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

window, my lady. I regret that a hot bath is impossible, given the hour, but tomorrow I’ll have one drawn for you.”
    “That would be lovely.” I inclined my head. “Thank you. You are most kind.”
    “No need to thank me, my infanta. It is my honor to serve you. Please, do not hesitate to call upon me should you require anything. I am at your disposal.” He bowed. “You, too, my lady de Bobadilla; I am, of course, also at your service.”
    As he left, I was amused to see Beatriz flush. “Such a nice man,” she said, “but I didn’t tell him my name, did I? How did he know?”
    I didn’t answer her. I was not thinking of Cabrera, whom I sensed was someone we could trust, but of Villena. “Beatriz, why do you think the marquis misled us? First he said the king was a master of the hunt, which isn’t true according to Don Cabrera, and then he said there were no rooms for us in the alcazar. Such petty lies; I hardly see the point.”
    “Petty on the surface, perhaps.” She unlaced my outer gown, removing it to leave me in my hose and shift. “But he won Alfonso’s attention with the first lie and effectively separated him from us with the next. And Cabrera also said that
Carrillo
had decided to lodge you here, for privacy’s sake. Might it not be less for privacy and more because he too wants to keep you and Alfonso at a distance?”
    I did not relish this astute assessment. As I went to wash the grit from my face and throat with the lavender water in the basin, leaving Beatriz to rummage through the chest for my gown, I pondered what else I knew. If Carrillo and Villena sought to keep Alfonso and me apart, when they knew my brother and I had grown up together, it was either out of cruelty or for more sinister motivations. We’d just arrived; did they seek to draft Alfonso into their schemes already? And were they working together?
    I took up a towel, about to tell Beatriz my thoughts when a clamorcame from outside. Before I could move, the door flew open and a group of women swarmed in.
    I had not undressed in front of anyone save Beatriz since my tenth year. Not even Doña Clara had dared intrude on me without knocking, and I stood dumbstruck as the women flittered into the chamber like fantastical birds, their words unintelligible to me in my stunned state. My new court gown, made from the green velvet bought in Ávila, was snatched from Beatriz and passed around. One of the women made a disapproving cluck. Another laughed. As their mirth penetrated my ears, Beatriz grabbed the gown from them.
    “It
is
new,” I heard her declare, “if you please, and of course it has matching sleeves. I was just looking for them when you so rudely barged in.”
    She glared. I focused on the women. My breath caught in my throat.
    They all were young, dressed in gowns unlike any I’d ever seen, with low-cut bodices that almost exposed their bosoms and frothing skirts of glittering fabric, their cinched waists enhanced by a multitude of dangling silk purses and ornaments. Their hair was curled into elaborate coiffures concocted with flimsy veils, combs, and threaded pearls or coins; their mouths were rouged, their eyes lined in thick kohl. Some had a decidedly dusky cast to their complexions, denoting Moorish blood; the ones Beatriz faced were dark-eyed beauties with milky skin and sharp white hands.
    The lady whom Beatriz had taken my dress from—green-eyed and clad in curve-hugging scarlet—shrugged. “
Está bien
. If this is all the Infanta Isabella has, we can make do.” She turned to me with an apologetic air. “I’m afraid we’ve no time to find a suitable gown but we can fetch accessories to make this one more appealing.”
    My voice issued hoarse. “And who … who might you be?”
    She paused, as though no one had ever asked her such a question before. “I am Doña Mencia de Mendoza, lady-in-honor to Queen Juana. I am here for whatever you require.”
    I nodded, gathering my composure as best as I