The Queen's Vow: A Novel of Isabella of Castile Read online

  The Queen’s Vow is a work of historical fiction. Apart from the well-known actual people, events, and locales that figure in the narrative, all names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 by C.W. Gortner

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  BALLANTINE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Gortner, C. W.

  The queen’s vow: a novel of Isabella of Castile / C. W. Gortner.

  p. cm.

  eISBN: 978-0-345-52398-3

  1. Isabella I, Queen of Spain, 1451–1504—Fiction. 2. Spain—History—Ferdinand and Isabella, 1479–1516—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3607.O78Q84 2012

  813′.6—dc23 2012008559

  www.ballantinebooks.com

  Title-page and part-title images: © iStockphoto.com / © jpa1999 (border);

  © Evgeniy Dzhulay (crown)

  Family tree and map by C. W. Gortner

  Jacket design: Victoria Allen

  Jacket photograph: Jeff Cottenden

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Family Tree

  Map

  Prologue: 1454

  Part I: The Infanta from Arévalo: 1464–1468

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Part II: A Forbidden Union: 1468–1474

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Part III: The Double-edged Sword: 1474–1480

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Part IV: The Fallen Kingdom: 1481–1492

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Author’s Afterword

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Other Books by This Author

  About the Author

  I have come to this land and I certainly do not intend

  to leave it to flee or shirk my work;

  nor shall I give such glory to my enemies

  or such pain to my subjects.

  —ISABELLA I OF CASTILE

  PROLOGUE

  1454

  No one believed I was destined for greatness.

  I came into the world in the Castilian township of Madrigal de las Altas Torres, the first child of my father, Juan II’s marriage to his second wife, Isabel of Portugal, after whom I was named—an infanta, healthy and unusually quiet, whose arrival was heralded by bells and perfunctory congratulations but no fanfare. My father had already sired an heir by his first marriage, my half brother, Enrique; and when my mother bore my brother, Alfonso, two years after me, shoring up the male Trastámara bloodline, everyone believed I’d be relegated to the cloister and distaff, an advantageous marriage pawn for Castile.

  As often happens, God had other plans.

  I CAN STILL recall the hour when everything changed.

  I was not yet four years old. My father had been ill for weeks with a terrible fever, shut behind the closed doors of his apartments in the alcazar of Valladolid. I did not know him well, this forty-nine-year-old king whom his subjects had dubbed El Inútil, the Useless, for the manner in which he’d ruled. To this day, all I remember is a tall, lean man with sad eyes and a watery smile, who once summoned me to his private rooms and gave me a jeweled comb, enameled in the Moorish style. A short, swarthy lord stood behind my father’s throne the entire time I was there, his stubby-fingered hand resting possessively on its back as he watched me with keen eyes.

  A few months after that meeting, I overheard women in my mother’s household whisper that the short lord had been beheaded and that his death had plunged my father into inconsolable grief.

  “Lo mató esa loba portuguesa,” the women said. “The Portuguese she-wolf had Constable Luna killed because he was the king’s favorite.” Then one of them hissed, “Hush! The child, she’s listening!” They froze in unison, like figures woven in a tapestry, seeing me seated in the alcove right next to them, all eyes and ears.

  Only days after overhearing the ladies, I was hastily awakened, swathed in a cloak, and trotted through the alcazar’s corridors to the royal apartments, only this time I was led into a stifling chamber where braziers burned and the muffled psalms of kneeling monks drifted through the room beneath a wreath of incense smoke. Copper lamps dangled overhead on gilt chains, the oily glow wavering across grim-faced grandees in somber finery.

  On the large bed before me, the curtains were drawn back.

  I paused on the threshold, instinctively looking about for the short lord, though I knew he was dead. Then I espied my father’s favorite peregrine perched in the alcove, chained to its silver post. Its enlarged pupils swiveled to me, opaque and flame-lit.

  I went still. I sensed something awful that I did not want to see.

  “My child, go,” my aya, Doña Clara, urged. “His Majesty your father is asking for you.”

  I refused to move, turning to cling to her skirts, hiding my face in their dusty folds. I heard heavy footsteps come up behind me; a deep voice said, “Is this our little Infanta Isabella? Come, let me see you, child.”

  Something in that voice tugged at me, making me look up.

  A man loomed over me, large and barrel-chested, dressed in the dark garb of a grandee. His goateed face was plump, his light brown eyes piercing. He was not handsome; he looked like a pampered palace cat, but the slight tilt to his rosy mouth entranced me, for it seemed he smiled only for me, with a single-minded attentiveness that made me feel I was the only person he cared to see.

  He held out a surprisingly delicate hand for a man of his size. “I am Archbishop Carrillo of Toledo,” he said. “Come with me, Your Highness. There is nothing to fear.”

  I tentatively took his hand; his fingers were strong and warm. I felt safe as his hand closed over mine and he led me past the monks and dark-clad courtiers, their anonymous eyes seeming to glint with dispassionate interest like those of the falcon in the alcove.

  The archbishop hoisted me onto a footstool by the bed, so I could stand near my father. I heard the king’s breath making a noisy rasp in his lungs; his skin was pasted on his bones, already a strange waxen hue. His eyes were closed, his thin-fingered hands crossed over his chest as if he were an effigy on one of the elaborate tombs that littered our cathedrals.

  I must have made a sound of dismay, for Carrillo murmured in my ear, “You must kiss him, Isabella. Give your father your blessing so he can leave this vale of tears in peace.”
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  Though it was the last thing I wanted to do, I held my breath, bent over, and quickly pecked my father’s cheek. I felt the chill of fever on his skin. I recoiled, my gaze lifting to the other side of the bed.

  There, I saw a silhouette. For a horrifying moment, I thought it was the ghost of the dead constable, whom my ladies claimed haunted the castle, restless for revenge. But then an errant flicker from the lamps sliced across his face and I recognized my older half brother, Prince Enrique. The sight of him startled me; he usually stayed far from court, preferring his beloved casa real in Segovia, where it was said he kept an infidel guard around him and a menagerie of exotic beasts he fed with his own hands. Yet now he was here, in our father’s death chamber, enveloped in a black cloak, the scarlet turban on his head hiding his mop of shaggy fair hair and enhancing his odd, flattened nose and small, close-set eyes, which gave him the appearance of an unkempt lion.

  The knowing smile he gave me sent a chill down my spine.

  The archbishop gathered me in his arms, marching from the room as though there was nothing of any importance left there for us. Over his thick shoulder, I saw the courtiers and grandees converge around the bed; I heard the monks’ chants grow louder and saw Enrique incline intently, almost eagerly, over the moribund king.

  In that moment, our father, Juan II, breathed his last.

  WE DID NOT return to my rooms. Held tight against the archbishop’s powerful chest, I watched in a daze as he brusquely motioned to my aya, waiting outside the apartment doors, and brought us down the spiral back staircase into the keep. An anemic moon in the night sky barely pierced the veil of cloud and mist.

  As we emerged from the castle’s protective shadow, the archbishop peered toward the postern gate, a darker square inset in the far curtain wall.

  “Where are they?” he said in a taut voice.

  “I … I don’t know,” quavered Doña Clara. “I sent word just as you bade me, telling Her Highness to meet us here. I hope something hasn’t happened to—”

  He held up a hand. “I think I see them.” He stepped forward; I felt him stiffen as the hasty sound of slippers on cobblestones reached us. He let out a sharp exhalation when he saw the figures moving toward us, led by my mother. She was pale, the hood of her cloak bunched about her slim shoulders, sweat-drenched auburn hair escaping her coif. Behind her were her wide-eyed Portuguese ladies and Don Gonzalo Chacón, governor of my one-year-old brother, whom he cradled in his burly arms. I wondered why we were all here, outside in the dead of night. My brother was so young, and it was cold.

  “Is he …?” said my mother breathlessly.

  Carrillo nodded. A sob cracked my mother’s voice, her startling blue-green eyes fixed on me in the archbishop’s arms. She held out her hands. “Isabella, hija mía.”

  Carrillo let me down. Unexpectedly, I did not want to leave him. But I shifted forth, my oversized cloak draping me in a shapeless cocoon. I curtsied as I’d been taught to do whenever I was presented to my beautiful mother, as I’d always done on the rare times I was brought to her before the court. She cast back my hood, her wide-set blue-green eyes meeting mine. Everyone said I had my mother’s eyes, only mine were a darker hue.

  “My child,” she whispered, and I detected a quivering desperation in her tone. “My dearest daughter, all we have now is each other.”

  “Your Highness must concentrate on what is important,” I heard Carrillo say. “Your children must be kept safe. With your husband the king’s demise, they are—”

  “I know what my children are,” interrupted my mother. “What I want to know is how much longer do we have, Carrillo? How much time before we must abandon everything we’ve known for a forgotten refuge in the middle of nowhere?”

  “A few hours at best” was the archbishop’s flat reply. “The bells have not yet rung because such an announcement takes time to prepare.” He paused. “But it will come soon enough, by the morning at the latest. You must place your trust in me. I promise you, I’ll see to it that you and the infantes are kept from harm.”

  My mother turned her gaze to him, pressed a hand to her mouth as if to stifle her laughter. “How will you do that? Enrique of Trastámara is about to become king. If my eyes haven’t deceived me these many years, he’ll prove as susceptible to his favorites as Juan ever was. What safety can you possibly provide us, save a company of your guards and sanctuary in a convent? Yes, why not? A nunnery is no doubt best suited for the hated foreign widow and her brood.”

  “Children cannot be raised in a convent,” Carrillo said. “Nor should they be separated at such a tender age from their mother. Your son, Alfonso, is now Enrique’s heir by law until his wife bears him a child. I assure you, the Council will not see the infantes’ rights impugned. In fact, they’ve agreed to let you raise the prince and his sister in the castle of Arévalo in Ávila, which shall be given to you as part of your widow’s dower.”

  Silence fell. I stood quiet, observing the glazed look that came over my mother’s face as she echoed, “Arévalo,” as if she had heard wrong.

  Carrillo went on, “His Majesty’s testament leaves ample provision for the infantes, with separate towns to be granted to each of them upon their thirteenth year. I promise you shall not want for anything.”

  My mother’s gaze narrowed. “Juan barely saw our children. He never cared about them. He never cared about anyone except that awful man, Constable Luna. Yet now you say he left provision for them. How can you possibly know this?”

  “I was his confessor, remember? He heeded my advice because he feared the fires of everlasting Hell if he did not.” The sudden intensity in Carrillo’s tone made me glance at him. “But I cannot protect you if you do not place your trust in me. In Castile, it is customary for a widowed queen to retire from the court, but she doesn’t usually get to keep her children, especially when the new king lacks an heir. That is why you must leave tonight. Take only the infantes and what you can carry. I’ll send the rest of your possessions as soon as I’m able. Once you’re in Arévalo and the king’s testament is proclaimed, no one will dare touch you, not even Enrique.”

  “I see. But you and I were never friends, Carrillo. Why risk yourself for my sake?”

  “Let us say I offer you a favor,” he said, “in exchange for a favor.”

  This time, my mother couldn’t suppress her bitter laughter. “What favor can I grant you, the wealthiest prelate in Castile? I’m a widow on a pension, with two small children and a household to feed.”

  “You will know when the time comes. Rest assured, it will not be to your disadvantage.” With these words, Carrillo turned to instruct her servants, who had overheard everything and stood staring at us with wide, fearful eyes.

  I slowly reached up to take my mother’s hand. I had never dared touch her before without leave. To me, she’d always been a beautiful but distant figure in glittering gowns, laughter spilling from her lips, surrounded by fawning admirers—a mother to be loved from afar. Now she looked as if she had walked miles across a stony landscape, her expression so anguished it made me wish I was older, bigger; that somehow I could be strong enough to protect her from the cruel fate that had taken my father from her.

  “It’s not your fault, Mama,” I said. “Papa went to Heaven. That’s why we must leave.”

  She nodded, tears filling her eyes as she gazed into some unseen distance.

  “And we’re going to Ávila,” I added. “It’s not far, is it, Mama?”

  “No,” she said softly, “not far, hija mía; not far at all….”

  But I could tell that for her, it was already a lifetime away.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Hold the reins firmly, Isabella. Don’t let him sense your fear. If he does, he’ll think he’s in control and he’ll try to throw you.”

  Perched atop the elegant black stallion, I nodded, gripping the reins. I could feel the taut leather through the weather-worn tips of my gloves. Belatedly I thought I should have let Beatriz’s father, Don
Pedro de Bobadilla, buy me the new gloves he had offered for my recent thirteenth birthday. Instead, pride—a sin I tried hard, but usually failed, to overcome—had refused to let me admit our penury by accepting the gift, though he lived with us and surely knew quite well how impoverished we were. Just as pride hadn’t let me refuse my brother’s challenge that it was time I learned to ride a proper horse.

  So, here I sat, with old leather gloves that felt thin as silk to protect my hands, atop a magnificent animal. Though it was not a large horse it was still frightening; the creature shifted and pawed the ground as though it were ready to bolt at any moment, regardless of whether I could stay on or not.

  Alfonso shook his head, leaning from his roan to pry my fingers further apart, so that the reins draped through them.

  “Like that,” he said. “Firm, but not so firm that you’ll injure his mouth. And remember to sit straight when you canter and lean forward at a gallop. Canela isn’t one of those stupid mules you and Beatriz ride. He’s a purebred Arabian jennet, worthy of a caliph. He needs to know his rider is in charge at all times.”

  I straightened my spine, settling my buttocks on the embossed saddle. I felt light as a thistle. Though I was of an age when most girls begin to develop, I remained so flat and thin that my friend and lady-in-waiting Beatriz, Don Bobadilla’s daughter, was constantly cajoling me to eat more. She eyed me now with concern, her significantly more curvaceous figure so gracefully erect upon her dappled gelding that it seemed she’d been riding one her entire life, her thick black hair coiled above her aquiline features under a fillet and veil.