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

sheep in their pens, the bales of hay stacked by the walls and the compost heap where we threw our discards to ferment for later use in the orchards.
    Riding alongside him on a black destrier that dwarfed any horse I’d ever seen, followed by men uniformed in scarlet and gold, was Girón—a giant with a red-veined face and ferociously thick beard, his beady eyes set back in a fleshy countenance, their color indistinguishable, and a mouth as foul as the compost heap. Leaping from his horse—with some agility, considering his size—he let out a loud curse, “
Miserables
hijos de puta
, get moving!” and proceeded to order the retainers about with savage chops of his ham-sized hands. Standing at our side, Doña Clara stiffened.
    As Villena came before us, his entire being transformed. He bowed with an exaggerated flourish over my mother’s hand, declaiming that time itself dared not touch her beauty. My mother responded with a smile and a flutter of her eyes; to me, he sounded ridiculous, his gallantry uttered in an unpleasant, nasal-tinged voice. I smelled such strong ambergris wafting off his velvet-encased person I almost started to choke. Polished and urbane, his every movement a study in elegance, it was as if he had practiced for hours before a mirror, perfecting the art of falsehood. He did not pay me any mind; he barely acknowledged my presence, giving me the shallowest of bows before he turned, as if enraptured, to my brother. He regarded Alfonso with such intensity that my brother squirmed in his stiff new doublet.
    Villena pivoted back to my mother to lilt, “The infante’s beauty does you even more justice, my lady. No one could ever mistake him for anything but a prince of impeccable royal blood.”
    I resisted a roll of my eyes as Alfonso shot me a puzzled look. My mother’s smile widened.
“Gracias, Excelencia,”
she said. “Would you and your brother like some wine? I’ve opened a special vintage just for you.”
    Girón had stomped up to us by then, overpowering us with the stench of sweat, leering at Beatriz before his porcine eyes fell upon me. He grinned, exposing blackened teeth. I held my breath as his paw enclosed my hand, raising it to his lips.
    “Infanta,” he growled. So firmly did he grip my hand, I couldn’t free myself. I began to fear he’d crush my fingers like chicken bones when Doña Clara stepped deliberately between us with the decanter and goblets—her canny offer quickly distracted Girón, who released me with a grunt in favor of the wine.
    Later, after Girón had drained our decanter and Villena had minced through our hall with a look that conveyed barely suppressed amusement at our, as he put it, “quaint” furnishings, they returned to the keep to oversee their staff.
    It was then that my mother pulled me aside. “Villena started out asa common page but he has risen to become one of Castile’s most influential lords. He has Enrique’s ear, though it seems he’s been supplanted as the favorite, and as master of Calatrava his brother Girón commands more retainers than the crown itself. These are men to cultivate, Isabella. Grandees like these will see to our interests and fight against your brother’s disinheritance.”
    I stared at her. Alfonso and I were about to leave our home. How could she expect me to absorb lessons in intrigue at this final hour? I’d had my fill of advice from her and from Doña Clara. My head was already reeling from weeks of warnings about the corruption at court, the licentious nature of my half brother’s favorites and his queen’s loose morals; of his courtiers’ intrigues and the dangerous ambition of the nobles. The names of Castile’s grandees, their familial connections and affiliations, had been drummed into my head like a catechism, until one evening after leaving my mother’s chamber I had angrily blurted to Beatriz that I’d never stoop to listening at keyholes or hiding behind the arras. Beatriz nodded, replying