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seemed to tower over all as he swept his cap from his head, revealing close-cropped dark hair. With cap in fist and one hand cocked at his hip, he surveyed the ranks of Castile with a grin before he bellowed: “Isabel,
mi amor,
I am home!”
    I clapped a hand to my mouth. How the nobles hated it when he yelled like that! His trademark entrance, it conveyed his ebullient love for his wife and disdain for Castile’s rigid protocol. To the
grandes
of my mother’s court, it was yet another sign of his uncouth Aragonese blood, and their faces hardened accordingly.
    I didn’t need my mother’s reminder that her Castilian lords did not approve of her husband. Aragón and Castile had been separate kingdoms and sometime foes until my parents wed. Though smaller in size, Aragón had its Mediterranean holdings and a fierce independence, while Castile held most of central Spain and was therefore the greater power. My parents’ union had joined the kingdoms, though their marriage treaty stipulated Aragón could retain its own body of elected representatives, its Cortes, and right of succession. Upon my parents’ deaths, my brother, Juan, would succeed as the first ruler of both kingdoms; his dynasty would ensure Spain never separated again. Until then, my father was king consort of Castile and king of Aragón in his own right and he never let anyone forget it. The Castilian nobles’ dislike of him was only augmented by the fact that my mother had allowed him this concession.
    Over the years, I’d heard other tales, not meant for my ears. That my father had an eye for women was evident; my mother had brought his illegitimate daughter, Joanna, to court and made his illegitimate son an archbishop. Yet such peccadilloes hardly mattered in a marriage that was the envy of all who beheld it. My mother never raised an objection and their reunions were always joyous occasions. Papá was a merry companion, who relished a bawdy joke, a good cup of
jérez,
and the company of his children, none of whom loved him more than I.
    I peered through the screen. He’d removed his cloak and was conversing with my mother’s trusted adviser, the emaciated Cisneros. His noblemen stood apart from the Castilians, testament to their mutual antipathy. Then my mother entered with my sisters. My father immediately left Cisneros to go to her. Her pale cheeks flushed as he leaned in. To me, it seemed as if there was no one else in the hall, no other lovers in the world. They walked hand in hand to the dais. A smile played on my father’s face as the Castilians came to bow before them.
    I melted against the screen. If only I could wed a man like my—
    My mother’s voice echoed into the
sala:
“And where, pray tell, is Juana?”
    Quickly smoothing my rumpled skirts, I descended into the
sala.
    My father grinned as I approached. He’d shaved his beard and his face was bronzed from his travels, giving him the air of an adventurer. I didn’t dare look at my mother. Coming to the foot of the dais, I curtsied. “
Su Majestad,
I am overjoyed to see you.”
    “Your Majesty!” he exclaimed. “What is this,
madrecita
? I don’t care for ceremony from you.”
    “Fernando,” chided my mother. “Stop calling her that. She is not your little mother.” As she spoke, she motioned the nobles aside, leaving me on my knees. Then she said, “You may rise. I’ll not spoil your father’s return by asking you where you’ve been.”
    Papá chuckled. “She was probably bribing the stable boy for a stallion, so she can ride back to Granada and hide in the hills like a bandit. Anything not to wed the Habsburg, eh?”
    I couldn’t help but smile.
    “She is impossible,” declared my mother. “She is headstrong and too temperamental by far, and you, my lord husband, only encourage it, when you should set an example.”
    Papá laughed. “She’s as you were at her age, my love. Can you fault her? A Spaniard to her core, she no more wants traffic with foreigners than