The Queen's Vow: A Novel of Isabella of Castile by C. W. Gortner

will do nothing.” Beatriz met my stare. “He left the hall as soon as you and the prince went to dance. He had his … friend with him.”
    I stood utterly still.
    “What I was trying to tell you earlier,” she added, lowering her voice, as if unseen ears listened from the woodwork. Never in Arévalo had we felt the need to conceal our words. “I overheard courtiers talking; they say the queen hates Alfonso and you because of the threat you pose to her daughter. They say she’ll keep you both prisoners, do anything she can to see you removed from the succession. And if she fears you so much, if she’d go to such extremes, then perhaps the rumors are true. Perhaps this child of hers is not …” Her voice faded into wary silence; I had reprimanded her on the way to Ávila for this very discussion, but this time her intimation hung over us, inarguable in its malevolent logic.
    I shut my eyes. I heard the caged beasts roar nearby, imagined the hedonism overtaking the alcazar and the corruption seething underneath. I saw again the painted youth fondling Enrique, that horrifying glimpse of Girón and Alfonso; and as I recalled Beltrán de la Cueva’s smile and the queen’s jealous glare, I felt suffocated.
    What if the queen had played the wanton to save herself? What if this newborn princess was illegitimate, the by-blow of the queen and Beltrán de la Cueva? If so, then the disaster my mother predictedwould come to pass; if Enrique made a bastard his heir, it would be an affront to his divine right to rule. He would divide the realm, anger the grandees, and invoke chaos. He would invite God’s wrath upon Castile—and upon all of us.
    You’re at court now. Here, you must learn to dissemble if you are to survive
.
    “What shall we do?” Beatriz whispered and I opened my eyes. She stood with her hands clasped, pale with worry. I had to be strong, for her and Alfonso. I had to see us safe.
    “Whatever we must.”

CHAPTER SEVEN
     

     
    I spent an uneasy night, plagued by a dream in which I found myself walking endlessly down a dark corridor. Ahead an arched doorway beckoned, flooded with bright winter light, but as hard as I tried I could not reach it.
    I awoke gasping, tangled in my sheets, Beatriz at my side. She huddled in the bed with me, both of us so unsettled that we had clung to each other even in our sleep. When I told her about my dream she said it was a premonition that my future held both promise and danger. For an otherwise practical soul, she had a superstitious side—the legacy, she claimed, of her converso heritage. I shrugged aside her talk of portents; those of Jewish descent might favor such things, but I did not. I had my faith in God; I must trust in that alone to guide me.
    When we peeped out the door, the sentries were gone and cool May sunshine softened the gardens beyond. Cabrera brought us a breakfast of warm bread, fresh fruit, and cheese; a bath was drawn by a maid supervised by an elegant elderly woman who identified herself as Doña Cabrera, Andrés’s mother. Beatriz and I gratefully luxuriated in hot rosemary-scented water, splashing and giggling like the girls we were.
    But once we donned our gowns and went to assemble under the gilded, coffered ceiling of the Sala de los Reyes in the alcazar, my worries returned. I had no idea what to expect from today’s event and was inordinately glad to catch sight of Fernando. His presence reassured me, as did his quick smile when I passed him on my way to the dais. Of everyone at court, only he seemed normal, unfettered by secret agendas or intrigue.
    Alfonso had already arrived. He waited on the dais with the royal family. He looked tired and pale, no doubt from all the wine he’d imbibed the previous night, his blue-and-gold embroidered doublet andjaunty feathered cap offsetting his chalky complexion. Close beside him stood Archbishop Carrillo, who gave me his usual warm smile—only now I found myself regarding him with more