The Queen's Vow: A Novel of Isabella of Castile Read Online Free PDF Page B

letter in a coffer in my room; Beatriz asked ceaselessly about it, naturally, until I could bear no more and let her read it. She looked at me in astonishment, speechless for perhaps the first time in her life. I didn’t encourage her opinion; I was too preoccupied with my own troubled presentiment that we stood on the verge of irrevocable change.
    I devoted myself to my mother. There were no more spells, no more outbursts; though she remained too thin and pale, pecking at her food like a bird, she welcomed the visits Alfonso and I paid every afternoon.
    I was touched to discover that my brother had taken pains to learn a Portuguese song for her, which he performed with gusto even if his voice warbled. My brother was not musically inclined, yet as he sang out the native lyrics of my mother’s land, I saw her face soften, recapture its faded beauty. Dressed in her outdated court gown, her fingers laden with tarnished rings, she tapped the music out on the arms of her chair, her feet silently moving under her hem as she followed the steps of the intricate dance she’d once excelled in, flaunting her skill under the painted eaves of the great
salas
where she’d been the most powerful and sought-after woman at court.
    After Alfonso finished, his chin lifted high and arms flung wide, she clapped frenetically, as if she wished to impregnate the room with the rare sound of her joy. Then she motioned to me. “Dance, Isabella! Dance with your brother!” And as Beatriz picked out the song on the small, stringed
cavaquinho
, I joined hands with Alfonso, moving with studied steps, even when my brother treaded on my toes and grinned sheepishly, his face flushed with exertion.
    “It’s much easier to joust with
cañas
,” he whispered to me, and I smiled, for in no other way did he betray his masculine pride than at times like these, preferring to flaunt his agility on horseback with the sharp stakes used for hunting rather than risk embarrassment by tripping over his own feet in front of his family. I, on the other hand, loved to dance; it was one of the few pleasures I had in life, and I had to blink back my tears of joy when my mother spontaneously leapt from her chair to take us both by the hand and whirl us around in a dizzying display.
    “There,” she exclaimed, as we caught our breath. “That is how it is done! You must learn to dance well, children. You carry the blood of Portugal, Castile, and León in your veins; you must never let Enrique’s mincing courtiers put you to shame.”
    The mention of courtiers hovered in the air like a wisp of acrid smoke, but my mother didn’t seem to notice her slip. She stood beaming as Doña Clara, Elvira, and Beatriz broke into applause, and Alfonso then regaled us with a show of his mastery of the sword, enacting feints and thrusts in the middle of the room while my mother laughed and Doña Clara cried out for him to be careful, lest he skewer one of our cowering dogs.
    Later that night, when I kissed my mother good night after our evening devotions—for we’d returned to our daily prayers, much to my relief—she whispered, “This was a good day, Isabella. If I can only remember this day I think I’ll be able to bear anything.”
    It was the first allusion she’d made to our shared secret since her spell. As she held me close I vowed to myself that I would do everything possible to stave off the darkness that threatened my family.
    A few days later, she announced her decision to pay a visit to the Cistercian Convent of Santa Ana in Ávila. We had gone there before, several times, in fact; I’d even attended lessons with the nuns there after my mother completed my preliminary instruction in letters. It was one of my favorite places; the tranquil cloisters, the indoor patio with its fountain, the fragrant herb patches in the garden, the soughing of the nuns’ robes against the flagstones, always filled me with peace. The devout sisters excelled in needlework; their splendid