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

father but I barely recalled the dead king who had sired us and searched in vain for any familial resemblance.
    “You … you are pretty,” said Enrique, as if he’d not considered my appearance until this moment. I met his mournful amber-hued eyes, slightly protuberant and heavy-lidded. With his flat nose, rounded cheeks, and fleshy lips he was not comely; only his impressive height lent him distinction. And while tunics in the Moorish style were part of every Castilian’s wardrobe, especially useful for keeping cool during the summer months, my mother had only allowed us to don such garb in the privacy of our rooms. I could imagine what she’d say if she had been here, to see the king dressed like an infidel on our first night at court. But Enrique’s timorous smile beckoned me closer; as I leaned to kiss his hand, adorned with the signet of Castile, he suddenly pulled me into anawkward embrace. He smelled musky, like an unwashed animal. Sensitive as I was to odors, I did not find his unpleasant, though I supposed it was not how a king ought to smell.
    “Welcome, sister,” he said. “Welcome to my court.”
    Around us the courtiers broke into fervent applause. Enrique kept my hand in his as he turned with me to face the hall. “Where is my brother the Infante Alfonso?” he called out, and from within the throng of courtiers my brother emerged, hand-in-hand with a sturdy youth. Alfonso was flushed, a telltale sign he’d been imbibing undiluted wine—something forbidden to him until now. Evidently whatever regrets he’d had at leaving our home behind had been subsumed by the excitement of our new surroundings. I didn’t see Don Chacón anywhere, either, though usually he was not far from Alfonso’s side.
    “Look who’s here, Isabella.” Alfonso nodded toward his companion. “It’s our cousin Fernando from Aragón. We’re sharing a room, though all he’s done so far is ask about you.”
    Fernando bowed before me. “Your Highness,” he said, a tremor in his voice, “this is a great honor, though I doubt you remember me.”
    He was wrong; I did remember him, or at least I knew of him by name. He was the last person I’d expected to find here, at my half brother’s court, however.
    Our families shared Trastámara blood through our ancestors, but enmity and rapacity had led Castile and Aragón to wage war against each other for centuries. The kings of Aragón zealously guarded their smaller, independent realm, constantly at odds with France and suspicious of Castile, though never enough to disdain alliances of marriage, in the hope of one day putting an Aragonese prince on Castile’s throne.
    A year younger than I, Fernando was, like Alfonso and me, born of a second marriage, in his case between his father, Juan of Aragón, and Juana Enríquez, daughter of the hereditary admirals of Castile. Fernando was also heir to Aragón since his older half brother had died several years before. While I was acquainted with the facts of Fernando’s family and his bloodline, I’d not heard anything particularly interesting about him or his kingdom; indeed, I knew almost nothing other than the fact that in my childhood, his ever-scheming father, King Juan, had proposed Fernando as a spouse for me.
    As I now gazed upon this prince who was my distant cousin, I thought he had a disconcertingly attractive countenance, with a strong nose and clever mouth, and shining brown eyes fringed in thick lashes that any woman would envy. His left eye was slightly smaller, with a peculiar slant to it that lent his face an impish cast. He was short yet robustly built for his age, and his thick dark hair was straight, cut bluntly at his shoulders. I was especially taken by the olive cast of his complexion, turned bronze by the sun. I imagined he spent most of his time outdoors, like my brother, but while Alfonso shone pale as alabaster, Fernando looked almost swarthy, like a Moor, his person exuding irrepressible vitality. Though