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

could, considering I was standing barefoot in my stockings and chemise. “I don’t require anything at the moment, thank you. There’s no need for any fuss.”
    Mencia de Mendoza widened her eyes. “It’s no fuss. The queen sentus specifically to attend you. It is her express desire that you be well cared for.”
    “The infanta is in my charge,” said Beatriz. “I assure you, she’s
very
well cared for.”
    “Your charge?” Mencia laughed. “But you’re hardly out of the nursery yourself!”
    “I am fifteen,” Beatriz said. “Out of the nursery long enough to know my duty, my lady. As Her Highness just informed you,
we
do not require anything.”
    Mencia’s smile faded; her black-lined eyes narrowed.
    I said quickly, “My lady de Bobadilla and I are most grateful to Her Grace, but I’ve no desire for accessories; my tastes are simple. And I’m unused to so many attendants and would prefer that my lady de Bobadilla serve me alone, if you please.”
    Mencia’s expression did not betray further displeasure, though I detected tartness in her voice as she executed a curtsey. “As Your Highness wishes.” She glanced pointedly at Beatriz. “You should become accustomed to being part of a larger household; you’re under the queen’s care and Her Grace likes to surround herself with women of culture.”
    With these words, she herded the others out, leaving Beatriz and me alone.
    “The nerve!” Beatriz fumed, turning to the chest. She found the sleeves and proceeded to dress me as I stood immobile. “Who does that Mencia de Mendoza think she is? Women of culture—did you see the paint on her face? Harlots wear less. Oh, if Doña Clara were here she’d have a fit. Can it be the queen lets women like those attend her?”
    I repressed a shudder as she laced up my outer gown and affixed the draping sleeves lined in velvet. “She’s not just any woman,” I said. “The Mendozas are one of the noblest families in Castile; Mencia is the daughter of a grandee.”
    Beatriz snorted. “Is that so? Well, I’ve never reprimanded a grandee’s daughter before.” She turned me around. Taking a brush from a case, she stroked my waist-length, chestnut-gold hair to a rippling sheen; my hair was one of my secret vanities, though I had tried to subdue it, having been advised by the nuns in Santa Ana that a woman’s tresses were Satan’s ladder.
    “There.” Beatriz stepped back. “Let’s see what Mencia de Mendoza has to say now. I vow there’s not a girl at court with skin as unblemished or hair as golden as yours.”
    “Vanity is a sin,” I reproached with a smile, as she changed into her own sedate black gown, coiling her hair at her nape moments before a rapping at the door preceded Carrillo.
    At the sight of him, I straightened my spine. Though I knew he would look after us as promised, for our welfare was bound with his, I had no doubt he’d manipulated my mother into conceding our release, promising something he had no right to offer. He was a powerful man, ruthless; and we were now beholden to him. I must be careful, in both my actions and my words. I must feign acquiescence so I could better watch over my brother. Fortunately, I had the feeling Carrillo didn’t expect anything else from me anyway.
    He regarded me. “I was informed that you disdained the attentions of the queen’s own ladies, though they were sent here to attend you. Is this true?”
    “Why, yes.” I injected concern in my voice. “Did I make a mistake? I hardly saw the need for ten to accomplish what one can do just as well.”
    Beatriz shot me a sarcastic look but Carrillo, to my relief, only let out an indulgent laugh. “You certainly weren’t raised at court; that much is clear. Doña Mencia complains that your clothes are fit only for the poorhouse but I think you look rather charming, even if the gown’s style is a little outdated.”
    “It was made by my mother. I am proud to wear it.”
    “Good.” He nodded