The Queen's Vow: A Novel of Isabella of Castile (9 page)

I had not undressed in front of anyone save Beatriz since my tenth year. Not even Doña Clara had dared intrude on me without knocking, and I stood dumbstruck as the women flittered into the chamber like fantastical birds, their words unintelligible to me in my stunned state. My new court gown, made from the green velvet bought in Ávila, was snatched from Beatriz and passed around. One of the women made a disapproving cluck. Another laughed. As their mirth penetrated my ears, Beatriz grabbed the gown from them.

“It
is
new,” I heard her declare, “if you please, and of course it has matching sleeves. I was just looking for them when you so rudely barged in.”

She glared. I focused on the women. My breath caught in my throat.

They all were young, dressed in gowns unlike any I’d ever seen, with low-cut bodices that almost exposed their bosoms and frothing skirts of glittering fabric, their cinched waists enhanced by a multitude of dangling silk purses and ornaments. Their hair was curled into elaborate coiffures concocted with flimsy veils, combs, and threaded pearls or coins; their mouths were rouged, their eyes lined in thick kohl. Some had a decidedly dusky cast to their complexions, denoting Moorish blood; the ones Beatriz faced were dark-eyed beauties with milky skin and sharp white hands.

The lady whom Beatriz had taken my dress from—green-eyed and clad in curve-hugging scarlet—shrugged. “
Está bien
. If this is all the Infanta Isabella has, we can make do.” She turned to me with an apologetic air. “I’m afraid we’ve no time to find a suitable gown but we can fetch accessories to make this one more appealing.”

My voice issued hoarse. “And who … who might you be?”

She paused, as though no one had ever asked her such a question before. “I am Doña Mencia de Mendoza, lady-in-honor to Queen Juana. I am here for whatever you require.”

I nodded, gathering my composure as best as I could, considering I was standing barefoot in my stockings and chemise. “I don’t require anything at the moment, thank you. There’s no need for any fuss.”

Mencia de Mendoza widened her eyes. “It’s no fuss. The queen sent
us specifically to attend you. It is her express desire that you be well cared for.”

“The infanta is in my charge,” said Beatriz. “I assure you, she’s
very
well cared for.”

“Your charge?” Mencia laughed. “But you’re hardly out of the nursery yourself!”

“I am fifteen,” Beatriz said. “Out of the nursery long enough to know my duty, my lady. As Her Highness just informed you,
we
do not require anything.”

Mencia’s smile faded; her black-lined eyes narrowed.

I said quickly, “My lady de Bobadilla and I are most grateful to Her Grace, but I’ve no desire for accessories; my tastes are simple. And I’m unused to so many attendants and would prefer that my lady de Bobadilla serve me alone, if you please.”

Mencia’s expression did not betray further displeasure, though I detected tartness in her voice as she executed a curtsey. “As Your Highness wishes.” She glanced pointedly at Beatriz. “You should become accustomed to being part of a larger household; you’re under the queen’s care and Her Grace likes to surround herself with women of culture.”

With these words, she herded the others out, leaving Beatriz and me alone.

“The nerve!” Beatriz fumed, turning to the chest. She found the sleeves and proceeded to dress me as I stood immobile. “Who does that Mencia de Mendoza think she is? Women of culture—did you see the paint on her face? Harlots wear less. Oh, if Doña Clara were here she’d have a fit. Can it be the queen lets women like those attend her?”

I repressed a shudder as she laced up my outer gown and affixed the draping sleeves lined in velvet. “She’s not just any woman,” I said. “The Mendozas are one of the noblest families in Castile; Mencia is the daughter of a grandee.”

Beatriz snorted. “Is that so? Well, I’ve never reprimanded a grandee’s daughter before.” She turned me around. Taking a brush from a case, she stroked my waist-length, chestnut-gold hair to a rippling sheen; my hair was one of my secret vanities, though I had tried to subdue it, having been advised by the nuns in Santa Ana that a woman’s tresses were Satan’s ladder.

“There.” Beatriz stepped back. “Let’s see what Mencia de Mendoza has to say now. I vow there’s not a girl at court with skin as unblemished or hair as golden as yours.”

“Vanity is a sin,” I reproached with a smile, as she changed into her own sedate black gown, coiling her hair at her nape moments before a rapping at the door preceded Carrillo.

At the sight of him, I straightened my spine. Though I knew he would look after us as promised, for our welfare was bound with his, I had no doubt he’d manipulated my mother into conceding our release, promising something he had no right to offer. He was a powerful man, ruthless; and we were now beholden to him. I must be careful, in both my actions and my words. I must feign acquiescence so I could better watch over my brother. Fortunately, I had the feeling Carrillo didn’t expect anything else from me anyway.

He regarded me. “I was informed that you disdained the attentions of the queen’s own ladies, though they were sent here to attend you. Is this true?”

“Why, yes.” I injected concern in my voice. “Did I make a mistake? I hardly saw the need for ten to accomplish what one can do just as well.”

Beatriz shot me a sarcastic look but Carrillo, to my relief, only let out an indulgent laugh. “You certainly weren’t raised at court; that much is clear. Doña Mencia complains that your clothes are fit only for the poorhouse but I think you look rather charming, even if the gown’s style is a little outdated.”

“It was made by my mother. I am proud to wear it.”

“Good.” He nodded vigorously. “Pride is good, though not too much of it, eh?” He wagged his finger, encircled by its gold ring. “We don’t want you starting out on the wrong foot.” He winked at Beatriz. “And you apparently excel at protecting our infanta and making enemies, little Bobadilla. Exercise more care with whom you insult, yes? Doña Mencia holds the queen’s favor and I don’t have the time or inclination to arbitrate feminine quarrels.”

“Of course,” I said, stopping Beatriz’s protest. “It will not happen again, my lord.” I set my hand on his arm. “I believe I am ready.”

With a smile, I let him lead me out to my first meeting with the king.

CHAPTER SIX

W
ithin the great
sala
, countless beeswax tapers melted above us in hanging iron candelabra, lighting up the gilded stalactites of the ceiling, which shimmered like an iridescent sky. Along the upper edge of the walls, painted statues of Castile’s early kings frowned; below their pedestals hung wide tapestries of wool and silk, the vivid hues reflecting like liquid across the polished floor. The air throbbed with conversation, with laughter and firefly flashes of brilliantly clad courtiers, everything scented by myrrh and perfume and incense.

I knew the alcazar’s history. During the glacial winters in Arévalo, Beatriz and I had entertained ourselves reading aloud from the
Crónicas
, which related stories of the kings and queens who had lived and died within these walls. Like Castile’s other fortresses, the alcazar of Segovia had been built as a Moorish stronghold before it was wrested away during the Reconquista. I’d expected to feel awe inside the historic castle where my ancestors had dwelled. What I did not anticipate was the sudden emotion that overcame me, like the awakening of something dormant in my blood. I had to focus my eyes on the dais at the hall’s end, with its empty throne, to keep from gaping as Beatriz was.

Carrillo approached us and told Beatriz to step aside. He took me to the dais. The courtiers drew back, staring at me for what seemed an impossibly long moment before heads lowered in deference. I could almost hear their thoughts—“Here she is, the half sister of the king”—and fought to ignore the sensation that I was being appraised by hungry predators. I caught sight of Mencia in her scarlet gown, standing close to the marquis of Villena. When his smile bared teeth, I looked away to the tables set against the walls in preparation for the evening banquet, each weighted with jewel-rimmed platters sprouting minarets of Andalucían oranges, cherries from Extremadura, sugared almonds, dates,
figs, and apricots—a veritable orchard of delights, piled with such abundance it seemed almost sinful, a profligate waste.

Carrillo bowed before the dais, declaring in his booming voice, “The Infanta Isabella!”

I curtsied to the floor, hiding my discomfiture. Why did he address an empty throne?

Then I heard a soft voice inquire, “Can this be my little sister?” and I peeped up to see a large man in black, reclining nearby on a mound of silk tasseled cushions, a plate of delicacies at his side, attended by a veiled figure in a gown. Lined up directly against the wall behind him stood a regiment of Moorish sentries, sheathed scimitars at their hips, their pantaloons and turbans making them look as if they’d just arrived from Granada.

“Majestad,”
I murmured.

My half brother Enrique rose. The last time I’d seen him I had been a child and had not marked how tall he was. Now he seemed to loom over me—an odd, misshapen man, his head, crowned with a red, Moorish-style turban, seeming too large for his gangly body, his shaggy gold-red mane falling in lank strands from under his turban to his concave shoulders. He wore a black-and-gold embroidered caftan; I glimpsed the curling tips of red leather slippers on his strangely dainty feet.

I stared at him, forgetting myself. I’d heard it said he resembled my father but I barely recalled the dead king who had sired us and searched in vain for any familial resemblance.

“You … you are pretty,” said Enrique, as if he’d not considered my appearance until this moment. I met his mournful amber-hued eyes, slightly protuberant and heavy-lidded. With his flat nose, rounded cheeks, and fleshy lips he was not comely; only his impressive height lent him distinction. And while tunics in the Moorish style were part of every Castilian’s wardrobe, especially useful for keeping cool during the summer months, my mother had only allowed us to don such garb in the privacy of our rooms. I could imagine what she’d say if she had been here, to see the king dressed like an infidel on our first night at court. But Enrique’s timorous smile beckoned me closer; as I leaned to kiss his hand, adorned with the signet of Castile, he suddenly pulled me into an
awkward embrace. He smelled musky, like an unwashed animal. Sensitive as I was to odors, I did not find his unpleasant, though I supposed it was not how a king ought to smell.

“Welcome, sister,” he said. “Welcome to my court.”

Around us the courtiers broke into fervent applause. Enrique kept my hand in his as he turned with me to face the hall. “Where is my brother the Infante Alfonso?” he called out, and from within the throng of courtiers my brother emerged, hand-in-hand with a sturdy youth. Alfonso was flushed, a telltale sign he’d been imbibing undiluted wine—something forbidden to him until now. Evidently whatever regrets he’d had at leaving our home behind had been subsumed by the excitement of our new surroundings. I didn’t see Don Chacón anywhere, either, though usually he was not far from Alfonso’s side.

“Look who’s here, Isabella.” Alfonso nodded toward his companion. “It’s our cousin Fernando from Aragón. We’re sharing a room, though all he’s done so far is ask about you.”

Fernando bowed before me. “Your Highness,” he said, a tremor in his voice, “this is a great honor, though I doubt you remember me.”

He was wrong; I did remember him, or at least I knew of him by name. He was the last person I’d expected to find here, at my half brother’s court, however.

Our families shared Trastámara blood through our ancestors, but enmity and rapacity had led Castile and Aragón to wage war against each other for centuries. The kings of Aragón zealously guarded their smaller, independent realm, constantly at odds with France and suspicious of Castile, though never enough to disdain alliances of marriage, in the hope of one day putting an Aragonese prince on Castile’s throne.

A year younger than I, Fernando was, like Alfonso and me, born of a second marriage, in his case between his father, Juan of Aragón, and Juana Enríquez, daughter of the hereditary admirals of Castile. Fernando was also heir to Aragón since his older half brother had died several years before. While I was acquainted with the facts of Fernando’s family and his bloodline, I’d not heard anything particularly interesting about him or his kingdom; indeed, I knew almost nothing other than the fact that in my childhood, his ever-scheming father, King Juan, had proposed Fernando as a spouse for me.

As I now gazed upon this prince who was my distant cousin, I thought he had a disconcertingly attractive countenance, with a strong nose and clever mouth, and shining brown eyes fringed in thick lashes that any woman would envy. His left eye was slightly smaller, with a peculiar slant to it that lent his face an impish cast. He was short yet robustly built for his age, and his thick dark hair was straight, cut bluntly at his shoulders. I was especially taken by the olive cast of his complexion, turned bronze by the sun. I imagined he spent most of his time outdoors, like my brother, but while Alfonso shone pale as alabaster, Fernando looked almost swarthy, like a Moor, his person exuding irrepressible vitality. Though they couldn’t have been less alike, I did not wonder that my brother and he behaved as if they were old friends, for in spirit they appeared to have much in common.