The Queen's Vow: A Novel of Isabella of Castile (5 page)

Beatriz was waiting outside. She stood as I emerged; my brother had joined her.

“I heard Mama is not well,” he said. “Is it …?”

I nodded. “It was bad. We must entertain her, stay close to her. She needs us now.”

“Of course. Anything you say,” he said. But I knew he’d prefer to stay away, to go lose himself in his weaponry and riding. Alfonso had
never understood why our mother acted as she did, why her fervent embraces and gaiety could suddenly turn violent as the winter storms that howled across the plains. I had always sensed his fear of her and had done everything I could to shelter him from her fits. As he kissed my cheek awkwardly and went back down the stairs, I met Beatriz’s gaze. The crumpled letter sat like stone in my pocket.

They will come. They will take you and Alfonso away
.

Though everything inside me wanted to deny it, I knew it could be true.

We had to prepare.

CHAPTER THREE

T
he following days passed without incident, belying my tumult. I stashed the king’s letter in a coffer in my room; Beatriz asked ceaselessly about it, naturally, until I could bear no more and let her read it. She looked at me in astonishment, speechless for perhaps the first time in her life. I didn’t encourage her opinion; I was too preoccupied with my own troubled presentiment that we stood on the verge of irrevocable change.

I devoted myself to my mother. There were no more spells, no more outbursts; though she remained too thin and pale, pecking at her food like a bird, she welcomed the visits Alfonso and I paid every afternoon.

I was touched to discover that my brother had taken pains to learn a Portuguese song for her, which he performed with gusto even if his voice warbled. My brother was not musically inclined, yet as he sang out the native lyrics of my mother’s land, I saw her face soften, recapture its faded beauty. Dressed in her outdated court gown, her fingers laden with tarnished rings, she tapped the music out on the arms of her chair, her feet silently moving under her hem as she followed the steps of the intricate dance she’d once excelled in, flaunting her skill under the painted eaves of the great
salas
where she’d been the most powerful and sought-after woman at court.

After Alfonso finished, his chin lifted high and arms flung wide, she clapped frenetically, as if she wished to impregnate the room with the rare sound of her joy. Then she motioned to me. “Dance, Isabella! Dance with your brother!” And as Beatriz picked out the song on the small, stringed
cavaquinho
, I joined hands with Alfonso, moving with studied steps, even when my brother treaded on my toes and grinned sheepishly, his face flushed with exertion.

“It’s much easier to joust with
cañas
,” he whispered to me, and I smiled, for in no other way did he betray his masculine pride than at times like these, preferring to flaunt his agility on horseback with the sharp stakes used for hunting rather than risk embarrassment by tripping over his own feet in front of his family. I, on the other hand, loved to dance; it was one of the few pleasures I had in life, and I had to blink back my tears of joy when my mother spontaneously leapt from her chair to take us both by the hand and whirl us around in a dizzying display.

“There,” she exclaimed, as we caught our breath. “That is how it is done! You must learn to dance well, children. You carry the blood of Portugal, Castile, and León in your veins; you must never let Enrique’s mincing courtiers put you to shame.”

The mention of courtiers hovered in the air like a wisp of acrid smoke, but my mother didn’t seem to notice her slip. She stood beaming as Doña Clara, Elvira, and Beatriz broke into applause, and Alfonso then regaled us with a show of his mastery of the sword, enacting feints and thrusts in the middle of the room while my mother laughed and Doña Clara cried out for him to be careful, lest he skewer one of our cowering dogs.

Later that night, when I kissed my mother good night after our evening devotions—for we’d returned to our daily prayers, much to my relief—she whispered, “This was a good day, Isabella. If I can only remember this day I think I’ll be able to bear anything.”

It was the first allusion she’d made to our shared secret since her spell. As she held me close I vowed to myself that I would do everything possible to stave off the darkness that threatened my family.

A few days later, she announced her decision to pay a visit to the Cistercian Convent of Santa Ana in Ávila. We had gone there before, several times, in fact; I’d even attended lessons with the nuns there after my mother completed my preliminary instruction in letters. It was one of my favorite places; the tranquil cloisters, the indoor patio with its fountain, the fragrant herb patches in the garden, the soughing of the nuns’ robes against the flagstones, always filled me with peace. The devout sisters excelled in needlework; their splendid altar cloths adorned
the most famous cathedrals in the realm. Many an hour I’d spent in their company, learning the art of embroidery while listening to the murmur of their voices.

Doña Elvira fretted that it would be too much exertion for my mother, but Doña Clara pronounced it an excellent idea and helped us pack for the journey.

“It’s exactly what your mother needs,” my
aya
said. “The sisters will make her feel better and getting away from this old place will prove a far more efficacious remedy than those foul potions of Elvira’s.”

We set out before dawn with Don Bobadilla and four retainers. Alfonso was left behind at the last minute, sulking, under the supervision of Doña Clara and Don Chacón, with strict instructions to dedicate himself to his studies, as he’d grown quite indolent. I rode Canela, who was overjoyed to see me, whickering and greedily devouring the bits of sour apple I had brought. My mother sat upon an older, more docile mare. Her veil framed her face, its creamy gossamer adding luster to her complexion and highlighting the blue in her eyes. Doña Elvira grumbled beside her on a mule, having refused to even consider riding in a litter, and Beatriz looked equally morose on her steed, scowling generally at the landscape.

“I thought you wanted adventure,” I said to her, hiding a smile when she retorted, “Adventure! I hardly see what kind of adventure we’ll find at Santa Ana. I rather think there’ll be more poor linens and lentil soup.”

Despite the fact that she was probably right, the thought of going to Ávila pleased me. While Beatriz had no doubt expected momentous change as a result of the letter, with every day that went by I felt nothing but relief that change seemed less and less likely. I knew, however, that the monotony was intolerable for my friend. As she outgrew her adolescence, transforming entirely against her will into a beautiful young woman, Beatriz became more restless than ever, though none of us dared to mention it. I’d heard Doña Clara mutter to Doña Elvira that girls like Beatriz needed early marriage to cool their overheated blood, but Beatriz seemed oblivious to any male attention, ignoring the whistling retainers who gawked at her as we passed them during our chores. At night in our rooms, she regarded the growth of her breasts and widening
of her hips with visible dismay; they were manifestations of the fact that soon she’d no longer be able to pretend she was not susceptible to all that full-blown womanhood entailed.

“You could ask Don Bobadilla to take you into town,” I suggested, reaching into my side-basket for the bundle of cloth containing the bread and cheese Doña Clara had packed for us. “I think Doña Elvira has some things she wants to buy. She mentioned cloth for new dresses and cloaks yesterday.”

“Yes, and then Papa can take us on an insufferably slow ride around Ávila’s walls,” she said. “As if I haven’t seen it all a hundred times already.”

I handed her a piece of the soft bread, freshly baked in our ovens. “Come, don’t be so disagreeable. Your face will pucker up like a sour apple.” At the mention of the word, Canela pricked his ears. I patted his neck. Alfonso was right: Although mules were considered the best mounts for unwed virgins, my days of riding one were definitely over.

Beatriz grimaced as she ate her bread and cheese. Then she leaned to me and said, “You can pretend all you like, but I know you’re as curious as I am about what that letter from court means. I’ve seen you open the coffer and look at it at night when you think I’m asleep. You must have read it about as many times as I’ve seen the walls of Ávila.”

I lowered my gaze, wondering what Beatriz might say if I told her just how curious, and anxious, I had truly been.

“Of course I’m interested,” I said, keeping my voice low so that my mother, who rode ahead with Don Bobadilla, would not overhear. “But perhaps all the king wished was to tell us that the queen had given birth.”

“I suppose so. But don’t forget, Alfonso was his heir first and many claim Enrique is impotent. Perhaps that child is not his.”

“Beatriz!” I exclaimed, louder than I intended. My mother glanced over her shoulder at us. I smiled. “She’s eating all the bread,” I said quickly, and my mother gave Beatriz a reproving look. As soon as she turned away, I hissed, “How can you say such a thing? Or better yet, where did you hear such a thing that you can say it at all?”

She shrugged. “Retainers talk. So do servants. They go to the market; they gossip with merchants. Honestly, it isn’t as if it were a secret.
Everyone in Castile talks of nothing else. They say the queen got herself with child to avoid having the same thing happen to her that happened to Enrique’s first wife. Or have you forgotten he had his first marriage to Blanca of Navarre annulled because after fifteen years, she failed to give him a child? She claimed they never consummated their vows, but he said a bewitchment prevented him from acting the man with her. Regardless, she was sent away and a pretty new queen from Portugal was found to take her place—a pretty new queen who happens to be your mother’s niece and knows that her aunt’s two children could one day do to her what Enrique did to your mother.”

I glared at her. “That’s absurd. I never heed idle gossip and you should follow my example. Honestly, Beatriz, what has come over you?” I turned my face away, toward the approaching walls of Ávila.

An impressive wall with eighty-eight fortified towers, built centuries before to defend Ávila from marauding Moors, encircled the entire city in a serpentine embrace. Sitting atop a stony escarpment devoid of trees and punctuated by huge boulders, Ávila overlooked the province that bore its name with implacable reserve, the rugged towers of its alcazar and cathedral seeming to pierce the sapphire-blue sky.

Beatriz visibly reacted to the sight, despite her assertions of having seen it all before; she straightened in her saddle and I saw color flush her cheeks. I hoped the thrill of being in the city would dissuade her from voicing gossip and speculation that could cause us nothing but harm if we were overheard.

We rode under an arched gateway and made our way toward the northeastern edge of the city and the convent, through hundreds of people going about their business, merchants haggling and carts clattering over cobblestone. But I barely paid attention, pondering what Beatriz had said. It seemed I couldn’t escape the shadow I’d hoped to leave behind in Arévalo.

The abbess greeted us in the convent courtyard, having been alerted in advance to our visit. While Don Bobadilla and the retainers saw to the horses, we were led into the common hall, where a meal had been prepared. Beatriz ate as if she were famished, even though we were in fact served lentil soup with bits of pork; afterward, she went out with Doña Elvira to persuade her father to take them into town. I stayed
behind, joining my mother in the chapel for a time. Then, while she retired to discourse with the abbess, a longtime friend of hers who oversaw the convent by royal decree, I went out to wander the gardens.

Lemon and orange trees surrounded me; several nuns worked the soil in silent comradeship, briefly smiling at me as I paced the winding path, inhaling the scent of rosemary, thyme, chamomile, and other fragrant herbs. I lost all sense of time, content to bask in the sun that bathed the well-tended grounds, whose rich earth supplied the nuns with almost everything they needed, so that they never had to set foot outside their blessed walls. It felt as though the past few weeks had been erased. Here in Santa Ana, it seemed impossible that anything bad could occur, that the outside world with its trials and intrigues could ever intrude upon this place of peace.

As I neared a wall abutting vegetable patches laid out in perfect symmetry I looked toward the adjoining church and paused. Nestled in the spire high above was a latticed bundle of twigs—a nest, perched in dizzying, isolated safety.

“The stork is a good mother. She knows how to defend her young,” a voice said close to my ear. I gasped, spun around. I found myself looking at a completely unexpected yet disturbingly familiar face. I remembered how he had gathered me in his arms, carried me from my father’s death chamber into the night….

“My lord Archbishop,” I whispered. I dropped into a curtsey, in deference to his holy station. As I lifted my eyes to him, his smile exposed crooked teeth, at odds with his flushed jowls, thick lips, and beaked nose. His stare was piercing, belying the warmth of his tone.