The Queen's Vow: A Novel of Isabella of Castile (31 page)

“What rights? Ávila, Medina del Campo, and six other cities are already for us, and I’m off tonight to throw Villena’s officials out of Sepulveda, at the town’s own request. If matters continue as they are, by Epiphany all of Castile will be ours.”

He was in his element, donning his chain mail and breastplate to rally the admiral’s retainers and the forces sent by Medina Sidonia from the south into effective infiltration units that could scale walls, unlock gates, and overpower royal garrisons in the dead of night, with only the moon to illumine their way. By mid-1472, we held more than half of Castile’s fourteen major townships in our grasp, and by the beginning of 1473 we were confident enough of our safety to finally leave Dueñas for a grand new residence in Aranda de Duero, near Valladolid. Once we were established in our palatial estate, even the most recalcitrant grandees, who had opted to bolster Enrique and his villainous favorite, began to send us covert pledges of support—“no doubt,” remarked Fernando
acidly, “because they know that if they do not, I’ll tear their castles down about their ears and put their heads on spikes, to boot.”

Though I would never admit it out loud, this statement, more than anything else, proved Carrillo’s unwise comment that Fernando did not understand the ways of Castile. To harass the grandees was pointless, even dangerous. Pride and ambition were two sides of the same coin to these lords who had badgered, cajoled, and ignored their sovereign for centuries. They must be enticed, brought to heel without realizing it; otherwise they’d bite like the feral dogs they were at heart. I had seen it throughout my childhood, witnessed firsthand the chaos that Enrique had sown in trying to appease the grandee factions, the internecine intrigues and alliances that had tied him up in knots and turned him into a mere figurehead who must bend to the strongest wind.

Therefore, while Fernando assumed charge of our military affairs that year, I undertook the diplomatic—suffering endless hours of penning letters until spots danced before my red-rimmed eyes and my fingertips bled. I answered every missive I received personally. I did not miss an opportunity to inquire after a sick family member, congratulate a birth, or offer condolences on a death, determined to make myself known to these arrogant lords who could as easily defeat us as defend us. With my Isabel close at my side, playing with her toys or napping in her upholstered cradle by the fire, I worked harder than I ever had before, for I knew that these seemingly small gestures of recognition on my part, these simple exchanges of information and pleasantries, might, in the end, sway the grandees to my side when I most had need of them.

And as I worked, I could imagine Enrique’s despair, helpless once more as he watched his kingdom turn against him. Even Villena, it seemed, had fallen ill from the distress of watching his edifice of power and lies crumble. While I did not rejoice in physical suffering, I did take satisfaction that at least with Villena indisposed I was finally at liberty to visit my mother without fearing apprehension by the marquis’s zealous patrols. Time had fled by; and between my labors and caring for my child, I had been remiss in attending to my mother’s needs. Though I had sent money and letters to Arévalo whenever I
could, Doña Clara’s replies had been slow in coming and her unrevealing, dutiful tone made me suspect that matters in the household were not as they should be.

I had hoped Fernando would join me in visiting Arévalo, as he had not yet met my mother, but he was unexpectedly called to Aragón by his father to welcome a delegation sent by Cardinal Borgia, carrying our long-awaited dispensation. The cardinal wished to convoke a peace conference between Aragón and France, and peace was something we desired. If Aragón could find some way to stave off its much larger and aggressive neighbor, it would free up men for our ongoing struggle in Castile. Still, it was our first official parting since our marriage and Fernando could be gone for months. I knew I’d miss him terribly, though I endeavored not to show it. I packed his saddlebags full of clean shirts I had sewn with my own hands, kissed him goodbye, and made my own plans, thinking that if I kept occupied, time would pass more quickly and hasten his return.

Not knowing in what state I would find Arévalo, I reluctantly left my Isabel, who was almost four years old, in the care of attendants in our new residence. Inés and Chacón accompanied me, along with an escort of soldiers, in the spring of 1474. It was an uneventful trip but my fears regarding my childhood home were not unfounded; I found the castle more desolate and threadbare than even I recalled, with the animals crowded in filthy stockades and the smell of mold and smoke permeating the hall. My mother was gaunt, shockingly aged, her conversation meandering down blurred pathways between past and present, as if time were a river without any end. She spoke of Alfonso as though he were still alive but failed at moments to recognize me, staring at me with a vacant gaze that twined like barbs about my heart. Doña Clara, whose hair had turned snow-white yet whose presence remained forceful as ever despite her advanced years, informed me that my mother rarely left her apartments anymore, not even to go to her beloved Convent of Santa Ana. Travel in such unsettled times was ill advised and expensive, Doña Clara remarked, and money had been sporadic at best, dependent on what I sent, as Villena had cut the household allowance from the treasury in retaliation against me.

“Some days all we have to eat are a chicken, lentils, and a few onions,” Doña Clara said, as I inwardly seethed at the fact that even firewood—never abundant on the arid
meseta
—had required strict rationing, the hall so cold in the dead of winter that meat could be hung from its rafters without spoiling. “But we persevere,
mi niña
. What else can we do?”

As I sat embroidering with my mother, glancing at the brittle fingers worrying her needle through the cloth, shame choked me. I couldn’t keep her any longer in this deplorable state, no matter how limited my own means. She was becoming an invalid before her time, crippled by inactivity and these harsh living conditions she’d been obliged to endure. At the very least, new tapestries, carpets, braziers, and cloth for garments must be purchased; the castle must be cleaned from keep to cellar. While Chacón went to work with the soldiers, repairing the dilapidated stockades and replenishing the storehouses with game, I swallowed my pride and wrote to Carrillo. We’d not seen each other since his abrupt departure from Dueñas despite my various conciliatory missives, which he’d disdained like “a petulant sixty-year-old child,” as Fernando put it. Now, I abased myself in order to obtain the funds I needed; and something in my plea must have softened his heart, for one evening as we prepared to dine, Chacón strode in to announce that a visitor was requesting admittance at the gate.

“At this hour?” exclaimed Doña Clara, whose existence had become so insular she viewed any intrusion as a potential threat. The other elderly ladies exchanged apprehensive looks; they had all experienced Villena’s belligerent officers barging in to harass and intimidate.

I instructed Chacón to invite our guest in; we had fresh rabbit stew and a dried apple-and-carrot salad in almond milk, and what six can eat, eight can share. But as the small cloaked figure walked in and reached up to remove its cowl, I could not contain my cry. I dashed into a welcome embrace, to the astonishment of those seated around the table.

“How can it be?” I whispered, holding my dear friend close. “How can you be here?”

“Carrillo, of course.” Beatriz drew back with a smile. “He asked me to give you this.” She pressed a leather purse stuffed with coins into my
hand. “And to convey these tidings: Villena is dying of a stomach tumor and the Portuguese alliance for la Beltraneja has fallen apart. The king annulled his marriage to the queen and sent her into a convent. He is sick of conflict. He wishes to personally receive you in Segovia.”

I DEPARTED ARÉVALO
in the coppery haze of autumn. I had not wanted to show my eagerness by leaping at Enrique’s offer of a truce; instead, I composed a cautious reply that indicated I was overseeing my mother’s care and requested the release of those long-delayed funds due to me, as a gesture of his sincerity. Then I waited. The money came quickly, sure sign that Villena must indeed be on his deathbed. But Fernando advised me by letter that I should not go near Segovia until we knew for certain that the marquis had succumbed to his ailment, lest it all be an elaborate ruse to entrap me. It was sound advice and so I waited, summoning my Isabel to join me in Arévalo, while with my new funds I proceeded to refurbish the castle.

Beatriz assisted me, regaling me with details of how Carrillo had hidden away from everyone to sulk in his palace in Alcalá, until one day, without warning, he made a brash move and appealed to the king, seeking to reinstate himself in the royal favor.

“He’d heard Villena was ill and that Enrique wandered the countryside between Segovia and Madrid like a lost soul, unable to reconcile himself to the impending loss of his favorite.” Beatriz arched her brow; she had never dissembled her feelings and was not about to feign lament now at the end of Villena. “Enrique agreed to see him and together they hatched this reconciliation with you.”

I eyed her as we measured the tester on my mother’s bed for new curtains. “And I suppose you and Cabrera had nothing to do with it?”

“I didn’t say that. In fact, we had a great deal to do with it. My husband was the one who took Carrillo’s letter to the king, after it sat unopened for months on a pile of neglected correspondence as tall as the alcazar itself. And once he persuaded Enrique to receive the archbishop, I went to work.” She paused for effect. “I told Enrique that if he reconciled with you, he would restore peace to Castile, like ‘a tree whose dried branches have turned green again and will never wither.’ ”

“You said that?” I had difficulty repressing my smile. “I never took you for a poet.”

“Anything for my lady” was her tart reply, and as our eyes met, we burst into laughter, startling Isabel in the window seat.

“I have missed you so,” I said, wiping tears of mirth from my eyes. “I do not know how I’ve survived all this time without you.”

“But you have,” she said. “You have a beautiful little girl, and this one”—she made a good-natured moue at Inés, who unfurled the new damask—“to look after you now, not to mention that proud warrior-prince of yours, who defends you with shield and sword.”

“Yes,” I agreed softly. “I am indeed blessed.”

Though lovely as ever, my Beatriz had grown plump in her married state; she too, I could see, was happy, but it occurred to me that after all this time, she’d not yet conceived. I doubted the fault was hers. Though it was commonly believed women were to blame for childlessness in a couple, her robust health showed in the bloom of her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes. Perhaps it was because Cabrera was older, I reasoned. Maybe just as happened to women in their middle years, men lost their potency after a certain age.

“What are you thinking?” she asked, breaking into my reverie.

“Only that I am very happy we are together,” I said, and she gave me one of her discerning looks, as if she could see right through me. But she did not say anything, swooping over instead to twirl a delighted Isabel in her arms. My daughter had taken to Beatriz at once, dubbing her Tía Bea, and I saw in Beatriz’s adoring gaze that she too had formed a deep attachment to my child. A better mother would not be found; even with her severely aged and ill father, Don Bobadilla, who was now confined to bed in the castle and not long for this earth, she showed a stoic patience, always ready to attend him no matter how late the hour. I hoped that despite the odds, perhaps she might yet bear a child.

Finally, in early November, shortly after we buried poor Don Bobadilla and Beatriz went into mourning for him, word came of Villena’s demise. My most formidable foe, who had hounded me since my brother’s death and betrayed or deceived nearly every person he had come in contact with, was gone. He had died in great pain, eaten alive by his stomach ailment, but I found it difficult to summon any compassion
for him. With Villena dead, no longer did I need to worry that his malicious tongue and elaborate schemes would turn Enrique from his better judgment. At long last I was free to seek rapport with my half brother and put an end to the succession crisis in Castile.

I dispatched the news to Fernando with due urgency. It would take at least two or three weeks for him to receive the letter and respond, so after I bid my mother farewell in her newly garrisoned abode, I brought Isabel to Aranda de Duero before making the return trip to Segovia with Beatriz. Despite my newfound confidence, I would not entrust my daughter to that court.

As the alcazar loomed into view, stark and pointed as a fang against the leaden winter sky, I was beset by sudden unease. I’d not stepped foot in Segovia since I had left the city seven years earlier; I had no fond memories of the time I’d spent in captivity in that fortress’s arabesque interior. Now here I was again, a grown woman and mother in my twenty-third year, about to enter it again.