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

wariness, knowing that he might have deliberately contrived to keep our mother from coming to court with us. I found the calculating serenity of his eyes unsettling, as if he were looking through me into a future only he could see.
    The princess lay in Queen Juana’s arms, swaddled in trailing lengths of pearl-studded white velvet. Juana thrust the baby at me after I curtsied, obliging me to kiss her soft milky cheek; little Joanna was sleeping, and for a moment I melted at the sight of her. Surely such an innocent creature couldn’t be the cause of any tumult.
    “You shall be her godmother,” Juana informed me, with a smile as artificial as the carmine color of her lips. “We’ve had a gift made especially for you to bestow on her during the festivities tonight—a silver baptismal font, with her name inscribed on it. After all, how would it look if the godmother came empty-handed?”
    I muttered my gratitude, turned from her sharp eyes. If she felt any shame at what she had allegedly done, she did not show it; and I found myself now doubting the sordid rumors I had almost believed just hours before. In the cold light of day, it was inconceivable that she, a Portuguese princess, sister of that nation’s current king and relative of my own mother, would go as far as to risk the very crown on her head.
    I took my place beside Alfonso. Enrique sat on his throne, looking uncomfortable in a gem-encrusted coronet and mantle. He had stubble on his face; his eyes were shadowed, red-rimmed. He did not look at me. Instead he nervously eyed the assembly as his herald intoned the words of the patent conferring upon baby Joanna the royal title of princess of Asturias, which made her heir to the throne.
    Castile’s Cortes, the parliamentary body composed of representatives from each of the kingdom’s important provinces, had to approve the new succession by vote, but as the grandees approached the dais to kneel and swear to uphold the princess’s rights, their faces were like granite, and they uttered their oaths in monotones, imbuing the occasion with a funereal air.
    “Where are the counts of Alba, Cabra, and Paredes?” I heard the queen hiss to Enrique as the last of the queue of grandees made theirobeisance. “Where are the Andalucían grandees, Medina Sidonia and Cádiz? Are we to be insulted by them? They were summoned weeks ago; they should
all
be here to honor our daughter.”
    Enrique’s chin sank deeper into his ermine collar. When Alfonso’s turn came, Carrillo reached out and I thought for a heart-stopping moment that he would hold Alfonso back. But he simply patted my brother’s arm, as if in reassurance. Once Alfonso recited the vow and stepped aside, it was my turn. I kneeled before Enrique’s pained gaze and said, “I, Isabella de Trastámara, infanta of Castile, do solemnly swear to uphold the Princess Joanna as the legitimate first heir to the throne, barring all others.”
    The words were like ash in my mouth. I did not know if I believed them or not, if I had just committed a sin by acknowledging this child whose paternity was in doubt; but as I returned to my place I was overcome by relief. My mother might rail when she heard of it; the nobles might continue to grumble and courtiers to spread vile conjecture, but the deed was done. Little Joanna was now Enrique’s heir unless the Cortes said otherwise. We’d done her homage. We had sworn an oath. We could not go back on our word.
    Leaden silence ensued.
    Enrique stood, his raiment lending him an awkward regality. I thought he might speak but instead he turned on his heel and strode abruptly from the dais. From the crowd stepped his companion of the night before, now clad in a simple doublet and hose. Together they left through a side door, prompting the rest of the assembly to quickly disperse.
    Fernando stood alone, looking at me.
    I turned to Alfonso. “Come, brother. We could use some fresh air before the afternoon meal.”
    Alfonso made as if