The Queen's Vow: A Novel of Isabella of Castile
vigorously. “Pride is good, though not too much of it, eh?” He wagged his finger, encircled by its gold ring. “We don’t want you starting out on the wrong foot.” He winked at Beatriz. “And you apparently excel at protecting our infanta and making enemies, little Bobadilla. Exercise more care with whom you insult, yes? Doña Mencia holds the queen’s favor and I don’t have the time or inclination to arbitrate feminine quarrels.”
    “Of course,” I said, stopping Beatriz’s protest. “It will not happen again, my lord.” I set my hand on his arm. “I believe I am ready.”
    With a smile, I let him lead me out to my first meeting with the king.

CHAPTER SIX
     

     
    W ithin the great
sala
, countless beeswax tapers melted above us in hanging iron candelabra, lighting up the gilded stalactites of the ceiling, which shimmered like an iridescent sky. Along the upper edge of the walls, painted statues of Castile’s early kings frowned; below their pedestals hung wide tapestries of wool and silk, the vivid hues reflecting like liquid across the polished floor. The air throbbed with conversation, with laughter and firefly flashes of brilliantly clad courtiers, everything scented by myrrh and perfume and incense.
    I knew the alcazar’s history. During the glacial winters in Arévalo, Beatriz and I had entertained ourselves reading aloud from the
Crónicas
, which related stories of the kings and queens who had lived and died within these walls. Like Castile’s other fortresses, the alcazar of Segovia had been built as a Moorish stronghold before it was wrested away during the Reconquista. I’d expected to feel awe inside the historic castle where my ancestors had dwelled. What I did not anticipate was the sudden emotion that overcame me, like the awakening of something dormant in my blood. I had to focus my eyes on the dais at the hall’s end, with its empty throne, to keep from gaping as Beatriz was.
    Carrillo approached us and told Beatriz to step aside. He took me to the dais. The courtiers drew back, staring at me for what seemed an impossibly long moment before heads lowered in deference. I could almost hear their thoughts—“Here she is, the half sister of the king”—and fought to ignore the sensation that I was being appraised by hungry predators. I caught sight of Mencia in her scarlet gown, standing close to the marquis of Villena. When his smile bared teeth, I looked away to the tables set against the walls in preparation for the evening banquet, each weighted with jewel-rimmed platters sprouting minarets of Andalucían oranges, cherries from Extremadura, sugared almonds, dates,figs, and apricots—a veritable orchard of delights, piled with such abundance it seemed almost sinful, a profligate waste.
    Carrillo bowed before the dais, declaring in his booming voice, “The Infanta Isabella!”
    I curtsied to the floor, hiding my discomfiture. Why did he address an empty throne?
    Then I heard a soft voice inquire, “Can this be my little sister?” and I peeped up to see a large man in black, reclining nearby on a mound of silk tasseled cushions, a plate of delicacies at his side, attended by a veiled figure in a gown. Lined up directly against the wall behind him stood a regiment of Moorish sentries, sheathed scimitars at their hips, their pantaloons and turbans making them look as if they’d just arrived from Granada.
    “Majestad,”
I murmured.
    My half brother Enrique rose. The last time I’d seen him I had been a child and had not marked how tall he was. Now he seemed to loom over me—an odd, misshapen man, his head, crowned with a red, Moorish-style turban, seeming too large for his gangly body, his shaggy gold-red mane falling in lank strands from under his turban to his concave shoulders. He wore a black-and-gold embroidered caftan; I glimpsed the curling tips of red leather slippers on his strangely dainty feet.
    I stared at him, forgetting myself. I’d heard it said he resembled my

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