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

handsome face. “And lest you forget,” he said, “I’ve been riding every day since I was five. It is experience that makes for good horsemanship.”
    “True,” rumbled Alfonso’s governor, Don Chacón, from his own massive horse. “The Infante Alfonso is already an accomplished equestrian. Riding is second nature to him.”
    “We don’t doubt it,” I interjected before Beatriz could respond. I forced out a smile. “I believe we’re ready, brother. But, pray, not too fast.”
    Alfonso nudged his roan forward, leading the way out of Arévalo’s enclosed inner courtyard, under the portcullis and through the main gates.
    I shot a disapproving look at Beatriz.
    Of course, this was all her doing. Bored by our daily regimen of lessons, prayer, and needlework, she had announced this morning that we must get some exercise, or we would turn into crones before our time. We’d been cooped up indoors too long, she said, which was true enough, winter having been particularly harsh this year. And when she asked our governess, Doña Clara, for permission, my
aya
had agreed because riding for us invariably consisted of taking the castle’s elderly mules on a leisurely jaunt around the curtain wall surrounding the castle and its adjoining township for an hour before supper.
    But after I changed into my riding clothes and went with Beatriz into the courtyard, I found Alfonso standing there with Don Chacón and two impressive stallions—gifts sent by our half brother, King Enrique. The black horse was for me, Alfonso said. His name was Canela.
    I had suppressed my alarm as I mounted the stallion with the aid of a footstool. I was even more alarmed, however, when it became clear I was expected to ride astride,
a la jineta
, the way the Moors did, perched on the narrow leather saddle with the stirrups drawn up high—an unfamiliar and unsettling sensation.
    “An odd name for a horse,” I’d remarked, to disguise my apprehension. “Cinnamon is a light color, while this creature is black as night.”
    Canela tossed his mane and swiveled his exquisitely shaped head about to nip my leg. I did not think it a good augury for the afternoon.
    “Beatriz,” I now hissed as we rode out onto the plain, “why didn’t you tell me? You know I dislike surprises.”
    “That’s exactly why I didn’t tell you,” she hissed back. “If I had, you wouldn’t have come. You’d have said we should read or sew or recite novenas. Say what you will, we have to have fun sometime.”
    “I hardly see how being thrown from a horse can be deemed fun.”
    “Bah. Just think of him as an overgrown dog. He’s big, yes, but quite harmless.”
    “And how, pray, would you know?”
    “Because Alfonso would never have let you ride Canela otherwise,” said Beatriz, with a truculent toss of her head that revealed the immutable self-confidence that had made her my closest companion and confidante—though, as ever, I found myself caught between amusement and discomfort when confronted with her irreverent character.
    We were three years apart, and antithetical in temperament. Beatriz acted as though the realm outside our gates was a vast unexplored place filled with potential adventure. Doña Clara said her reckless attitude was due to the fact that Beatriz’s mother had died shortly after her birth; her father had raised her alone in Arévalo, without feminine supervision. Dark as I was fair, voluptuous as I was angular, Beatriz was also rebellious, unpredictable, and too outspoken for her own good. She even challenged the nuns at the Convento de las Agustinas where we went to take our lessons, driving poor Sor María to distraction with her endless questions. She was a loyal friend, and amusing as well, always quick to find mirth in what others did not; but she was also a constant headache for her elders and for Doña Clara, who’d tried in vain to teach Beatriz that well-bred ladies did not give in to random impulse whenever the urge overcame