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

them.
    “We should have told Doña Clara the truth,” I said, glancing at my hands. I was clenching the reins again and forced myself to loosen my grip. “I hardly think she’ll find our gallivanting about on horses appropriate.”
    Beatriz pointed ahead. “Who cares about appropriate? Look around you!”
    I did as she instructed, reluctantly.
    The sun dipped toward the horizon, shedding a vibrant saffron glow over the bleached-bone sky. To our left Arévalo sat on its low hill, a dun-colored citadel with six towers and a crenellated keep, abutting the provincial market town bearing the same name. To our right wound the main road that led to Madrid, while all around us, stretching as far as my eyes could see, lay the open expanse of Castile—an endless land dotted with fields of barley and wheat, vegetable patches, and clusters of wind-twisted pine. The air was still, heady with the fragrance of resin and a whiff of melting snow that I always associated with the advent of spring.
    “Isn’t it spectacular?” breathed Beatriz, her eyes shining. I nodded, gazing upon the countryside that had been my home for almost as long as I could remember. I’d seen it many times before, of course, from Arévalo’s keep and during our annual trips with Doña Clara to the neighboring town of Medina del Campo, where the biggest animal fairin Castile was held. But for a reason I could not have explained, today it looked different, like when one suddenly notices that time has transformed an oft-looked-at painting, darkening the colors to a new luster and deepening the contrast between light and shadow.
    My practical nature assured me this was because I was seeing the land from higher up, perched on the back of Canela rather than on the mule I was used to. Still, tears pricked my eyes and, without warning, I had a sudden memory of an imposing
sala
filled with people in velvets and silks. The image faded as soon as it came, a phantom from the past, and when Alfonso waved to me from where he rode ahead with Don Chacón, I promptly forgot I sat upon an unfamiliar, potentially treacherous animal and jabbed my heels into its ribs.
    Canela leapt forth, throwing me forward against his arched neck. I instinctively grabbed hold of his mane, lifting myself off the saddle and tensing my thighs. Canela responded with a satisfied snort. He quickened his pace, galloping past Alfonso, raising a whirlwind of ochre dust.
    “Dios mío!”
I heard Alfonso gasp as I tore past him. From the corner of my eye I saw Beatriz fast behind me, shouting to my brother and an astonished Don Chacón: “Years of experience, eh?”
    I burst into laughter.
    IT FELT MARVELOUS , just what I imagined flying must be: to leave behind the cares of the classroom and studies, the chill flagstone of the castle and baskets of endless darning, the constant muttered worry over money and my mother’s erratic health; to be free and revel in the sensation of the horse moving beneath me and the landscape of Castile.
    When I came to a panting halt on a ridge overlooking the plain, my riding hood hung on its ribbons down my back, my light auburn hair tumbling loose from its braids. Sliding off Canela, I patted his lathered neck. He nuzzled my palm before he set himself to munching on brittle thornbushes sprouting between the rocks. I settled on a nearby pile of stones and watched Beatriz come plunging up the ridge. As she came to a stop, flushed from her exertions, I remarked, “You were right, after all. We did need the exercise.”
    “Exercise!” she gasped, slipping off her horse. “Are you aware that we just left His Highness and Chacón behind in a cloud of dust?”
    I smiled. “Beatriz de Bobadilla, must everything be a contest with you?”
    She put her hands on her hips. “When it comes to proving our worthiness, yes. If we don’t take it upon ourselves, who will?”
    “So it’s our strength you wish to prove,” I said. “Hmm. Explain this to me.” Beatriz flopped