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

to move when Carrillo said, “I regret it, but such pastimes must wait. His Highness has important duties to attend to. Don’t you, my prince?”
    Alfonso sighed. “Yes, I suppose so. Go ahead, Isabella. Maybe we can meet later?”
    I nodded. “Of course.” While I disliked the possessiveness in thearchbishop’s manner, all I could do was trust that Carrillo would see that Alfonso’s best interests were served.
    Still, as I kissed my brother’s cheek I whispered, “Do not promise anything.”
    Alfonso started. I drew back with ease, smiling at Carrillo, who beamed right back. Then I moved to the steps of the dais, where my young cousin from Aragón waited.
    Fernando held out his hand. “Let us walk together, Isabella.”
    WE WENT INTO the garden, Beatriz and Andrés de Cabrera trailing discreetly behind.
    The day was still cool, but the promise of summer could be felt in the warming breeze, glimpsed in rosebuds unfurling on thorny stems. The path under our feet sparkled with quartz; at intervals were benches inlaid with painted tiles, depicting the heroic deeds of our early kings, each of whom had fought to reclaim Castile from the Moors.
    At my side Fernando walked with measured steps. I did not want to be the first to break our companionable silence; I was happy to enjoy this respite, to be outdoors and take in the air. But as we neared a fountain and Beatriz turned away with Cabrera to afford us some privacy, I heard Fernando clear his throat.
    “I wish to apologize for last night. I did not mean to offend you.”
    I regarded him. I sensed that despite his youth, he was not accustomed to asking forgiveness of anyone, much less a girl. As Juan of Aragón’s sole heir, Fernando must be quite indulged, though I didn’t think he’d enjoyed much in the way of material luxuries. His fustian doublet and leather boots appeared clean but well worn, and there was a mended spot on the knee of his hose, though the stitches were so perfect, it was almost unnoticeable. I wondered if his mother, the Castilian queen of Aragón, had repaired it. The work denoted an expert hand and only royal women or nuns had time to perfect the art.
    “I told you, there’s no need for apology. I was not offended.”
    “But I shouldn’t have spoken thus of the queen,” he said.
    “No, you shouldn’t have.” I adjusted my skirts, sitting on one of the stone benches near the fountain. The sunlight shimmered on the tricklingwater; in the murky depths, tiny colored fish darted. I looked up to meet his eyes; in the light, they were gorgeous, a deep brown with a hint of molten honey in their depths, the slight tilt at their corners enhancing their luster. One day, he’d melt hearts with a mere glance. He was already irresistibly handsome and he was not yet a man.
    Without warning he said, “I leave today for Aragón.”
    My heart gave a disappointed start. “So soon?”
    “I’m afraid so. I’ve received news from my father. My mother … she needs me.” His mouth quivered; as I saw his eyes moisten, I shifted aside on the bench to make room. “Sit, please,” I said, and he perched beside me, his body tense, as if he feared giving rein to his emotion. I waited for him to regain his composure. When he spoke again, his voice was subdued, with only the faintest tremor.
    “She is very ill. The physicians don’t know what is wrong. She keeps getting weaker. She was always up before anyone else, always the last to retire; she ran our entire court. And as my father has grown increasingly blind, she helps him with all his affairs. But Papa says she collapsed a few days after I left and now she’s asking for me.”
    I could see the struggle on his face as he tried to contain his sorrow. I wanted to embrace him, comfort him, but that would have been most improper; as it was, I shouldn’t be alone with him at all, even though Beatriz and Andrés de Cabrera were somewhere nearby, lending us the illusion that we were chaperoned.
    “I am so