The Queen's Vow: A Novel of Isabella of Castile (32 page)

I turned to Beatriz, saw in her steady gaze that she understood. “Do not worry,” she said. “Andrés has prepared everything with Rabbi Abraham Señeor. You will be safe.”

I had met the rabbi during my previous stay here. He was an erudite Jewish scholar whom Enrique had always favored, despite the antagonism leveled against him by Villena and others who disliked Sephardic influence at court. Don Abraham was Enrique’s head tax collector; he’d also offered invaluable support to Cabrera in his struggle to keep the treasury and crown jewels safe. If the rabbi was involved in my reception, I could indeed be assured of protection, and so I nodded, turning Canela in to the main courtyard, where hundreds waited to receive me.

A light snow began to drift down, dusting the plumed caps and sumptuous velvets of the courtiers as they dropped into obeisance. Canela’s hooves struck the cobblestones with a metallic ring that echoed around the courtyard. As I gazed uncertainly upon the anonymous sea of figures, fear rippled through me. What if Beatriz was wrong? What if despite all assurances to the contrary, Enrique had summoned me here to take me captive?

Then, I caught sight of the lone figure standing in the court’s midst—a pillar of black with his signature red turban.

I would not have recognized him without it. As Chacón assisted me from my saddle and I approached, I concealed my dismay at the king’s extreme thinness. He was jaundiced, sharply etched cheekbones showing under his skin. His mournful eyes were dull, sunk in bruised shadows, bearing testament to his grief. He had the haunted look of a man who has seen the depths of misfortune and I blinked back the sting of tears as I curtsied before him, taking his extended hand with the signet ring and raising it to my lips.

“Majestad,”
I said, “I am deeply honored to be in your presence again.”

Enrique did not speak. I glanced up, trembling, wondering why he had not bidden me to rise. Had he summoned me here only to humiliate me before his court? His amber eyes were fixed on me, unabashedly wet; as tears seeped down his face, mingling with the wet snow dripping from his turban, his mouth quivered. He did not speak because he could not. His emotion, held so long in check, threatened to overcome him.

I did not wait for his leave. I stood and enveloped him in my arms, not caring what any of the courtiers or grandees thought. All that mattered in that moment was that he and I shared the same blood. We were family, brother and sister.

“Hermano,”
I said, so low that only he could hear me, “I am so sorry.”

I felt his stifled sob. His emaciated body melted against mine. And he finally whispered with childlike bewilderment, “No, it is my fault. Mine. I am cursed. I destroy everything I touch….”

WE RODE CEREMONIOUSLY
on horseback through the streets, to demonstrate our reconciliation to the people. They responded with ear-shattering enthusiasm, waving pennons and shouting acclaim, as the skies turned dark, torches were lit, and the snow dissolved into sodden drifts.

In the alcazar, we dined in the great gilded
sala
, seated together on the dais overlooking the polished floor and crowded tables as if nothing had happened between us, as if the years of strife had never been. He had youth attending to him, as always—handsome boys with soft eyes
and perfumed hands, to proffer his plates, fill his goblet, cut his meat. His Moorish guard stood stationed behind him with their scimitars and aloof expressions; only the extravagant red flash of his much-maligned queen was missing to complete this bizarre regression to the past.

But not everything was as it seemed; I could sense that something profound had changed in Enrique. Though he sat enthroned as king, with me, his acknowledged heir, at his side, he seemed removed from the surroundings. He looked upon his court, upon the grandees and lesser nobles who drank his wine and ate his food, who feigned subservience even as they gauged us with the intensity of predators, and he exuded only weary indifference. It was as if he were witnessing a pantomime that held no meaning for him anymore.

Finally I requested his permission to retire. I was exhausted, in body and spirit; and as I kissed his cheek, he murmured, “Tomorrow we’ll talk, yes? We have so much to discuss, so much to do….” His voice drifted off. His expression grew even more unfocused, as if the coming days presented an ordeal he was not sure he could face.

“We have time,” I said. “My lord husband is not yet here; it could be weeks before he’s able to depart Aragón. There is no need to rush. Let us enjoy our reunion first, yes?” Even as I spoke, my heart went hollow. All of a sudden, I wished with a profound desperation that Fernando were here with me. I longed to see his face, touch his hands; I needed to know that he would be my bulwark against whatever intrigues I would have to endure.

I saw in Enrique’s haunted expression that he had felt the same about Villena.

He gave me a faint smile. “Yes, why not? Let us enjoy ourselves.” He reached for his goblet, drank its contents down in one gulp. As his cupbearer hastened to refill it, I had no doubt that—judging by the yellowish taint to his skin—Enrique would drink himself to a stupor that night. That he’d been doing just that since Villena’s death.

Unexpected regret rose in me as I made my way through the crowd. Ines caught up with me at the doorway and as we were escorted to my apartments—those same overdressed rooms once held by Juana—I could not help but wonder if I was in part to blame for Enrique’s piteous state. Perhaps if I’d been more dutiful, less prone to stubbornness or
contest; perhaps if I had offered him the compassionate love of a sister, rather than revolt and defiance, none of this would have come to pass. Maybe he would have turned to me for guidance instead of placing his trust in the rapacious marquis, whose death had cast him into such despair….

Inés’s gasp startled me to attention. She stood frozen in the apartments’ audience chamber, staring at the spectral figure that seemed to hover above the painted tile floor, made even more incorporeal by the few lit candles, which cast more shadow than light.

He inclined his tonsured head. “Your Highness, forgive my intrusion.” His voice was low, almost muted; in the gloom, his pale eyes were opaque, like the eyes of a wolf.

“Fray Torquemada.” I set a hand over my pounding chest. For a terrifying moment, I’d thought he was an assassin disguised in the habit of Santo Domingo, Villena’s final act of revenge. “You gave us a fright. I did not expect you here, at this hour.”

“As I said, forgive the intrusion. What I have to tell you is of the utmost importance.” His unblinking stare apparently unnerved Inés; her hands trembled as she went about lighting more candles. In the brightening room, Torquemada looked too pale and thin, like an anchorite who had not seen the sun in weeks.

I motioned Inés into the bedchamber. I should not be alone with a man who was not my husband and, had he not been of the cloth, I would have dismissed him regardless of the importance of his message. But he had acted as my confessor, advised me during my time of doubt over my betrothal, and I was in no danger. No matter whose apartments he visited at whatever hour, his celibacy would never be in question.

Still, to emphasize the unsuitability of his presence I did not assume a seat, nor did I motion him to one. Instead I said, “Your news must be urgent, indeed. I’ve only just arrived. Had you waited, I assure you I would have found a proper place and time for us to speak.”

“There was no time to wait,” he replied. “God has sent me to you now because your moment is almost here. Soon you will hold the scepter in hand and your glorious purpose will be revealed.”

A shiver crept down my spine. He spoke like one of those odious
soothsayers who often skulked about court with their numerous talismans and claims of fortune-telling.

“Please,” I said, “speak plainly. I am tired. It has been a long day.”

He took a step toward me. I was stunned to see that his feet were bare under his robe’s ragged hem, tinged blue from cold, clotted blood on his toes. He must have walked to the alcazar from the monastery without sandals. I shivered again.

“God gave you Fernando,” Torquemada intoned. “He heard your implorations and He granted you the earthly passion you so desired. He gave you the strength to overcome all obstacles, to vanquish all foes; but in return you must vow to serve Him. You must do Him honor first, above all other considerations. He demands it of you as His earthly queen.”

He paused, his words reverberating with eerie resonance in the closed room. I swallowed against a throat that was suddenly parched. Why was he saying this to me? Was he here to accuse me of some lapse in my devotions?

“I assure you, I do serve Him. Every day,” I said. “I’m but a frail servant and—”

“You’ll be more than a servant,” he said, and I resisted the urge to recoil as he bent toward me, his eyes seeming to smolder in his otherwise cadaverous face. “You cannot deny that you too have seen the mark of Satan upon our wretched king. Enrique IV is doomed; already death creeps into his bones. He has offended the Almighty with his perversities, turned his face from the righteous to embrace his venal sin. But you”—he took another step to me, so close I could smell old candle smoke on his person—“you are His chosen one. In you, His light and wrath burn bright. Only you can guide these realms from the clutch of the Devil and restore our sanctity. Only you can wield the sword that will cut out the heart of evil that plagues these domains.”

I had gone immobile, unable to look away from him. “It is treason to predict the death of a king,” I heard myself say.

“I do not predict.” He lifted a bony finger, as if to chide me. “I am dust, as is every man, even a king. He will die and you will rule. And you must vow to cleanse Castile of corruption, to root it out no matter where it may dwell and cast it into the abyss, by your immortal soul.”

“What corruption?” I whispered, though I already knew and dreaded the answer. “What … what do you mean?”

He stared into my eyes. “Heresy. It lurks everywhere. It has permeated the very rocks and water and soil of this land: It hides in the child who laughs, in the woman at the fountain, in the man on the donkey who passes you on the street. It is in the very air you breathe. It is in the false Christian, who takes the Holy Wafer and spits it out to indulge his abomination, who pretends to revere our Church yet secretly Judaizes with his creed. They are the festering sore in Castile; they are the diseased limb you must amputate and burn to purify the one true faith.”

He spoke of the conversos, the Jews who had converted to our faith. There were thousands in Castile, many of whom had accepted Holy Baptism during the mass conversions of 1391, following a horrific wave of anti-Sephardic violence. They had wed Christians, raised their children as Christians. Beatriz and Andrés de Cabrera were of converso ancestry and so were many of the realm’s most noble families. Purity of blood was an abstract idea, something that few in our land could claim to possess.

“Are you asking me to persecute my people?” I said, incredulous.

“It is not persecution when it is done in God’s name. They are unclean and false. They defile the Church with their forked tongues. They pretend to venerate our Holy Virgin and the saints but they lie. They always lie. They must be exposed, dealt with. Eliminated.”

I forgot myself, letting out a brittle laugh. “But they’re more than half the realm! I bear converso blood in my own lineage; so does Fernando in his. Indeed, you yourself, Fray Torquemada, are a descendant of conversos. Are we all false, then?”

His face hardened. In a voice sibilant with an emotion darker than rage, stronger than hatred—an emotion I didn’t know how to identify because I had never felt it and hoped I never would—he replied, “Let me prove to you just how false they are.”

I regarded him in laden silence. Then I raised my chin. “You are impertinent. I am not yet queen, nor, God willing, shall I be for many years hence, as it would mean the loss of my sole surviving brother. Yet even if I were crowned tomorrow, the last thing I’d condone is the persecution of my subjects.”

“It is your duty.” His eyes were cold. Flat. “You must not let heresy flourish under your rule. God has granted you a great privilege; with it comes great responsibility.”

How dare he remind me of my obligations, after everything I’d undergone to protect my very right to fulfill those obligations? In that instant, I wanted him out. He repulsed me with his vehemence, with his outrageous effrontery. I’d just returned to Segovia; Enrique was bereft, ill; I was alone, without proper counsel, in a court where I had never felt safe, separated from my husband and child. How could he thrust this onerous burden on me?

“I am perfectly aware of my responsibility,” I informed him and I heard the cutting edge in my voice. “And I promise you, Fray Torquemada, heresy will not flourish should I wear the crown. But I will not punish the innocent. That is my final word.”

I bowed my head, in deference to his spiritual superiority. “Now, you must excuse me. It is long past the hour when I should retire.”

I did not wait for his response as I walked to my bedchamber door. As I turned the knob, I looked over my shoulder. He was gone, the outer door closed; a candle near it burned steadily, as if his departure had not stirred the air, as if he’d never been here at all.

It is your duty…. God has granted you a great privilege; with it comes great responsibility
.

I shuddered, stepped into the warmth of the room beyond, where Ines had turned down the bedcovers and lit the braziers and was awaiting me with robe and brush in hand.

Yet even as I sought to forget, his words clung to me like a shadow.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE