout, so I hired a new matron to oversee my mother’s care before I bundled up Juana and my bags to return to court. I was ready to do battle with the Cortes over the funding of our next Moorish offensive; to summon nobles to enlist retainers in our army; to write letters to Germany and Italy for reduced prices on large quantities of gunpowder and artillery; and to meet with my treasurer, Rabbi Señeor, to arrange low-interest loans through his usurers, in case the Cortes’s funding fell short. As usual, my time at Arévalo had left me restless, eager to move forward.

Soon after my return to Segovia, my confessor, Fray Talavera, came to see me. “Torquemada has sent this,” he said, setting a parchment on my overflowing desk. “He’d heard you seek coin through the Jewish moneylenders, and he is outraged. He claims that while he fights to
purify the Church and obtain divine favor for your crusade against the infidel, you ignore the very devil in our midst.”

I picked up the letter, crowded with line after line of Torquemada’s habitually dense handwriting. With a sigh, I set it aside. My head ached; if I had to read through each one of his complaints, I’d need a tonic. Better just to hear them.

“What else? Our head inquisitor never remonstrates without offering his solution.”

Talavera’s lean, white-bearded face creased in a smile. He was not fiery, not like Torquemada; his was a tranquil steadfastness I’d increasingly come to rely upon and trust.

“More of the same, I fear. He insists that while the Jews remain at large, their influence will obstruct all attempts to eradicate heresy among the conversos. He says we can no longer turn a blind eye. He demands that you issue an edict: Either the Jews convert or they must be expelled, on pain of death.”

“He says all that, does he?” I said flatly. “Anything else?”

Talavera sighed. “He claims there is precedent. England and France expelled the Jews centuries ago. Few Christian countries tolerate them.”

“And he’s advocating that I take this stance now, in the middle of a crusade?” I forced in a calming breath. “He overreaches his duties. You have my leave to inform him as much. As I’ve stated before, the Jews have served us faithfully and we have a long history of coexistence with them. This is not a decision I can take precipitously, nor do I intend to.”

“Yes,
Majestad
.” He turned to the chamber door. He paused, looking over his shoulder at me. “The hour of reckoning must come,” he said quietly. “It is unavoidable, much as we may regret it.”

I went still, meeting his somber gaze. “But it is not here yet,” I answered, though my reassurance sounded hollow to my ears. “And when it does come, they may convert. They are a misguided people, lost to the light of our Savior, yes, but worthy of redemption. As their queen, I owe them my protection even as I strive to guide them toward the one true faith. I need time. I cannot perform miracles.”

He bowed his head. “I fear you may need one, to save them all.”

AS WINTER CHILLED
the air, Fernando and I were reunited in the Monastery of Guadalupe in Extremadura, site of Castile’s most cherished shrine, that of the black Madonna carved by Saint Luke. Here, among shaded cloisters and colored brick patios, with the rugged cordillera swathed in mist in the distance, we tarried as a family.

I was spending as much of my time as I could with Isabel; at twelve, she was fast becoming a svelte beauty, her immaculate complexion and fair tresses giving her the appearance of an angel. All the younger ladies of court eyed her in covert envy and she never seemed to notice, as if she were immune to her own reflection. She preferred to occupy her time studying, and perfecting her Portuguese, in preparation for marriage to that country’s heir.

When she practiced it aloud, Juana would peer at her suspiciously. Once, she blurted, “You act as if you’re looking forward to leaving Spain,” then she wrinkled her nose in distaste.

“That’s my girl,” chuckled Fernando. “A Spaniard to her core, she is.” He swung Juana into his arms; as she squealed and pulled off his cap, revealing his now near-bald pate, I resisted a frown. He favored her too much. He even had a nickname for her, “Madrecita,” because she reminded him of his late mother. I’d told him countless times she must not grow up thinking she was more privileged than our other daughters, for she too must one day take her assigned place in the world, but Fernando would just chuck her chin and say, “My Madrecita will be an envoy for Spain no matter where she goes, eh?” And Juana’s emphatic “
Sí
, Papa!” did not reassure me, either. At this rate, Fernando would spoil her so much she would think no prince worthy of her, nor capable of living up to her father.

We celebrated that Christmas season together, serenaded by minstrels, slicing pies out of which flew flocks of startled sparrows, dressing the manger with carved ivory figurines. The snows were light, a mere frosting that lent the season glamour without its habitual biting chill. On Twelfth Night we went in candlelit procession to the cathedral in Segovia to hear midnight Mass while the Dominican choir of Santa
María lifted a haunting paean to the Nativity. Surrounded by my children, with my husband at my side and my lifelong friend Beatriz behind me, I knelt for communion, in heartfelt gratitude for everything God had given me.

Little did I know how much would be exacted of me in return, in the days to come.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

I
was awoken in the middle of the night. Though we kept separate apartments as monarchs, Fernando and I had managed to dine together that night, and in a moment of rare intimacy, given all the recent demands on our time, he had turned amorous. Later, he fell asleep in my arms. I lay with his head resting on my breast, as I caressed the wiry hair of his chest. I noticed a few stray white hairs; the sight roused tenderness in me.

Hours later, insistent knocking startled me awake. Fernando grumbled, burying his head in a pillow as I eased him aside. I pulled on my robe and padded hastily to the door. Though it was March and winter was almost over, the night’s chill emanated from the alcazar’s stone, so that I was shivering by the time I cracked open the door. Ines peered at me from the passageway, her hair in a plait under her bed-cap, her own robe clutched about her.

“What is it?” I whispered, so as not to wake Fernando again. “Is it Juan? Is he ill?”

“No, no, His Highness is well, fast asleep. It’s the marquis of Cádiz. He’s here. He asks to see you. He says it’s urgent.”

Alarm rippled through me. “Cádiz is here? But he’s supposed to be overseeing our latest offensive in Andalucía; Fernando charged him with the task until he goes there himself.”

As I spoke, I glanced back at the bed. Fernando did not move, sunk in slumber. He’d been working for weeks on end, organizing the new battle strategy, traveling all the way to his own Cortes in Aragón to harangue them for extra money. We were almost ready; in a few weeks’ time, while I saw to the cumbersome move of our court back to the south, he was due to ride ahead and take up the reins of the crusade.

“I’ll be with him in a moment,” I said, passing a hand over my own unbound hair. “Go now, before we wake the king.”

I dressed in a dark gown, tying my hair back in a net and throwing a wool mantle over my shoulders. As I descended the stairs in the torch-lit cold, I heard men’s voices echoing from the hall. Squaring my shoulders, I entered the room to find Chacón, Fray Talavera, and several important men of our court surrounding the marquis of Cádiz.

He dropped to one knee at the sight of me. In disconcerted surprise, I took in his appearance: his black clothing filthy, his cloak and boots mud-spattered, as if he’d ridden nonstop from Andalucía. He also looked as if he’d aged years, his entire countenance haggard.

“Majestad,”
he whispered, as the other men stared, “forgive me.”

I thought irritably that he must have had another quarrel with Medina Sidonia. This time blood must have been spilled, or he’d not have ridden all this way.

“You have come a long way for my forgiveness,” I remarked. “Pray, what is the cause?”

Cádiz did not speak; as I watched his eyes fill with tears, I looked, bewildered, to Fray Talavera. My confessor said quietly, “There has been a terrible defeat.”

“Defeat?” I looked back at Cádiz, still prostrate before me. “What defeat?”

“Near the city of Málaga,” Cádiz answered in a low voice. “In the pass of Ajarquía. Medina Sidonia, the master of Alcántara, and I … we decided to lead a raid into the passes to scorch the fields and prepare for His Majesty’s arrival and the taking of Málaga. But El Zagal learned of our intent and he attacked us without warning.”

The previous alarm I’d felt uncoiled in me like a snake. El Zagal was al-Hasan’s brother and rival—a fearsome Moorish chieftain who held the fertile passes to Málaga, as well as the coveted seaside city itself. Fernando had been planning for months to take Málaga, as its fall would cut off Moorish supply routes and remove an important obstacle in our quest to isolate Granada.

Cádiz’s voice took on a hard edge. “Boabdil must have warned him. We were counting on his silence but he double-crossed us, to join forces with El Zagal, likely because he thought that together they could defeat
al-Hasan. El Zagal pinned our men in the gulch. It was nightfall; we could barely see anything. The infidels poured down the gulch on horseback from either side, while their peasants hurled stones from above. In the confusion, we were trapped.”

“Dear God.” I crossed myself. “How … how many are lost?”

Cádiz let out a broken sob. “Over two thousand, including three of my brothers. God have mercy, those Arab dogs cut off their heads and took them on spikes to Málaga. I managed to make it out on foot after my horse was shot from under me, but I saw so many injured, so many left to die without a word of consolation, the gypsies and peasants creeping in to search and dismember them while they still gasped for breath….”

I reeled in disbelief; Chacón hastened to my side. “My husband the king,” I stammered. “He—he must be told.”

“We now have Boabdil,” added Cádiz, forgetting in his anxiety to ask for my leave to rise to his feet. “I heard it just before I came here; they captured the miserable traitor. He rode out from Granada to conduct a raid, thinking we’d been so severely hurt we’d not fight back. But the count of Cabra learned of it and fell on him. He’s being held in Córdoba’s alcazar. His mother the sultana is frantic; she’s willing to pay anything for his release—”

“And we must consider her offer,” said Fernando, from the hall entrance. Everyone went still as my husband, bareheaded and clad in his robe of scarlet and gold, walked in. I watched his expression as he approached Cádiz, who’d collapsed again to his knees. I expected to hear a torrent of abuse hurled upon the marquis’s head. It was a disaster for us; in a single ill-fated stroke, we’d lost more than half of Andalucía’s garrison army, which we had fortified with an influx of new recruits and funds only weeks before. But Fernando merely came to a halt before Cádiz and said quietly, “You may rise, my lord. You have suffered the torments of Hell in our name, it seems.”

Cádiz did so, unmistakable fear on his face. “Majesty, please, I beg your—”

Fernando lifted a single finger, silencing him. “There is nothing to forgive. God, who knows better than we the reason for His actions, has taught us a lesson in humility. The good are punished for a
time; but He always returns to succor us. Indeed,” he said, with a taut grin, “has He not already dropped al-Hasan’s treacherous pup into our lap?”