The Scroll of Seduction by Gioconda Belli Read Free Book Online Page B

target. If what happened to me when we were crossing the Tajo on our way to Toledo–when my mule lost its footing and fell into the strong river current–had happened to Juan, there would be no more crown prince. But I didn’t lose my composure, nor was I paralyzed by fear when the icy water cut my breath and soaked my velvet dress, making it heavy as armor. I grabbed the mule by the ears and tugged her out of the deep water. Then I clung to her and dug my heels into her side to make her swim to shore. Though I was trembling, I was calm and triumphant, especially when I saw the faces of all those ladies and gentlemen and all those servants, staring at me, pale and dumbfounded, incredulous, relieved and full of admiration at my bravery. I was only ten years old, but I was my mother’s daughter. So often I had seen her from my bedroom window at dawn, leading the cavalry on her way to battle the enemy.
    To reward my courage I was taken to see my parents as soon as we reached the palace. My father embraced me and tugged on my braid affectionately. I think it was then that I recognized the part of him thatlived in me, and he saw his own reflection in my eyes. He was proud of me. My mother held me tight. I didn’t mind the rancid smell that clung to her, ever since she vowed not to bathe until Granada was taken back from the Moors.
    Juan and Isabel were brought up to rule as king and queen. The same was not true for the rest of us. Only the two oldest accompanied my parents and saw them often. I applied myself to my studies of Latin and romance languages, and mastered the clavichord, in hopes that news of my progress would make my parents notice me, send for me to read aloud to them, or play for them one night. I was probably twelve when Beatriz Galindo, La Latina, gave me a book for my birthday that mesmerized me. It was called Delectable Vision of Philosophy and Liberal Arts, by Alfonso de la Torre. Until I read it, I had never thought about how extraordinary it was that our species had managed to deduce the existence of the soul, of internal and external realities, nor had I noticed the unrelenting insatiability of our thirst for knowledge. I had never wondered where the artistic impulse came from, never questioned the need for beauty, never considered that, as a woman, I could play a more active role in my household. Though I would never be queen, given the line of succession, I could propose to leave my mark, take more conscious control of my destiny, flatter my intellect over my vanity. Because I was vain. Why not admit it? Ever since my mother let me exchange my black dresses for crimson ones, even though the material cost twice as much, I had begun to take great delight in ordering new clothes. The mirror did not lie when it reflected my beauty as superior to that of my sisters. I was the spitting image of my Aragonese grandmother. The resemblance was so striking that my mother teased me, calling me “mother-in-law.” But people also said I looked like Isabel of Portugal, my mother’s mother, who lived in Arévalo in a fortified castle on the Adaja River. I was flattered to hear that I had inherited her dark-skinned beauty, so different from my mother and older sister’s fair complexions. Nevertheless I didn’t like being compared to her, because I often heard the ladies at court whisper that she was mad. They said she had a guilty conscience because she had forced her husband Juan I to execute his faithful but malevolent servant Don Álvaro de Luna, and it had drivenher insane. Apparently, my grandfather never got over having obeyed her and died thirteen months later, in a deep state of depression, claiming that he hated being king and would have been happier as the son of a farmworker. They say that my poor grandmother, mortified, saw Don Álvaro’s ghost everywhere, and insisted that the river that passed under her window whispered the dead man’s name. My mother,