The Queen's Vow: A Novel of Isabella of Castile (29 page)

I looked into his eyes—those revealing brown eyes that I’d begun to know so well and suspected could never lie to me, regardless of what his lips said. I found no deceit.

“Where can we go?” I whispered, shuddering at the thought of another hurried and secretive departure, another rush through the night to a fortified structure. It seemed as if all I’d done since Enrique had come into my life was flee him.

“Carrillo says the castle of Dueñas will suffice, for the time being.”

“Dueñas,” I echoed, dejected. “But that’s miles away from anywhere.”

“Yes, but Carrillo’s brother is lord mayor of the town. We’ll be safe there.” He went quiet, caressing my hand before he ventured, “Am I forgiven?”

I nodded. “But you must never lie to me again, Fernando. Promise me.”

He leaned to me, murmured against my lips, “I promise.”

I was warmed as ever by his touch, by the desire that flared between us, but as we returned to the
sala
, I had the disquieting sensation that we had offended God in our zeal to wed. Though I did not know what trials awaited us, I feared we would be sorely tested.

And already, I sensed a new life stirring inside me.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I
nés hovered at my chair, one of her reliable herbal drafts in hand. “Doctor Santillana says you must drink it. Chamomile helps with the vile humors.”

I grimaced. “I’m with child. Vile humors are normal. All chamomile will do is constipate me, and that’s the last thing I need.”

I waved her aside and stood awkwardly, my hand on my jutting stomach. I was in my seventh month and I felt as if I were about to give birth at any moment—my feet and ankles swollen, my digestion in an uproar, and my temperament uneven at best. The entire experience had caught me off guard; I’d expected to remain active and energetic up to my confinement. After all, I was just nineteen, and the midwife had coarsely assured me that girls my age bred “like cows in the field.”

So far, that had not been the case. Along with my other ailments, I’d been plagued by insomnia, and my appetite seemed to be the only part of me that hadn’t undergone some bewildering transformation. Fernando kept telling me I was beautiful, that I resembled a lush Madonna such as those being painted in Italy, but I wasn’t convinced. While vanity had never been integral to my well-being, I’d begun to secretly fret that my figure would never recover from its distorted shape, molded by the unseen being now kicking at my insides with obstinate determination.

A boy, the midwife had said: it must be a boy; this naturally made Fernando all the more attentive and had prompted a torrent of premature congratulatory gifts from his father in Aragón. Carrillo shared the sentiment; every time he came to visit, armed with the latest news and money to pay our expenses, he never failed to remind me that a boy would turn the tide in our favor. No matter how much damage Enrique inflicted, if I gave birth to an infante, all would change. A boy could
inherit Castile
and
Aragón. Our son would be the first king to rule both realms.

“A male heir to succeed us,” I muttered, “while Enrique has nothing but that child everyone calls la Beltraneja.” I leaned against the windowsill of my chamber to peer through the uneven panes. “The entire country will flock to our standard….”

“My lady?” said Inés, not hearing me from where she busied herself at my coffers.

I turned about with a sigh. Poor Inés had borne the brunt of my enforced cloistering in what I’d come to call “our prison of Dueñas.” With my activity curtailed, Fernando often went out with his men all day to hunt, braving the unseasonably humid autumn to hunt the deer, rabbits, and other creatures whose meat we needed to survive winter.

Beatriz had reluctantly returned to Segovia. With Enrique back in Castile, the pressure exerted on her husband by Villena to release the treasury had increased, and Cabrera needed her at his side. Unfathomably, Enrique had developed a liking for Beatriz; she was the only one capable of dissuading him from surrendering to Villena’s mad demands, such as sending an army against me. I knew by her letters that she’d single-handedly persuaded Enrique to leave us alone for the time being, citing my pregnancy as reason for him to show his forbearance. However, though she might have succeeded in forestalling his official denial of my status as his heir, not even she had been able to stop him from refusing me income and reducing us to poverty. I worried that as soon as my child was born, he’d do far more than that.

“Did my letter leave yet?” I asked, pacing back to my upholstered chair and the pile of poor linens I’d taken to making, to help the numerous widows and beggars in the town that had sheltered me, many of whom suffered privations because of the prolonged instability in the kingdom.

“Yes, Cárdenas took it to Segovia himself this morning.” Inés paused, regarding me. “My lady, it’s not my position to say anything, but do you really expect His Majesty to respond? This will be the sixth letter you’ve sent in as many months.”

“I know.” I sat. Those few steps across the room had exhausted me, to my chagrin. “But I dare not stop. Even if he ignores them, if I keep
sending letters reiterating my loyalty to him as my king and brother, perhaps he’ll not go any farther than he already has.”

“He’s not the problem, though,” countered Inés, and I paused, looking at her.

“Indeed,” I said softly. “He is not. Villena holds complete sway. While that man has Enrique’s heart and ear, the most I can hope for is reprieve from—”

An abrupt cramp snagged my breath. I gasped, my hands dropping instinctively to my belly. Another spasm overcame me. It couldn’t be. I was only in my seventh month; I had still two left….

The third cramp was strong enough to cause me to gasp. Warm liquid started to seep down my thighs; as the gush wet my hem, I said to Inés, “Go, quickly. Fetch the midwife. She was wrong. I’m going into labor—now.”

I SCARCELY REMEMBERED
the next fourteen hours. The midwife and her crones hovered about me as I reclined, groaning, upon an open-seated birthing stool in an overheated chamber smothered in herbal vapors and the sourness of my own sweat and urine. I had asked that a silk veil be placed over my face, so no one could see me grimace. The pains were strong but not too much so. I was still in a state to consider my dignity. I began to recite prayers to the Virgin who succors women in their hour of delivery, but as the time passed and the pain squeezed me in an inescapable vise, my prayers fractured, replaced by breathless pleas. I had never felt such agony; I would have given anything to revert to my previous, pregnant misery. By the middle of the night, as I stared at women whose faces had blurred into one anonymous visage, all urging me to “push,” I finally understood that I might die. I scarcely had any strength left to breathe.

It had always been with me, in truth—that unseen specter at my heels. It was the bane of our sex, thrust upon us by Eve’s sin. Women died every day in childbed, be they commoner or queen. I’d given the matter some contemplation when I said my daily devotions, thinking to prepare my immortal soul; but it adopted a visceral intensity in those hours as I struggled to expel the child in my womb, my shrieks sounding in my ears like the keening of a demented animal.

Then, miraculously, as the second morning in October broke over Dueñas, I opened my mouth, and instead of a bellow, I was overwhelmed by a shuddering sigh of vast release that was almost like pleasure. I looked down between my splayed, bloodied thighs to see the midwife capture a slimy body that did not resemble anything human. I managed a whisper through my parched lips: “
Dios mío
, is it …?”

The women crowded together. I heard water splash, heard the slice of a blade, and a resounding slap. Inés, drenched in perspiration and looking as if she’d gone into labor herself, swabbed my forehead with a cloth as we stared toward the black-clad women.

They turned to us. I gripped Inés’s hand so tightly that she bore the bruise for days afterward. The midwife, who’d decided she must have erred in calculating my time of conception, came to me and extended the naked mewling infant in her gnarled hands.

“A girl, Your Highness,” she said dryly, “perfectly formed, as you can see.”

At her unwilling entrance into the world, my little daughter promptly let out a wail that went straight to my beleaguered heart.

Fernando was ecstatic; as soon as he ascertained that I was well, he turned his attentions to little Isabel—named in honor of my mother—proudly taking her in his arms to show her off in her swath of velvets to all our household.

“She’s perfect,” he whispered to me at night, when he snuck into my rooms, defying the prohibition that I must not receive him until I’d been churched, cleansed of the stain of childbirth by a priest’s blessing. He sat on the bed with Isabel cradled between us, her little fists curled at her face, and he regarded her in rapt silence, as though she were the most precious thing he had ever seen.

“I thought you’d be disappointed because she’s not a boy,” I finally said.

“My father is disappointed” was his reply. “So is Carrillo. In fact, our lord Archbishop acts as though this were a personal failure, moping over the Salic Law in Aragón that forbids a woman’s succession and predicting catastrophe.”

“Such a ridiculous custom, Salic Law,” I exclaimed. “How can it be
right to exclude half the children born to a royal couple? If I—a woman—am considered capable of inheriting the crown in Castile, why shouldn’t our Isabel be equally so in Aragón?”

He smiled. “I am happy. She’s healthy and we are still young. We’ll have sons.”

I gave him a sharp look, peeved by his apparent indifference. “Yes, of course,” I said. “Only pray, let me recover from this child first.”

His chuckle awoke Isabel. She blinked, her gorgeous big blue eyes focused on him for a moment before she drifted back to sleep. Overwhelming ferocity filled me as I caressed her warm, delicate cheek.

“I’ll not let them do her harm,” I said. “I don’t care how disappointed everyone is, they will not make her feel unwanted.” I lifted my gaze to him. “Is there any word from court? I imagine Enrique is beset with relief, even as Villena plans his next attack. Because of this Salic Law, we’re as vulnerable as ever.”

Fernando’s eyes glittered. “Not quite,” he said enigmatically. He leaned to me, silencing my question with a kiss. “You’ve been through an ordeal few men would willingly undergo. Let me shoulder the war for now, while you look after our daughter, yes?”

He left me before I could stop him. I wanted to rise from my bed at once but fatigue overcame me as I snuggled closer to my babe. Though we now had a robust peasant wet nurse, selected for her good teeth, placid temperament, and unassailable constitution, I secretly nursed Isabel in private, easing the ache in my milk-swollen breasts and giving her a reputation for being a finicky eater who nonetheless seemed to grow overnight. I was content to stay with her, cocooned and apart, and let the cares of the world drift by. It was the only time in my life when I’d enjoyed the luxury. And with the winter snows blanketing Dueñas, I could pretend for a time that I was not an embattled princess fighting for her rights but rather an ordinary mother, enraptured by her first child.

And so it went. I oversaw every aspect of Isabel’s rearing and refrained from asking Fernando any questions when he came to dine with us, though I knew he spent hours closeted with Carrillo. I once overheard him and the archbishop through the hall door, shouting at each
other; that same day, Fernando came banging into my chamber with a hot flush to his face, declaring Carrillo a high-handed mule who thought too much of himself and too little of everyone else.

“If he dares quote those blasted Capitulations to me one more time, I vow I’ll not be responsible for my actions! Whatever happened to our
tanto monta
that he dares say I must respect his wiser counsel?”

I went to pour him a goblet of cider, warm in its decanter by the hearth. “We did agree to honor him as our premier advisor as part of our prenuptial agreements.”

“So he keeps reminding me.” Fernando drank. “I should have read those so-called Capitulations more closely.”

I had a moment of apprehension. Carrillo was used to getting his way. He had always believed in his own preeminence, even when guiding Alfonso. But Fernando was not some pliant prince he could dictate to; in my husband ran a streak of willfulness that more than matched the archbishop’s. I did not want them to end up at each other’s throats, not when we still awaited a reply to my countless, increasingly indignant letters to Enrique.

“Perhaps I should start attending these meetings,” I said. “I’m well acquainted with our Capitulations and—”

“No.” He slammed the goblet down so hard it startled Isabel in her cradle. She began to cry. I rushed to her, picking her up and glaring at him. His jaw set. “Let me handle Carrillo,” he said, and he marched out, his shoulders squared with resolve.

I rocked Isabel, murmuring endearments; from the corner where she sat on an upholstered stool, quietly mending one of my skirts, Inés raised a questioning brow.