About You: InstaLove Romance Novella

(Ravenwood University Book 1) Emily

Rayard
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Emily Rayard

About You

InstaLove College Romance (Ravenwood University)

Copyright © 2023 by Emily Rayard

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

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This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and
incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination.

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities

is entirely coincidental.

Emily Rayard asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of

this work.

Emily Rayard has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of

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publication and does not guarantee that any content on such
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often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names

used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks,
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The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or
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To those who need a short adult bed time story.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2
Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Epilogue

About the Author

Chapter 1

I have always been the good girl, the reliable one. Even in high
school, under my senior photo, I was voted Most Likely to

Succeed. Right now, I feel like I’m Most Likely to Crumble Under the
Weight of the Fall Semester of my Junior Year at Ravenwood.

It is the beginning of the semester. New England’s suffering from a

heat wave and I’ve packed my calendar with other

obligations on top of my school work. The Ravenwood Paper, the

food drive with the honor society, and volunteering as the

designated driver for at least two of the parties for Stewart’s frat,
Kappa Sigma.

I’m staring at the twenty-two unread emails sitting in my inbox that

appeared in the last four hours. Another one pops
up, adding to the number. My running to-do list on my desktop is at
least six inches long.

My mind drifts from the noise. I feel like I’m forgetting something. I
rub my sun tattoo on the side of my wrist. That

annoying nagging feeling that never seems to go away when I’m

right in the middle of the busiest time of my life.

“Summer! Summer!” my mom nearly shouts in my earbuds, the

sudden volume jarring me from my thoughts.

“Mom!” I snap, and I immediately feel guilty. “I don’t know if he can

come this Christmas break. Stewart said he has to

go to his dad’s this year.”

“Are you sure, honey? I have a table reserved for Nomas Restaurant.
Really try to convince him, everyone else is dying

to meet him. It’s about time we should start getting to know each
other.”

I let out a frustrated sigh as I roll my neck to release the tension that
took up residence when I started in Ravenwood.

I’m trying to maintain my near-perfect GPA. Trying to complete a

double major, because my mother believes that a business degree is
going to be far more valuable than my journalism one.

Internships are competitive and I can’t risk anything less. Ravenwood

has exclusivity in many companies, including

The Sport Weekly, my dream internship.

I’m in one of the reserved study rooms at the library. I was supposed
to be at the Ravenwood Paper meet & greet with the
freshman. Today, I was being a coward, hiding mostly from my peers
who needed something from me. The price I pay to

be the best, the price I pay for my dream as a sports writer.

A ping hits my phone.

Stewart: Have fun at the meet & greet. Got a meeting. So I can’t go
to dinner.

My lips thin and I half listen to my mother as I realize this is the

second time he’s bailed this week.

The door opens. I glance at my best friend, Zoe Rivers, who is

already frowning at me.

Her rich, dark hair is in a high ponytail and her massive headphones
are around her neck. I eye the two large iced

coffee cups in her hand. At a glance, we are often mistaken as

sisters. Only she has beautiful tanned skin and I’m paler with

amber-brown eyes.

“Summer—” my mother whines.

“Z is here, I gotta go.” I hang up, chucking my phone on the desk.

“I always know when your mom calls—you become infinitely bitchier,”

Z says as she sets her books on the table, placing the cup in front of
me.

Smoothing my skirt, I rest my head on the desk. “It’s another idiotic

conversation.”

Z rolls her eyes. “About Stewart and planning your future?”

“Of course.”
“I think he sucks,” Z says, crossing her arms. “And I still don’t know
why your mom is so into him.”

My head hurts, so I rub my temples. Ever since I told my mother

about Stewart, she’s been like a dog with a bone. Being

a housewife with an empty nest, she fills her time stalking me and
my siblings’ love lives.

“Because apparently he’s the whole package? Good family, a legacy

here, good prospects, and handsome?” I imitate my

mother’s words.

“Jesus, why doesn’t she marry him then?” Z asks as she settles
opposite of me, pulling out her laptop.

“I’m sure she would if she were me.”

“You need to tell her to stop living vicariously through you.”

Shrugging, I glance at Stewart’s text again.

Stewart became my boyfriend my sophomore year. I had turned him

down after our first date when I was a freshman

but he still persisted for the whole year. The chemistry wasn’t there
at first. Of course, somehow I had let my mother into

my head and gave him another shot.

After one date turned into many, I realized I felt safe. He wasn’t
pushy; in fact, he was kind and sweet. In the end, I

imagined some sort of future with him. It was easy, he made me

laugh. Mom believes it has a good foundation. Like she is

comparing relationships to fixer-uppers.

“Mom wants to meet him during winter break,” I explain.

“Why can’t he?” Z drawls. It was a fight I wasn’t willing to start with
her again. Z has no problems making it known that

she isn’t a Stewart fan, but despite all of this, she sticks by me.

“He has to go to his dad’s.”

“He has an excuse for everything, huh?” Z quips. I sour at her

comment. Z’s smirk immediately drops. “Sorry, I’m a little

on edge lately.”

The tension in my head and neck returns. “I mean, he has a lot to

do.”

“So do you, but you always try to schedule something with him. I
mean what happened over summer? You saw him for

a total of two weeks?! He didn’t have his frat obligations, then.”

She’s right. Something is off with him lately. My fingers press back on
my temples. I can’t think about that right now.

There’s too much to do.

“I’ll talk to him,” I decide.

“When?” Z and I stare out the glass wall from our study room. The
library’s busy with fall semester in force. Books piled

on the tables. All the outlets are being hoarded by groups of people.

“After this,” I say, reaching for the iced coffee and taking a deep drink
of my vanilla latte. It’s one of the few things that
soothes my mind. The sweet, creamy drink is my favorite all year
round and I can’t wait until fall weather arrives and I

order it hot.

As I let the cool drink wash away the tension in my neck and head, I
look back out of the library, as I scan the shelves

from my chair and disassociate for a moment.

“Where should we start? I swear, Mr. Firth is determined to flunk me.”

Z pulls my attention back and I shake my head.

Z and I glance at the instructions for the paper. With each word we
read, the more our collective misery increases.

“Seriously, this lit assignment is going to kill me,” I groan.

Z doesn’t respond with her usual snarky quips.

“I’m going to forget about sleep for a while,” I continue to complain.

“Uh, Summer,” Z whispers, even though we are in a soundproof

room.

“Like, why would he think it would be cool to spring this on us with a

week to do it?”

“Summer!” Z snaps her fingers in front of my face. “Oh my god,

look!”

My head snaps up and there he is, Stewart Pratt. His coiffed blond
hair that has a cowlick in the back that he hates. He

smiles at a pretty blond girl and tucks an errant hair behind her ear. I
see his classically handsome face as he grins at her.

His hand finds the small of her back leading her toward the entrance.
“What the fuck?” Z stands looking at me, her brown eyes wide.
Numbness starts in my chest and moves through my

limbs. Stewart is no longer standing there, but I still can see him. Not
in a meeting like he said he was.

However long I sat there, I can’t tell until Z gently takes my hand.

“Summer?” she calls, trying to coax me out of my shock. “Are you

okay?”

Jolting up, I nearly topple my vanilla latte all over my laptop.

“Give me a second, Z.” Stalking out the door, I turn in the direction I
saw them walking.

“Summer!” Z hisses. She hooks her arm through mine, trying to

ground me.

“Wait. Wait!” she frantically whispers, moving in front of me as I spot

their backs heading toward the front entrance of

the library. My mind is spinning like an out-of-control centrifuge.

“That fuckin’ ass—” I growl.

“Shut up. Calwood is going to have our heads if we’re loud and
cussing,” Z scolds.

The rush of feelings is like a broken dam. My stomach twists, my

body heats, and all I want to do is destroy something.

“I need you to slow down,” Z whispers, corralling back toward the

study room. I start to shove my things in my bag.

“I’m ending this now.”

***
In twenty minutes, I’m parked in front of Kappa Sigma’s house with a
box of Stewart’s things.

The frat house was at the edge of campus. Each Greek house has
similar red brick, Victorian-style homes. As much as I

come to this street, my favorite thing is the giant oak trees that line
sidewalks. As I drove toward the Kappa Sigma house, I

mourned the likelihood that I would never drive down here again.

Moving up the porch, I ring the doorbell. A pledge, a freshman I

recognize, answers wearing a maid costume and a sad

face.

“Hey, S-Summer,” he says. The pledge is wide-eyed, glancing at my

box.

“Luis.” I move past him, ignoring his plea to wait, and sprint up the
stairs toward Stewart’s room.

Giggling reaches my ears before I get to his bedroom door. Quietly

opening it, the sight is not unexpected but hurts all

the same. It’s the blond from the library, leaning on him, with one
hand down his boxers and one hand through his sandy

blond hair. His lips lock on hers and nausea creeps in my stomach.

“So this is the ‘meeting’ you absolutely couldn’t miss?” I hiss loudly.
Stewart jumps up from the bed. His wide gaze lands

on me.

Raising a brow, I assess them; the girl is mortified, glancing at me

and Stewart.
“Summer!” Stewart shoves a pillow over his lap.

I dump his stuff on the floor, hearing glass shatter, pleased it was
likely his favorite beer glass.

“We’re done here,” I say as I walk out his room.

Stewart calls my name as I move through the house. When I see the
door, I nearly run, needing to get out. My feet hit

the porch, on to the sidewalk and head back toward my car. I steady
my breath with each step. The twists in my gut fade as

I process the sudden pivot in my life that occurred in the last couple
of hours. Tears threaten my face and the hurt seeps

through my bones. I force myself to stop but tears still make their
escape. Unfortunately I’m not alone. My eye catches on

the two guys meandering toward the house next to Kappa Sigma.

Duke Burnham, the right winger and vicious enforcer on the

Ravenwood Ravens hockey team and Denny Owens the

left defenseman. I try to look away, and hope they don’t notice me.
Duke is tall, imposing, with ocean blue eyes that trail up

toward me. Duke is a ruthless player on ice; intimidating in presence,

he is one of the key players on the hockey team that

dominated college hockey. Rumors have it that the NHL has its eye
on him. Denny Owens is a legacy at Ravenwood.

Generations of his family have graced Ravenwood’s halls. He is the

latest and like many of the legacies, he is smug and

prone to flashing money and influence for whatever he wants. He’s

much shorter than Duke, but what he lacks in presence,
he makes up for in influence.

Having interviewed them a couple times for the Ravenwood Paper, I

always found my conversations with Duke

respectful. In fact, every time I grabbed a quote from him, he was

thoughtful. Our conversations were brief but friendly.

Denny, on the other hand, stares like he is playing out a sick fantasy
right in front of you. It is a wonder how Duke is one of

his friends.

My avoidance started when Stewart told me to stay away from the

two, telling me he heard rumors of their bad behavior. Hearing about
Duke surprised me the most, having no indication of his capabilities
but I suppose he was better at

hiding it.

Since dating Stewart, he had quickly told me of Duke’s diabolical

ways. Like the summer internship program for a world renowned tech
company, there were rumors of blackmail and intimidation against
one of Stewart’s frat brothers,

Mark. He eventually transferred out.

On campus, Duke never seemed to cause trouble but I always heard

of rumors opposing that fact. Being close with Denny was enough
proof that he wasn’t who I thought he was.

Stewart viewed him as his rival ever since he tried out for Hockey
Club and they played against Duke’s team for fun.

Stewart had it in his mind to show off and Duke decided to humble
and humiliate him. Duke always seemed to treat him
like a nuisance, occasionally antagonizing him. After that, Stewart set
out to join the frat, cursing hockey but specifically

Duke. During Campus Wars, I had to keep Stewart from breaking

Duke’s nose after Duke’s team won the paintball

competition. Stewart, of course, tried to prove he cheated.

Duke’s gaze finds mine, and my breath lock in my throat. He barely

sends a nod my way, the same kind he would give

when I approached him for quotes for our paper. Now he is staring at
me. For a brief moment, I catch a flash of surprise. I

quickly wipe my tears and jog across the street to my car, willing my
pulse to slow down and the heat in my cheeks to fade.

As I reached my car, I realized I was no longer Stewart’s girlfriend.

Which meant I was now free game. I no longer had

the protection from his frat or even his legacy name and I didn’t
know if that was a good thing.

Chapter 2

B reak-ups are a strange thing. My grandma, Nana, always believed

that past loves were disguised as lessons, preparing

you for the real thing. I had thought I learned everything from
previous boyfriends and other people’s relationships. I

thought I could get away from the pain of growth, but it waits for me
all along.

Memories flood my mind. The alcohol not only makes me replay my

relationships repeatedly like an awful movie, but it

pulls out the other ghosts.

I want to go back in time. To a moment where I felt unstoppable and
I always remember the Halloween party my freshman year. At the
party, I was the designated driver for my friends. Single then and
part of a group of Catwoman, each

a different version. I was Michelle Pfeiffer, strutting in the skintight

black costume with a small, braided black rope as my

whip. I felt powerful and I decided that night to be open to whatever

came my way.

That was when I had my first and only one night stand. He gave me
one of the best nights of my life. The Skeleton, my

name for him because he had a skeleton face and was all in black.
That night, he freed me from my worries and just let me

be the person I wanted to be. I buried the perfectionist student

Summer Evans in a cat mask as the Skeleton buried himself

in me. Even using my whip to tie me to his bed. We decided no

names, just pet ones. Keeping the thrill of anonymity. There

were days where I wondered who he was. If I ever ran into him. If
my eyes ever scanned his face and I never knew.

This party doesn’t remind me of that night like I had hoped. It smells
rancid and almost feels damp. The music is too

loud and not even good. The liquor in my cup tastes too strong. Still,
I let the liquid burn down my throat. It’s better than

being alone with my thoughts, which have only spun me around, the
darker ones making me question if I was ever good

enough for Stewart.

“Summer. Are you good?” Z asks, peering at me. I swear this is the
fifth time she has asked tonight. It didn’t help that I’d

received an email: my favorite extra-curricular, the Ravenwood Paper,

had asked me to step down temporarily. Telling me I

needed a break without really giving a choice in the matter. In my

downward spiral, I stupidly wrote a scathing piece about

one of our donors at Ravenwood. I lost the trust of my team and

jeopardized my dream internship in New York.

Three hours ago, I begged Z to go out and let loose to help me

forget. Z reluctantly agreed, dragging Eddie, her boyfriend, who
promptly disappeared the moment we walked through the door.

It’s been over a month since I dumped Stewart. October is around

the corner and midterms are a few weeks away. No

one here seems to care about the looming deadlines and tests. I had
decided I wouldn’t either, for now.

“This drink tastes like shit.” Frowning, I move out of the way of a
couple barreling the down hall giggling.

“That’s because it’s straight up whiskey. And not the good kind.” Z
makes a face, smelling the drink and gagging. She

plucks the cup out of my hand and replaces it with water.

Chugging it, I am grateful for her. I decide in my drunk haze I need

to be less of a bitch and get myself together again.

Maybe tomorrow. Maybe on Monday.

The fallout of our break-up was strange. As if I had pulled my head

out of the ground and reality rushed to greet me.
Ravenwood’s legacies are untouchable. I never thought that dumping
Stewart for his infidelity somehow made me the bad

guy.

Leaning against the wall, I watch the surrounding people. Of course,

I notice a few girls nearby looking at me and talking.

“Isn’t that Stewart’s ex?” a petite brunette says.

“Yeah, she’s kind of uptight. I heard she drove Stewart crazy because
she was obsessed with knowing where he was.”

“No wonder Stewart cheated on her.”

Grimacing, I move away from them.

“We can head back and have a movie night.” Z squeezes my hand,
noticing the misery on my face. “Then I can bitch

about Tripp to you. Eddie doesn’t want to hear it anymore.” Eddie is a

stressed out senior. Having been together since her

sophomore year, he has long been sick of hearing about how Tripp
Montgomery ruined her day.

“What’s he done now?” Tripp is Z’s personal nemesis. One of the star
hockey players with the Ravens. Paired with movie star looks, family
wealth, popularity, and being a legacy. The man is used to being
worshiped. Z, who comes from the

opposite background, grew up in a family who fought hard for her to

get into this school. With her brains, she landed a full-

ride scholarship. Naturally, they didn’t start off on the right foot and it
imploded when he signed up to be a tutor, like Z, for extra credit. He
tried to flirt with her to offload his work one day for a date and she
wasn’t having it. They have been antagonizing each other at the
tutoring center ever since.

Z’s face contorts into disdain before she can tell me. Her jaw clenches
as her eyes follow something behind me.

“What?” Turning, I follow her line of sight.

Stewart is here. This time his arm is slung around another girl, a
different one with dark hair. I recognize her as the

president of another sorority.

“Of fucking course.” My gut sours as he spots me from across the

room. It’s the first time we’ve run into each other

since the break-up. It was inevitable, but it’s still too soon. Stewart
promptly abandons his date and moves in my direction.

“Let’s go, Z.” Grabbing her hand, I stalk in the opposite direction,
anywhere, just to put space between us.

“Summer!” I hear him call from behind me, but I continue on. My
skin feels hot and I want to feel something other than

betrayal.

As I round the corner, I walk into something solid. Something broad

that smells of fresh linen and citrus.

“Whoa, you okay?” Looking up, I recognize the last person I

expected, Duke. Next to him is Tripp, his light green eyes

gleam with amusement as they flicker to Z next to me. Z groans, her

nose scrunching like she stepped on something. On

the other side is Adam Florence, the goaltender with lightning

reflexes and a sweet disposition, compared to his companions.
“Must be my lucky day,” Tripp says with a grin. It’s the one he uses to
charm anything with warm blood.

“Must be my nightmare,” Z grumbles.

“Aww, Sunshine, I’m flattered that you subconsciously think of me.”

“I’ll send you the therapy bill.”

Tripp grins his million-dollar smile at her, but it only makes Z roll her
eyes.

I gawk up at Duke, feeling my spine tingle and face heat once again,
reminding myself I am here. Duke, of course, doesn’t respond,
instead his gaze is pinning me to the spot. Everything around us
seems to fade, and something heavy settles in my chest and warms
my belly, wondering if the alcohol is in more control than I realized.

“Summer!” Stewart’s voice is behind me, and I feel his clammy hand
on my arm.

Duke’s eyes blink a beat, then narrow at Stewart’s hand on my arm.

“Let go, Pratt,” he growls and not a moment later, Stewart does like
an obedient dog. That was the power of Duke Burnham.

“What the fuck do you want, Duke? I’m trying to talk to my girl.”
Stewart glares at him, but keeps his space.

“I’m not your girl anymore!” Crossing my arms, I muster up my best

withering look. “Actually, your real girl is on the

other side of the room looking for you. You should go to her.”

Steward gives me a hard smile. “Baby! Stop throwing your tantrum

and let’s talk.”
“What the f—” Z moves next to me. Tripp grabs her arm, keeping her
at bay, sending her an uncharacteristically serious

look to stay out of it.

My jaw tenses and I see red. Hissing at him in a low voice, “Stewart
Pratt. If you don’t get the fuck away from me, I will

happily remind you and Professor Tilby who has been authoring your
Econ papers.”

A dark look quickly replaces the pleading in his eyes as if in a split

second he just became another person.

“Summer, if you don’t stop this—” he hisses, taking a step forward.

“Back the fuck off, Pratt. She doesn’t want to talk to you,” Duke says.
His usual cool and collected threats are now laced

with anger as he steps between us. Tripp is next to him, the perma-
smirk now gone, replaced with a look that’s steely and

deadly as he watches Stewart. Duke’s larger frame hides me. What

breaks my concentration is his hand. It splays at my hip

and gently guides me behind him.

Biting my lip, his warm hand leaves my skin, and I’m left wanting
more. What the fuck is wrong with me?

Stewart also notices Duke’s hand. His face contorts into rage. “Are
you fucking him now?! Really, Summer?!”

“Hey now!” Adam frowns. “You need to settle down.”

Stewart snaps like a wild animal, and Duke takes a step forward,
corralling Stewart away from me. I see the muscles in
his back work and I realize Stewart had never once protected me like
this.

“And what if I am? Hell, since you suggested it, maybe I will,” I snap,
trying to see his face from around Duke’s massive

frame. I don’t care if everyone is watching. I don’t care if anyone

hears. All I can do now is watch as Duke nods at his friends. Tripp
and Adam grab him by the arms, leading him away.

Stewart curses up a storm, but his voice fades in the crowd. The
sorority girl is left with her jaw on the ground, unsure

if she should follow him or pretend she doesn’t even know him.

Silence fills the air for a beat before the music continues and the
party acts like nothing had happened.

Duke turns to me, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I reply, staring at the spot where Stewart had been. “You
didn’t have to do that.”

Duke studies me as silence settles between us. “You were too good
for him, you know.”

Shrugging, I glance at Z, who returns with Tripp and Adam from

overseeing Stewart getting removed from the house.

“It was a mistake I needed to learn.” I sigh.

“Let’s get you home,” Z says. “Thanks, guys.” Z shoots a look at Tripp
before mumbling her thanks to him.

“What was that, sweet cheeks?” Tripp feigns shock.

“Fuck off.” Z flips him off, tugging on my arm, but I’m frozen.
Duke’s gaze is still locked on my face.

Exhaustion is replacing the fury and adrenaline. My bed is becoming

more enticing than staying a minute longer here.

“Let me find Eddie and we can go,” Z says.

Tripp rolls his eyes and waves goodbye before moving in the opposite
direction, his attention catching on a group of

ladies ogling him.

“Thanks again,” I say. My brief interviews with Duke always run like
this. He waits patiently for me to ask my question

and he gives me an answer. His attention and focus is always on me,

no matter what is happening around us. Tonight was

no different and I become acutely aware of how handsome he is.

Duke runs his hand through his brown hair. It’s long

enough that it curls at the nape of his neck and I watch, wondering if
it’s as soft as it looks.

“I heard you’re not at the paper,” Duke says.

My spine stiffens. “I’m on temporary leave.”

“I’m sorry.” He is sincere and I smile, grateful.

“It’s fine, I’ll bounce back.”

Duke nods as he rubs the face of his watch. It’s a habit I noticed
when I started interviewing him for the paper. It dawns

on me, he might be nervous.

“We’re having a party after the hockey game in a couple weeks at the
Hockey House,” Duke says.

My brow raises, wondering if I heard him right. It takes a moment for

me to muster up a ‘no thanks’ to the random

invitation, but before I can answer, Duke leans in.

His scent invades my nose and my head again. His breath is hot in
my ear and yet my body shivers. “If you go, come

find me and we can really piss Pratt off.”

My mouth drops and my heart feels like I’m caught in a vice grip that
is Duke’s voice.

“What do you mean?” I ask as my mind reels.

“Pratt is a prick. He thinks we’re fucking. Let’s mess with him.” In the
colored lights of the party, he is stone cold serious. He has no
business looking at me like that in the middle of the party,
surrounded by people.

“It’s forward, but think about it; we can pretend.” He winks. “Catch
you around.”

Duke disappears into the crowd, leaving me wondering if I

hallucinated everything, wondering if he really meant what

he said. Biting my lip, the heat that simmered in my veins is now

wanting to combust. Z appears to take me home and I’m

grateful.

I suck in a breath as I follow Z outside. The fresh air helps to

reinvigorate my mind to clear the fog. There is a tug, a
feeling of being watched that I can’t shake as we head down the
sidewalk. Duke’s offer is at the forefront of my mind. It

does what it always does, goes down rabbit holes of ‘what-if’s,

‘should I’s,’and ‘why not’s?’

Chapter 3

S tewart Pratt was a bastard. After the party, the jerk started rumors.
Rumors of me taking part in an orgy. For revenge

because he strayed. My reputation is in shatters, my advisor is

worried about my grades and I’m still out of the Ravenwood Paper.

“Slut shaming isn’t a good look,” Z drawls as we walk across the

quad.

“Still, it’s pretty fucking annoying.” The vanilla latte is my third for the
day. My calendar is packed, my to-do list has

grown into an insufferable amount of tasks and I barely got a damn

lunch. Trying to get back into the motions, trying to

make-up for a couple of bad assignments and ignored projects.

Trying to regain trust with the Ravenwood Paper to let me

back in again.

The worst part is that I’m horny. Ever since Duke intervened that
night, he awakened something I hadn’t felt in a while.

“Did you think about the party at the Hockey House?” Z asks as she
leans in. Her hazel eyes are bright with excitement.

“No. When do I have time?” It’s a lie. I’m always thinking about it.
Debating, weighing the pros and cons. My dreams
seem to think it’s a good idea. God, I even started looking all over my
room for that rope from Halloween. It was nowhere to

be found. He wasn’t serious though, he just wanted to piss off my ex.

I think.

“You should do it,” she says. “For real, though.”

“What?” My feet misstep on the stairs as we head up to the lecture.

“Seriously. Sleep with him, I always got the vibe that he liked you.”
We greet the cool air inside. The smell of books and

floor cleaner assaults my nose.

“Well, IF we get there, I hear he chews up girls and spits them out,” I
say.

“That’s a plus to me.” Z giggles. “Besides, what if he’s just as good as

Mr. Skeleton man?”

We are standing at the far end of the hall, away from the small crowd
of students who are also waiting. Z is the only

person who knows about that aberration in my behavior, that one-

night stand who is now haunting my dreams.

“I know you haven’t gotten it good in a while,” Z adds. ”Why not talk
to him, sweeten the deal with a good lay?”

Rolling my eyes, my phone buzzes. It’s my mother and immediately,

my mood sours. I was actively avoiding her, hating

that I’m going to have to tell her about Stewart.

“You should tell her,” Z says.

“Do I have to?”

“Come on, this is perfect. You have like ten minutes before we can go
in.”

Moving down a different hall, I pop my ear buds in and sit on a

bench.

“Hi,” I say.

“About time you answered,” my mother drawls.

“I’ve been busy,” I say.

“How are classes? I know the load you took on is heavy for the
business degree, but I promise it will be worth it.”

“Well, it’s not my favorite.” A partial truth, because I realized nearly a

quarter into my semester I hate my business major.

“In fact, I’m not sure if I want to double major.” My lips purse, I brace
myself.

“Well, you can’t be a journalist; you need to have a degree that is

worth the paper it’s printed on,” she says.

I close my eyes, trying to push away the sting.

“Don’t take unnecessary risks, especially with an opportunity like this.

My daughter, at Ravenwood, with a business

degree? It’s as good as gold for you.”

My jaw hardens again, tension running down my neck and into my

shoulders.

“How is Stewart?” The inevitable question. My hands feel clammy and

pain shoots in my chest.
“We are over . . . for good.” I sigh. The silence that follows was the
first for my mother.

“What? Why?!” she asks.

“Because he cheated on me, Mom,” I snap. “He’s an asshole, not the

perfect future husband that you think he is.”

“Oh, Summer . . . I—” my mom starts.

“Look, I don’t want to talk about it right now. I have to go to class

soon.”

“Summer . . .” my mother tries again.

“Can I talk to Nana, please?” The silence stretches again and I hear
shuffling in the background. I fight hard against the

anxiety that makes my vision blur and my head spin.

“Is this my ingrate granddaughter?” My Nana’s voice pierces through

all that and makes me smile and tears prick my

eyes.

“Hey Nana,” I say with relief.

“I almost wrote you out of my will again. You’re on thin ice for not
calling for this long,” she scolds.

“Can’t help it, you old bag. I have to invest in my future, you know.”
A tear slips and I wipe it away. “Since I’ll have to

make money to keep you alive with machines, eventually.”

Nana scoffs over the phone. “I’d rather haunt you.”

After chatting about anything but my life, my shoulders relax. Z pops
her head around the corner, giving me a warning

that class is going to start.

“Nana.”

“Yes?” she asks.

“If someone hurts you, do you let go or get even?”

Nana laughs. “Revenge won’t help you. Karma will. But that doesn’t
mean you can’t help it along.”

“Hmm.” Rubbing my neck, I think surely I can’t feel worse if I sleep

with Duke. Hell, even though I’m not a casual sex

kind of girl doesn’t mean I don’t like it.

“Did you love him?” my grandmother asks.

Biting my lip, I really think about it. “No.”

“Good,” she says, satisfied. “Don’t let him think he’s won.”

Throughout class, my thoughts drift as our irritable lit professor

eviscerates some of the students’ papers with his Irish

accent.

What was I to lose? Self respect? I discreetly pull up my phone. My

thumb hovers over Stewart’s social media account.

Of course, the first video I see is him dancing at a club. A drink in

hand and sandwiched between two girls. My nose wrinkles and my
thumb quickly exits out.
When I leave the lecture hall, I spot Duke and Denny walking in the
opposite direction, talking. Duke looks more serious than he did at
the party. His jaw is hard and spine stiff as Denny seems to laugh at
his own joke. They have been on

a winning streak during the games and it’s becoming more and more
likely a scout might appear.

My thoughts drift to our conversations. Perhaps he forgot about what

happened at the party. Doubt evaporates as he

sends me a smile that dimples his cheek and stops in his tracks.

“You go ahead, Denny.” He nods to the shorter man. Of course,

Denny spots me and a frown deepens on his face.

“Don’t be too long.” Even though he looks annoyed, I can feel him
looking me up and down and I suddenly want to take

a shower.

“Summer,” Duke greets and my stomach wants to flip and spin with
the way he is looking at me. Clutching my laptop

case and coffee, I wish I actually took the time to dress less like a
hobo in my oversized shirt and leggings.

“Duke.” I clear my throat.

“Have you thought about what I said?” he asks.

“A little. Have you? You might have been drunk.”

Duke smirks. “I don’t drink.”

“Oh!” I raise a brow. There is so much mystery about Duke. Rumors

swirl around him like a fog, but the little tidbit he
shares somehow feels like a shimmer of light in the darkness.

Duke steps toward me, and I crane to look at him. “I’ve been
thinking about it a lot.”

It feels like I’m having an out-of-body experience, getting caught in

Duke’s orbit.

“Have you?” It slips out more sultry than intended.

“How can I not be?” he asks. My pulse jumps as I see his eyes
darken.

“Because midterms are coming.”

Duke laughs, a genuine laugh that brightens his face, and it’s a
beautiful sight. However, I remember his reputation and

they always have a sliver of truth. The enigma and brutal enforcer on
ice, unforgiving and merciless.

“Why do you want to do this?” I blurt out, searching his sea blue
eyes.

Duke nods as if he’s ready to explain, “Because the bastard has been
a nuisance since the Hockey Club game.”

“Seriously?” I roll my eyes. “That was a long time ago.”

“Not because he was rude and obnoxious to everyone on the ice but
he started some rumors about me that are not quite

true.”

My brows shoot up, my journalistic curiosity taking over.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll explain one day but the guy has been talking shit, a lot of shit
about people, starting rumors that are damaging, and

now you.” He frowns. “You don’t deserve that.”

“Thanks.” I feel heat spread on my cheeks.

“Besides, he really sucks and I’d like to piss him off.” Duke grins
wickedly.

My mouth snaps shut. I’ve never truly doubted Stewart but slowly it’s
becoming more obvious how much of a liar he is.

The smile on his face stays. “You seem stressed.”

“I always am.” It’s the cold hard truth.

“How are you not stressed?” If I recall, he’s also part of the honor
society and is involved with intense hockey training

and games.

“I have a healthy outlet.” He winks. “If we do this, I can help with

that, too.”

“You mean like . . .” My face continues to heat up and I begin to

notice that people around us are watching curiously.

“Yes.” Duke lowers his voice. “I’ve always found you attractive.”

My mouth parts as a shock courses through my body. Duke stands in

front of me with a damned smile I can’t tear my

eyes away from. When I interviewed him, he was always respectful

and attentive.

“If I do this, you won’t post anything on social media or make fun of
me?”
Duke’s lips thin, “I would never do that. What we are doing is no
one’s business. Sex is just an option. We can make it a

business to piss off Stewart all just by hanging out.”

As we stand in the middle of the quad, I feel more eyes on me. On

us. Even this little interaction seems to catch the

interest of the student population.

“You must really hate Stewart.” Glancing around, I decide I need to

move, heading down to the sidewalk.

“I really want to rattle him a bit.” I don’t miss the glint in his eyes.
“I’m a firm believer in helping karma along.”

My feet trip and his large hands steady me. They are warm and leave
a pleasant tingle on my back.

“What’d you say?” My head snaps toward him.

“What?” he asks, confused.

“Never mind.” Shaking my head, I spot my car in the parking lot. I

realized he had been going the opposite direction,

yet he accompanied me all the way to my car. We exchange numbers

and I have to fight the excited smile on my face after

he texts me.

“Shoot me a text when you figure out if it is just for business . . . or

pleasure.” He winks as he continues down the sidewalk, chuckling at
my shocked face, as if the dirtiest, hottest shit I’ve heard today was
funny to him.

That night, I stare at his number. When I got home, Stewart decided
to text me. Calling me all sorts of names because he
heard from someone else I was being friendly with Duke. I promptly
blocked his number and wondered why I didn’t do it

before, how I never knew this side of him.

Summer: I’m in. For business and . . . and if the offer still stands . . .
pleasure.

Duke: Friday, after the game, at the Hockey House.

I steady my excited breath and chuck the phone on my nightstand,

sealing my fate.

***

“You look pretty smokin.” Z whistles as I look myself over in the

mirror. My jeans hug my hips as the black lace bodysuit

hugs the rest of my body. My brown hair is up in a high ponytail and,

for the first time since the breakup, I felt like my old

self again.

“I’m feeling pretty smokin,” I admit, standing in our home after the
hockey game against the Badgers of Madison College. I watched with
rapt attention as the Ravens dominated the ice and won.

Every time Duke intercepted or brutally took on an opponent, I

couldn’t help but grin. His excited blue eyes would find

mine across the ice and the cheers and screams tuned out as I
locked into his gaze. It’s a constant reminder of what’s to

come.

When I got home, I tore apart my closet, finding the sexiest thing I
could wear. My mind was made up and if I was
going to do this, I was going to summon Summer from Halloween
her freshman year.

“You don’t want to come with me?”

Z smiles, shaking her head. “No, I gotta work on my project and then
I’m going to see a movie with Eddie.”

Of course, my thoughts spiral and doubt knocks on the door.

“What if he talks shit about me too?” I frown, my confidence had

taken a hit because of Stewart and I know I won’t bear

another one with Duke.

“He won’t.” Z shakes her head.

“How do you know?”

“Because the only people I know who have slept with Duke are the
ones who talk about it. He doesn’t talk to anyone

about his exploits.”

“I can’t believe I’m doing this.” I fan myself. I want him. I knew the
moment I got home after our conversation.

“I can, because you deserve a good dicking down by one of the

hottest, most intimidating guys on campus, just to fuck

with Stewart Pratt.” Z laughs and I’m envious of her easy-going

attitude.

My mind drifts to our conversation. It has consumed my thoughts as

the countdown began, popping into my brain

during class and even in the middle of my dreams.

The Uber drops me off in front of the Hockey House. It’s a
designated Victorian-style mansion for many of the hockey

players to live in. I recognize a handful of people when I enter the

door.

The foyer opens up to a large room, people lined inside. The dim
lighting somehow makes the Victorian design less

menacing.

My gaze drifts around and I spot familiar faces and head over, only to
distract myself from the buzzing in my veins and

how my stomach feels like butterflies trying to make an escape.

Meeting with acquaintances does little to shake the feeling of being

watched. The shadows at the party feel like they

have eyes of their own. I almost reconsider coming here.

“Summer, right?” Turning, I find Denny. His gaze isn’t even on my

face; he’s boldly staring at my chest before dragging

his eyes back up to my face with a smirk.

“Yeah. Congrats on the win.” I nod, hoping he doesn’t notice my

discomfort.

“Duke told me you might come.” He smiles. If I didn’t notice him

leering at my chest, I would have thought he was a

nice guy, but I know better.

“Yeah. He helped me out with Stewart at a party a while ago and

we’re friends.”
“Did he now?” The gleam in his eyes makes me want to figure out an
exit fast.

Luckily, Tripp saves my ass, making an appearance. Next to him is a

familiar face, Adam. Adam never says much. When

I first interviewed him, I found him to be very shy. He speaks little

unless it’s about his longtime girlfriend, Audrey, who he

has dated since high school and both ended up in separate colleges.

Denny shoots Tripp a glare and I can see there is no love lost
between the two.

“Denny.” Tripp claps his hand on his shoulder. Tripp is a sniper on the
ice, scoring goals and earning the love of the

whole Ravenwood population, a fact that Denny hates.

“What’s up, Summer?” Tripp’s million-dollar smile wipes away the

discomfort like it wasn’t even there. “Where is your

partner in crime?” he asks, glancing around.

“I think Eddie and her are out for dinner,” I say.

Tripp flashes a look of disappointment. “That’s too bad.”

“What do you want, Tripp?” Denny is annoyed and this seems to

please Tripp to no end. The harshness in his tone seems to pull Adam
from his distraction, watching between the two, ready to intervene.

“I brought some friends over. Suzy is dying to meet you.” Tripp drags
Denny away from me, presumably leading to the

girls in the other room.

Adam pauses in front of me, “Duke’s waiting upstairs if you want to
say hi.”

Adam smiles politely before eying Denny and Tripp heading into the
other room.

“Excuse me.”

My eyes trail up. Duke. His arms are crossed, wearing a tight fitting
black t-shirt, making his shoulders and forearms

thick. I notice the glint of silver on his wrist, a watch.

The vodka I gulp burns the back of my throat. It helps lighten the
lead that seems to attach itself to my feet as I head

upstairs.

I hold his gaze, and he moves away. I realize that it is now or never.
When I trail upstairs, I feel lighter with each step;

how can such anticipation make me massively turned on? It’s as if my

body knows what’s about to happen next. Thinking

of the potential of the night ignites a fire in my veins. When I get to

the landing, I smile, ready to burn in flames with him.

Chapter 4

He leads me to the far end of the hall. His room has large double
doors. I notice the fireplace the moment I step in and

take it all in. His room is immaculate, but I notice there are no photos
or even a hint of who he is underneath the veneer

of being a college legend. There is an intimidatingly enormous bed

that is centered. The desk is devoid of anything but a
laptop and a lamp. The man is an enigma even in his own bedroom,
the place you can be most vulnerable.

“Do you need something to drink?” he offers. He must sense my

nerves, the tension in my shoulders and my neck won’t

relax. The heat is a steady fire right now and I want him, but
something inside feels this is the point of no return. Like

sweet oblivion is just on the other side of the door.

“No,” I say, with a swallow.

Duke smiles and walks toward me, his large hands settled on my
shoulders. He keeps my back toward the only exit.

“Relax.” His gentle command relaxes my nerves and I must look like a
caged animal to him.

“Sorry, I don’t do this often,” I explain.

Duke nods, his face softens, “Despite what it must feel like, Summer,
you have all the power here. When you say stop, I

stop. I’m not gonna do anything you don’t feel comfortable with,
okay?”

My mouth parts and I feel myself getting wetter. The heaviness

seems amplified suddenly.

“Now. Tell me what you want,” he directs.

I’m mute and it’s not because I don’t know what I want, it’s because
there is too much in my head. Too much of me in

my head. Wondering if I smell okay, did I shave my other leg?

“Let’s start this way. What do you want me to call you?” He cocks his
head, waiting for my answer. It’s just a brief flash

in my head, the pet name the Skeleton called me.

“Kitten,” I tell him.

Duke’s face is suddenly unreadable, but I see him swallow hard.

“Kitten,” he breathes and my mouth waters. He says it right, like it’s a

prayer. He takes another step forward and I remain in place,
somehow not combusting.

“Can I touch you?” His eyes are hooded and dark. I can barely see
any blue. I nod, staring at his lips. His hand reaches

for my hair, pushing it back and running through. His other hand
splays across my back and pulls me closer so our chests

touch.

“Is this okay?” he asks.

I can only nod and I suddenly wish I took up his offer of water.

Duke’s face burns in my head and I see him look at my lips like he’s
hungry, and he’s ready to feast. It’s then I realize

he’s waiting. Waiting for me to make the first move. When I do, I
stand on my tiptoes, wrapping my arms around his neck

and inhaling his scent, which buries itself in my head.

My heart is hammering and my mind runs a million miles a minute as

my lips seal over his. It’s tentative, and he knows

it, and I’ve never felt so self conscious.

Then Duke kisses back softly and suddenly my mind is silent. He is
gentle, as if afraid he would scare me off. I lean into

the kiss and I melt in his arms at how sweet it is. I sigh against him
as I feel his hands move to cup my jaw, his thumb gently

stroking my cheek. When his tongue meets mine, it’s not frantic,
lewd, or invasive. It’s more affectionate than I had expected.

Breaking away, I catch my breath, my pulse pounding and suddenly.

Wondering what the hell I am getting into.

“Kitten, stop thinking so much.” He chuckles.

“I can’t help it.” Heat creeps in my face, and I wonder if he is

regretting this.

“Do you want me to help you?” He licks his lips and all I can do is
nod.

“Think back on when you felt thoroughly and utterly satisfied. How
did that go?” Duke’s hands still hold me against

him, his fingers tracing my spine as he waits for my answer.

My mind doesn’t flash to Stewart at all, instead to my stranger.

“Like I was fucked out of my mind. Enough that I forgot everything,

who I am, and the chatter in my head shut up for

once.”

Duke’s eyes are impossibly black now. He closes them and groans.

“What?” I inquire, wondering if I said something wrong. Duke

steadies his erratic breath.

“You are making this very hard on me.” He chuckles.

“Oh?” The corner of my lip quirks.

“Yes. Because I’m tryin’ to be a gentleman here. If you let me have

my way, I would have made you come twice by now,”

he says.

“Why haven’t you?” I whisper, leaning in. I feel a little braver with his
words and I steal another kiss. He cages me against the wall.

“Are you sure about this? You can stop at any time, okay?” His voice
is hoarse and I swear I see him shake.

“Yes,” I say.

The moment I utter it, I seal my fate. His hand frames my face again
as he kisses hard; our teeth collide and the chatter

in my head disappears again. My senses focus on him. He picks me

up effortlessly, pulling my legs around the taper of his

waist.

He doesn’t break away from the kiss as he moves us to his desk and
settles with me there. It’s becoming frantic and I

knock off the lamp. I clutch at him just because I need some
semblance of gravity.

Tugging my hair back, with my neck exposed, he trails kisses there. I

pant as his hands roam all over me.

“Fuck,” he curses, realizing there are too many articles of clothes

between us. He has to force himself to pull away. His

hair is a mess as we both help each other out of our tops.

Duke is built like a god. With the number of times I’ve seen him at
the gym, it’s not a surprise, but I am finally going to

make him put all that hard work to use on me.

Sliding his arm around my waist, he pulls me toward him, pulling my

legs around him. His lips seal across mine again,

greedier. My hands roam his chest. He is like a furnace and he leans

harder into my hand, like he’s been touch-starved his

whole life. My hands drift down to reach for his belt and I hesitate,
drawing away.

Duke’s hands find mine, pulling it back to the belt buckle. “Never hold
back with me, Kitten.”

Obeying, I undo it and a thrill moves through me. Maybe it’s because
he’s Duke, maybe it’s because I finally feel freer

than I’ve been in a long time.

When my hands reach to push his jeans down, Duke moves back. It
takes a moment to process what’s happening. His

looks are predatory as he kneels in front of me, face at the level of

my pussy.

My mouth parts, about to tell him he doesn’t have to and draw my

thighs closed, but his hand stops me. He looks up at

me, almost offended, as he yanks off my pants and underwear with

it. His gaze moves down, staring at me bare and heat

flashes across my chest at how wet I already am.

“Fuck, you’ve been hidin’ this from me, Kitten?” he asks with lust in
his eyes. It’s pure and unhidden. It makes my stomach twist in
anticipation. He looks hungry, and nothing is going to stop him from
feasting.

Duke looks at me like I’m a little traitor, hiding his present. His
muscular arms wrap around my thighs and pull me

closer to the edge of the desk.

He doesn’t start slow or tentatively. He seals his mouth on my fiery

core and his tongue practically digs in. I can’t hold

back the cry and I buck against him at how sensitive I feel.

His large hands hold me down, as if he’s silently telling me to take my

punishment. My mind blanks and I can only

babble his name and hold on to his hair for the ride. My core tenses
and I lose myself in the sensation that his tongue brings.

He inserts a large finger, finding that spongy spot like he fucking

knew where it was the whole time. He strokes it slowly and
deliberately before he inserts another finger.

“Please. Please! Please!” The babble can barely come out and then
suddenly I tip over and I moan. Loudly. I come hard

on his tongue and fingers, my thighs clutch around his head and I
feel like I could snap his neck as he makes me ride it out

almost to the point of oversensitivity. I’m a mess as I look up, trying

to comprehend what just happened when he pulls away.

“I always knew you’d like that,” he mutters as if to himself, and I

don’t have enough brain cells to comprehend it further.

Duke’s face appears in front of me and he still looks unsatisfied.

When he kisses me, I taste myself on his tongue. The
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 Disgusted at his failure and the years he had wasted, Columbus
with his son Diego turned his back on Santa Fé. His journey took him
near the little seaside town of Palos, where at the Franciscan convent
of La Rabida he sought food and shelter for the night. Its prior, Fra
Juan Perez, once the Queen’s confessor, was delighted to have first-
hand news from the seat of war, and eagerly welcomed his guest;
with the result that all Christopher’s disappointed hopes came
pouring out in a stream of eloquence that soon made a convert of his
listener.
A secret letter from the prior to the Queen, full of respectful
expostulations, her quick response that Columbus should return at
once to Court, her gift of 20,000 maravedis to provide him with
suitable clothing and a mule,—and Juan Perez could write with
fervent joy:

Our Lord has listened to the prayers of His servant. The wise and virtuous
Isabel, touched by the grace of Heaven, gave a favourable hearing to the words of
this poor monk. All has turned out well.

“All has turned out well!” Face to face, Queen and would-be-
discoverer could realize how much their minds were in tune; even
more now than in the early days of his project; for, to the material
benefits he hoped to reap, Columbus, inspired perhaps by the
crusading character of the Moorish war, had added the burning
desire to carry the light of the Catholic Faith across “the sea of
darkness.” This was no mere pose. Religion to the sailor as to the
Queen was an intrinsic part of daily life, something vital and
overshadowing that in the hour of triumph intensified glory, in days
of depression or danger spread protecting wings. In the foreword of
his journal addressed to the sovereigns, he shows very clearly that he
regarded himself not only as pioneer but missionary:

Your Highnesses, as Catholic sovereigns and princes, loving the Holy Christian
Faith and the spreading of it, and enemies of the sect of Mahomet and of all
idolatries and heresies, decided to send me, Christopher Columbus, to the said
regions of India, to see the said princes and peoples and lands, and learn of their
disposition and of everything, and of the measures that could be taken for their
conversion to our Holy Faith.
 Behind and beyond “the spreading of the Catholic Faith” in the far
East was another design of still bolder conception, the employment
of the wealth to be found in Cathay and the territories of the great
Khan towards the recovery of the Holy Sepulchre. The latter was the
crowning enthusiasm of every earnest Christian in mediæval times,
and Christopher believing himself “inspired, elected, foreordained,”
held amongst his cherished visions the glory of a final crusade, to
which he should have contributed the war fund.
Upheld by his inborn sense of power, he had returned to Court far
more a conqueror, ready to grant conditions, than a petitioner oft-
refused and eager to snatch the least morsel of favour. The Crown in
its clemency was now, after its long apathy, willing to confer on him
titles and privileges;—all in moderation of course, for Ferdinand and
Isabel were never unnecessarily lavish; but Christopher, valuing
himself and his task by the measure of his faith in the future, laughed
at their moderation. Either he was great enough to succeed and thus
prove worthy of a great reward, or he would fail and his pretensions
and demands fade away with his dreams. The sovereigns, skilled in
striking bargains, might argue and cajole. The Genoese, though his
fate trembled in the balance, never wavered, until at last in April,
1492, caution yielded to greatness, and the terms that he demanded
were signed and sealed.
Columbus and his heirs were to have the hereditary title of
Admiral of all the islands and continents that he might discover, and
should for ever hold the office of Viceroy and Governor-General over
them. He and his heirs should receive one-tenth of all the wealth,
whether metals, jewels, or spices, that should be acquired from these
territories; and he and they should have a perpetual right of
providing one-eighth of the expenses of every expedition sent to the
West, receiving a corresponding profit from the results. These with
extensive judicial and administrative privileges formed the basis of
the document, in return for which Columbus promised to sail into
the unknown and claim it in the name of Castile and her sovereign.
The actual cost of the expedition was, in comparison to the stakes
at issue, trifling; in all less than a thousand pounds of English
money, of which the Crown contributed some £850, Columbus
himself the rest. Three ships formed his fleet; two provided under
compulsion by the town of Palos as punishment for some public
offence, and as reluctantly manned by its inhabitants who looked on
the proposed voyage with horror. Columbus’s own flagship, the
Santa Maria, was a vessel of some hundred tons burden, by modern
standards ill-fitted for aught but coasting work; while the Pinta and
the Niña, commanded by Martin Alonso Pinzon and his brother
Vicente Yañez, noted navigators of the neighbourhood, were mere
merchant “caravels” of half its size.
The story of this first voyage to the New World has been often told:
the distrust and grumbling of the crew which, beginning before they
left Palos on that morning of the 3d of August, 1492, grew ever in
volume as they journeyed westwards, leaving the friendly Azores far
in their rear; the complaints that the wind steadily driving from the
east would never change and thus make any hope of return
impossible; the extraordinary variations of the compass and the
expanse of sea traversed, far in excess of the Admiral’s calculations,
so that, puzzled and anxious at heart himself, he must yet keep a
cheerful face and, lying skilfully, hold panic at bay by scientific
falsehoods and carefully doctored charts. The many cries of “land!
land!” heralding nought save clouds lying low on the horizon; the
ever-doomed hopes aroused by birds and floating grass; and then the
Sargasso Sea with its leagues of golden gulf-weed lapping against the
ship’s side. Was this the impassable ocean where Atlantis had sunk
to rest? Were they indeed destined to die here for their folly?
Then, when patience and hope were alike exhausted, and only the
Admiral’s faith rose triumphant above the general pessimism,
unmistakable signs of land appeared at last; and, on the 12th of
October the Spanish squadron came to anchor before the little island
of Guanahani, one of the Bahamas.
The details of the landing, the astonishment of the natives, “naked
as when their mothers gave them birth,” at the sight of mail- and
silk-clad warriors and the sound of cannons; the account of various
expeditions made to other islands and of the fort built in Española;—
these like the actual voyages may be read at length in the pages of
Washington Irving. It is with the triumphant home-coming of the
hero not with his adventures that we are here concerned.

Attention you two most wise and venerable men and hear of a new discovery
[wrote Peter Martyr to the Archbishop of Granada and Count of Tendilla]. You
remember Columbus the Ligurian, who persisted, when in the camps with the
sovereigns, that one could pass over by way of the Western Antipodes to a new
hemisphere of the globe.... He is returned safe and declares he has found
wonderful things.

Wonderful things indeed! Brown-skinned Indians, green and

scarlet parrots, golden nuggets and ornaments, cotton fibre and
strange roots and seeds; these that he brought with him were but
proofs and trophies of the still more wonderful adventures he
hastened to relate before the sovereigns and their Court. In his
disembarkation at Palos on the 15th of March, 1493, and still more in
his “solemn and very beautiful reception” by the sovereigns at
Barcelona graphically described by the historian Las Casas, he was to
reap at last the meed of honour and enthusiasm so long denied him.
Kneeling before his King and Queen to kiss the hands that afterwards
raised him in gracious condescension to sit with royalty upon the
dais, flattered and fêted by courtiers who had before patronized or
mocked, riding through the crowded streets by Ferdinand’s side
amid cries of admiration and applause;—in these moments he
reached the climax of worldly glory.
Long years stretched before him, when circumstances, his own
failings, and the envy and spite of others, were to rob him of ease,
popularity, and even royal confidence; but for the time being he was
“Don,” “Admiral,” the honoured of Kings, the most discussed and
admired man in Spain, perhaps in all Europe. In one country at least,
the kingdom of Portugal, the result of his voyage was a subject for
poignant regret; and Ferdinand and Isabel, having obtained from
Alexander VI. papal recognition of their right to the newly discovered
territories, were driven to demand a series of bulls, that would
provide them with a definition of their empire, lest Portuguese rivals,
too slow to forestall them in the discovery, should now rob them of
their gains.
By a bull of May 4, 1493, an imaginary line was drawn through the
north and south poles, cutting the Atlantic at one hundred leagues
distance from the Cape Verde Islands and Azores. To the east of this
line was henceforth to stretch the zone of Portuguese dominion, to
the west that of Castile. Later, by the Treaty of Tordesillas, signed by
the Spanish sovereigns and King John in June, 1494, the boundary
was fixed at three hundred and seventy instead of one hundred
leagues distance; and there for the moment national rivalry was
checked.
In the meanwhile Columbus, having organized a second
expedition, had on September 23, 1493, set sail once more for the
west. Very different in size and character was his new fleet from the
former vessels of Palos with their pressed crews; for more than twice
the number of men required for his fourteen caravels had applied for
leave to sail with him, and not a few of those refused had chosen to
embark as stowaways rather than be left behind. It was a case of
unbalanced enthusiasm succeeding to unbalanced hostility, and, as
often happens, the second state was to prove more dangerous than
the first.
Not patriotism, nor a healthy love of adventure, nor even a cool-
headed trading instinct, animated the majority of that idle,
quarrelsome throng who were destined to turn the lands their
discoverer at first believed the “Earthly Paradise” into a hell of
human misery and wrong. It was lust of gold, no hardly-won reward
of toil and sweat, but the fabulous wealth of Cipango and Cathay, to
be picked in nuggets out of the flowing river, found in the turned
surface of the earth, wrung by brutality if necessary from unwilling
natives, that brought a wastrel nobility disgusted with orderly
government at home, to serve under the standard of a man whom
they secretly despised as an ill-bred foreigner. Not all were of this
type. Amid the fourteen crews were some earnest souls, inspired like
their Admiral by a sense of responsibility; but the prevailing element
was selfish, vicious, and insubordinate.
For this Columbus himself was partly to blame. Blinded to the
limits of his achievement by his faith in the glory and wealth yet to
come, and, anxious at all costs to maintain the support of the
Spanish sovereigns, his eloquence had painted a highly-coloured
picture very likely to deceive those who listened. The small quantity
of gold so far obtained was merged in the glittering accounts given by
natives of kingdoms to the south, where precious metals were to be
had for the asking. These, like Amazon islands and lands whose
tribes had tails, proved ever beyond the distant horizon, vanishing at
the Spanish approach. As they melted into thin air so also did
Christopher’s inflated reputation; and those who had looked on him
as a kind of magician, able to conjure up vast quantities of gold, saw
him instead only as a lying adventurer, who had lured them from
civilization and luxury on a false plea.
“Why hast thou taken us out into the wilderness to die?” It is the
cry that from the time of Moses onwards has assailed the ears of the
pioneer enthusiast. The wilderness may prove a paradise; but in that
it falls short of human desires it will be condemned and despised.
Not all the glory of sunshine and colour, of rich soil, luxurious
vegetation, and flowing river, speaking to honest toilers of a possible
kingdom of God on earth, can compensate with an idle rabble for
shattered dreams of gold mines, of jewels, and of spices.
Murmurings, complaints, secret disobedience, open defiance:
these were the fruits of Columbus’s autocracy. When he landed for
the second time in Española, he found the fort which he had left
well-stored with provisions and ammunition burnt to the ground, its
garrison dead, the Indians, once his trusted allies, fleeing before him
afraid into the woods. Inquiry elicited an all too circumstantial tale of
Spanish profligacy, cruelty, and carelessness, once his governing
hand had been removed. Then had come retribution in the form of
an avenging massacre by a warlike tribe from the interior of the
island. The Indians of the coast denied their participation, even
swore on oath that they had helped the garrison to the best of their
ability; and Columbus, anxious to believe them, tried to restore the
old relations. Mutual suspicion, however, had come to reign. His
followers, angry at the fate of their countrymen, accepted it as a
legitimate excuse for intimidating and oppressing all natives. The
hospitality and gifts once so generously lavished were now withheld
or, proving totally inadequate to meet ever-growing Spanish
necessities, were replaced by an enforced tribute, until the link of
willing service was forged into an iron chain of bondage.
Some form of submission of native to European, of the weaker
many to the stronger and more civilized few, was an inevitable
solution of the racial problem. That it developed into absolute slavery
was due, partly to the custom of the day, partly to the difficulties in
which Columbus and his colonists soon found themselves involved.
They had laid the foundations of the system in the New World when
they carried off their first ten Indians in triumph to parade them
through the streets of Barcelona, though the individuals in question
could boast of generous treatment and a baptism with royal
sponsors.
The principle of personal liberty abandoned, Columbus could
declare, not without truth, that as slaves the natives would have a
better chance of learning the doctrines of the Catholic Faith than in
their own wild freedom. Even on the grounds of mercy and good
government he could at first justify his attitude; since he and his
followers contented themselves for the most part with seizing
“Caribs,” a fierce cannibal tribe that preyed upon their weaker
neighbours.

Among the people who are not cannibals [he wrote home] we shall gain great
credit by their seeing that we can seize and take captive those from whom they are
accustomed to receive injuries, and of whom they are in such terror that they are
frightened by one man alone.

Alas for either pious or kindly intentions! Not these but economic
considerations were really to sink the scales. Columbus had
promised to find precious metals in abundance, and yet seven years
after his discovery Bernaldez, the Curate of Los Palacios, made a note
that the expenses of the various expeditions still continued to exceed
the profits.
“Since everything passed through the Admiral’s hands,” he adds,
“there was much murmuring against him, and he made greater
hindrances and delays than he ought in sending back gold to the
King.”
Gold there was little in these early years of exploration; and
demands for precious metals at home were echoed by demands in his
own colony for horses, cattle, and sheep to stock the new settlement.
In this dilemma the Admiral fell back on the wealth of human life,
for which he could reap a handsome profit in the labour-markets of
the Old World besides pacifying some of the grumbling in the New. It
was no longer the conversion of the heathen nor the civilization of
cannibals, that took the first place in his thoughts, but a momentary
respite from increasing financial strain.
A gift of an Indian apiece to each of his greedy crew; a gang of
some five hundred captives of either sex shipped to Europe, huddled
together “with no more care taken of them than of animals destined
for the slaughter-house.”
These, or tales of a like nature, came to the Queen’s ears. “By what
right does the Admiral give away my vassals?” she demanded
indignantly, and ordered the Indians to be released and re-shipped
to their own land.

It must be remembered to her credit [says Filson Young, referring to her attitude
towards this question,] that in after years, when slavery and an intolerable bloody
and brutish oppression had turned the Paradise of Española into a shambles, she
fought almost single-handed and with an ethical sense far in advance of her day
against the system of slavery practiced in Spain upon the inhabitants of the New
World.

Ferdinand cared little for the sufferings of Indians, but their sale
would not bring him the profits he had been led to expect from his
new dominions, and he was therefore more than willing to listen to
the many complaints of tyranny, favouritism, and deceit, brought
against the Governor by those returning from the West. Here the
crowning offence had been in reality the employment of all able-
bodied Europeans, priests as well as laymen, in the construction of a
city in Española to which Columbus gave the name of “Isabella,” “in
remembrance,” says Las Casas, “of the Queen Doña Isabel whom he
above all held in great reverence; and he was more desirous of
serving and pleasing her than any other person in the world.”
“Columbus,” wrote Peter Martyr, “has begun the building of a city
and the planting of our seeds and the raising of cattle.” His words call
up a picture of peaceful and slow-rewarded toil, little to the taste of
the majority pressed to take their share, their natural dislike of
manual labour stimulated by the ennervating climate and habits of
self-indulgence. The crops grew apace, but so also did fever and
disease; and for all that went wrong the people held their foreign
Admiral responsible.
Indeed there was often sufficient foundation to make the reports
brought home plausible. Columbus was a born leader of men in
action, where a strong personality will always dominate; but he had
few gifts as a governor, and least of all that invaluable instinct for
selecting trustworthy subordinates. His choice of officials was often
betrayed; his government, as a rule too kindly towards the cut-throat
ruffians he commanded, on occasions varied by excessive severity.
Whatever its quality he reaped odium, not only amongst the
colonists, but with their relations and friends in Castile.
Enough was obviously at fault to require inspection; and in 1500,
when Columbus who had sailed from Spain on a third voyage in 1498
was occupied in exploring fresh islands, Francisco de Bobadilla, an
official of the royal household, arrived in Española, charged with the
duty of inquiring into the Admiral’s conduct. His high-handed
action, in immediately arresting Columbus and his brothers
Bartholomew and Diego on their return to headquarters, is one of
the most dramatic episodes in history; and its appeal was felt
throughout the length and breadth of Spain.
Villejo, the officer in command of the prisoners on the voyage
home, offered to remove the fetters in which they had been sent on
board, but Columbus sternly refused. He would wear them, he
declared, until he knelt before his sovereigns, keep them by him till
his dying day. Crippled by gout, his hair whitened by care, he
disembarked at Cadiz, the irons clanking on his wrists and ankles;
and at the sight horror and shame spread from cottage and shop to
castle and palace. Was this the discoverer’s reward for a New World?
“Be assured that your imprisonment weighed heavily upon us,”
wrote the sovereigns some years later, still mindful of the shock the
news had given them; and when Columbus knelt before his Queen
the sobs of pent-up bitterness with which he recounted his troubles
awoke answering tears of regret and understanding in her eyes.
“After they had listened to him,” says Oviedo, “they consoled him
with much kindliness and spake such words that he remained
somewhat comforted.”
Confidence was temporarily restored, but the Admiral’s hour of
glory and triumph had passed never to return. His bad treatment
was acknowledged, but so also was his bad government; for though
he might not have deliberately tyrannized and deceived, yet he had
failed to keep order or fulfil his promises. The Queen was growing
old, and, broken by ill-health and private griefs, took less share than
she was wont in public business. Ferdinand had never liked the
Genoese sailor; moreover he was no longer necessary to royal
schemes and that to the astute King was ever sufficient excuse for
discarding a tool.
Columbus sailed for the fourth time to the lands of his discovery in
1502; but it was to find that Nicholas de Ovando, another royal
protégé, had succeeded Bobadilla in command at Española, while
treachery and ill-luck dogged his own efforts. Bitterness and
suspicion had begun to eat like a canker in his mind, and his letters
are full of querulous reproaches that the bargain he had made was
ill-kept and his due share of the commercial profits denied him. In
1504, he returned home suffering in body and spirit, but no longer to
meet with the sympathy for which he craved. Three weeks after he
arrived at Seville Isabel died and her will, that contained a special
petition for the kindly treatment of the natives, made no mention of
his name.

Writing to his son Diego the Admiral says:

The principal thing is affectionately and with great devotion to commend the
soul of the Queen, Our Lady, to God. Her life was always catholic and holy and
ready for all things of His holy service, and for this reason it may be believed that
she is in His holy glory and beyond the desires of this rough and wearisome world.

In these words lie the confession of his own disillusionment. His

world, once so fair a place of material visions and dreams, had
proved in its essence wearisome; and, clad in the Franciscan habit of
renunciation, he himself, on the 20th of May, 1506, passed
thankfully into the rest of God’s “holy glory.”
“His life,” says Filson Young, “flickered out in the completest
obscurity.” No Peter Martyr eulogized his memory in letters to his
courtly patrons. No grateful country of adoption bestowed on him a
gorgeous funeral. Even the lands he had discovered were destined to
receive their name from another, the Florentine sailor Amerigo
Vespucci, whom he himself had helped on the road to fame.
Posterity is the audience that can alone judge truly the drama of
history, and in the thunder of its applause Columbus has long come
to his own.
 “The world,” says Thacher, “did not observe his final exit from the
stage. Yet he was a great character, one of the greatest ever passing
before the eyes of men.”
 CHAPTER XI
ISABEL AND HER CHILDREN

If it is true that the trappings of the monk often conceal the wearer’s
individuality, it might be added that so also do royal robes. The
contemporary historian is apt to portray his King or Queen garbed in
a cloak of politics, morality, or pageantry, according to his special
enthusiasm; and, unless to his task he brings also the biographer’s
instinct for personality, his likeness though regal and exemplary will
leave the spectator cold. He has forgotten that the abiding measure
of our interest in others is the very humanity he has neglected or
tried to excel.
In the case of “Isabel of Castile” the conventional atmosphere of a
Court is intensified by her own determination to play a royal part.
She rarely forgot that she was Queen. On one occasion the Admiral of
Castile, Ferdinand’s uncle, had ventured to address the King as
nephew; whereupon she, overhearing, reproved him sharply.
“My Lord, the King has no kindred or friends but servants or
subjects!” A petty snub! Unless in judging it we recall the Court of
Henry IV., where Isabel had seen her brother mocked and bullied by
insolent nobles, amongst them a former Admiral of Castile.
Her lifework in building up the reputation of the monarchy must
be carried out in detail as well as on the broad lines of governmental
reform, and the dignity and magnificence of royalty formed part of
the scheme, that aimed at the exaltation of the Crown, not only in the
eyes of Europe but still more of Spain itself. The Castilian grandee
might be losing his official status, the Admiral be no longer essential
to the Fleet, the Constable to the Army, the Duke or Marquis to the
Royal Council; but in the throne-room and ante-chambers of the
palace etiquette more and more demanded their presence. Silken
chains were binding the unruly in a peaceful servitude.
 Pulgar, the historian, commenting on Isabel’s insistence on the
outward forms of state, declared that “it pleased her to be served by
grandees and nobles,” while in another place he mentions her retinue
of the daughters of great families “such that we do not read in the
Chronicles that any Queen had before her.”
A household maintained on this scale and with corresponding
luxury was a costly item in royal expenses and, considering the
chronic deficiencies of the Treasury, was perhaps excessive. Yet
Ferdinand and Isabel were both by nature simple and abstemious in
their tastes, and wont in other matters, as we have seen in the case of
Columbus, to err rather on the side of economy than extravagance.
“A King must outshine his subjects,” says Pulgar with a conviction
born of his intimate knowledge of Spanish character. The easy
familiarity of the Emperor Maximilian, “Max the Penniless,” and his
son might be appreciated in Germany and Flanders; the private thrift
of a Louis XI., or lack of ostentation of a Lorenzo de Medici respected
in France or Florence; but the Castilian nature demanded
magnificence and aloofness in its rulers. Even a Ximenes de Cisneros
had been unable to shake off the outward glory of his office when he
accepted the Archbishopric of Toledo; and Ferdinand and Isabel,
children of their race, were fully alive to the appeal of surroundings
suitable to their rank.
Of the impression made by their magnificence on foreigners we
can gather from the diary of a certain Roger Machado who, in the
capacity of king-at-arms, accompanied an English embassy to the
Spanish Court at Medina del Campo in 1488. “People speak,” he says,
“of the honour done to Ambassadors in England; but it is not to be
compared to the honour which is done to Ambassadors in the
kingdom of Castile.”
The torchlight procession that accompanied them from their
lodgings to their evening reception at the palace; the majesty and
condescension of the sovereigns; the speeches, dances, bull-fights,
tourneys; each in turn arouses his admiration; but it is in his account
of the costumes and jewellery that his diary really reaches its apogee
of enthusiasm. The King is “dressed in a rich robe of cloth-of-gold,
woven entirely of gold, and furred with a rich trimming of fine sable.”
The Queen has “a rich robe of the same woven cloth-of-gold ... and
over the said robe a riding-hood of black velvet, all slashed in large
holes so as to show under the said velvet the cloth-of-gold in which
she is dressed.” She wears “crosswise over her left side ... a short
cloak of fine crimson satin furred with ermine, very handsome in
appearance and very brilliant.”

ISABEL OF CASTILE

CARVED WOODEN STATUE FROM

THE CATHEDRAL AT GRANADA

FROM “A QUEEN OF QUEENS” BY

CHRISTOPHER HARE, PUBLISHED BY
MESSRS. HARPER

Roger Machado, had he lived to-day, would surely have made his
fortune as journalist of some fashion-weekly; but even his facile pen
finds it difficult to express adequately the splendour of the Queen’s
jewellery,—her necklace of gold and jewelled roses,—the ribbon at
her breast adorned with diamonds, rubies, and pearls,—the pouch of
her white leather girdle set “with a large balass ruby the size of a
tennis-ball between five rich diamonds and other stones the size of a
bean.”
“Truly, as I believe,” he comments, “and also as I heard it said at
the time, I estimate the dress she then wore at the value of 200,000
crowns of gold”; while on another occasion he declares her dress so
rich that “there is no man who can well imagine what could be the
value of it.”
At a somewhat similar reception of a French embassy, tales of the
Queen’s magnificence evidently spread through Spain; and Fra
Fernando de Talavera, Archbishop of Granada, though no longer her
official Father-Confessor, felt bound to write and remonstrate. Isabel
was, however, able to offer a good defence, declaring that neither the
dresses of herself nor her ladies had been new,—indeed her own
“made of silk and with three bands of gold as plainly as possible,” she
had worn before in Aragon in the presence of these same Frenchmen.
If some of the men’s garments were costly, it had not been by her
orders, rather she had done her uttermost to discountenance it.
She might have mentioned also how, in the critical stages of the
Moorish war, she had pledged the crown jewels to merchants of
Barcelona, thus showing that for all her appreciation of the luxuries
of dress, they did not rank for a second in her thoughts with more
important considerations.
Her magnificence like her severity was calculated and the same
might be said of her liberality. She had seen money wasted on ne’er-
do-wells and was fully determined that no man, merely because he
was powerful or plausible, should prey on her revenues; while for the
regular type of Court-flatterer hunting for sinecures her contempt
amounted to aversion. Galindez Carvajal tells us in his chronicle that
she and Ferdinand kept a book in which they wrote down the names
of those at Court whom they thought most capable and worthy of
reward, consulting it whenever an office fell vacant, and that they did
not hesitate to prefer prudent men of the middle-class to the highly-
born incompetent. Their actual gifts, though scarcely lavish, were
sufficient to cause satisfaction, and Lucio Marineo declares that
“when between the King and Queen there was discussion as to the
fitting reward of any particular service, she on her part always gave
more than the sum on which the two had determined.”
 Ferdinand was not unlike his contemporary, Henry VII. of
England, according to Ayala, the Spanish Ambassador’s description
of that monarch: “If gold once enters his strong boxes it never comes
out again. He pays in depreciated coin.”
Against this criticism may be set Machiavelli’s praise: “If the
present King of Spain had desired to be thought liberal, he would not
have been able to contrive, nor would he have succeeded in so many
undertakings.”
It is pleasant to turn from calculated policy to uncalculated
enthusiasm; and this may be truly said of Isabel’s love of her faith.
Both she and the King were strict in the outward observances of
catholicism, and every morning would find Ferdinand at Mass before
he broke his fast, while we are told that on Maundy Thursday his
servants would seek out twelve of the poorest of his subjects and that
he would serve them at supper and wash their feet. Isabel herself
would recite the hours every day like a priest; and, for all the whirl of
ceremonies and duties in which she found herself involved, she
would make time for special devotions so that it seemed to those
about her that her life was “contemplative rather than active.”
Her marked individuality, and the respect she inspired in
Ferdinand, had completely changed the character of the Court from
the old licentious days of Henry IV.; priests of the type of Ximenes
and Fra Fernando de Talavera thronged her ante-chambers; and
courtiers, when they saw her coming, would walk with eyes cast
down in the hope of establishing a reputation for sanctity.
Their hypocrisy can have brought them little. The Queen might be
a saint in her private life; but those who think saints necessarily fools
stand convicted of folly themselves. She was too shrewd a judge of
character to desire to change her Court into a convent, and her
letters to Fra Fernando de Talavera, while breathing affection and
admiration yet venture occasionally to question the suitability to
herself and her surroundings of his standard of asceticism.

It is my wish that not only in matters of importance but in all that concern these
kingdoms you should give me your advice; ... and this I do most earnestly beg, that
you will not cease from writing your opinion on the ground that these things do not
concern you since you are no longer here; for well I know that although absent
your counsel will be worth more to me than that of another present.
 She then goes on to thank him for the reproofs he had
administered on the score of the too-great gaiety at Court and to
assure him that in explaining certain matters she is not seeking to
free herself from blame.

As for the French people supping with the ladies at table, that is a thing they are
accustomed to do. They do not get the custom from us; but, when their great guests
dine with sovereigns, the others in their train dine at tables in the hall with the
ladies and gentlemen; and there are no separate tables for ladies. The
Burgundians, the English, and the Portuguese also follow this custom; and we on
similar occasions to this.... I say this that you may see there was no innovation in
what we did, nor did we think we were doing anything wrong in it.... But if it be
found wrong after the inquiry I will make, it will be better to discontinue it in
future.... As for the bull-fights, I feel with you, though perhaps not quite so
strongly. But after I had consented to them, I had the fullest determination never
to attend them again in my life nor to be where they were held.

One of Queen Isabel’s biographers on the contrary tells us that the

Queen admired this national pastime for the skill and courage it
demanded, a statement it is difficult to reconcile with the avowed
distaste in her own letter. Perhaps her enthusiasm was evoked after
the adoption of her device to place false horns, turned points
inwards, on the horns of the bull, that the frequent loss of human life
might be prevented. It was hardly a suggestion to win her popularity
with her subjects, whose enjoyment of a spectacle was always
proportionate to its risks. Isabel herself did not lack the true sporting
instinct, for the chroniclers record a bear-hunt in the woods near
Madrid, where one of the most ferocious of the beasts fell a trophy to
her javelin.
Courage, the natural heritage of her race, her will and pride
exalted almost to a fetish; and Pulgar tells us that “even in the hour
of childbirth she disguised her sufferings and forced herself neither
to show nor utter the pain that in that hour women are wont to feel
and manifest.”
Her reserve was deep, in all that concerned her innermost
thoughts almost like a curtain veiling some sanctuary, that she felt
would be profaned by other eyes, but now and then torn back for the
moment by the stress of some sudden emotion. Her agony of mind
was obvious after the attempted murder of Ferdinand in Barcelona
in August, 1492. The assassin, a madman who believed the King’s
death would result in his own accession to the throne, had hurled
himself on his victim from behind, as he was descending the palace
stairway, inflicting a deep wound in his neck. This, though not fatal,
was aggravated by fever, and for many days the King’s life hung in
the balance.

And on the seventh day [wrote the Queen to Fra Fernando] the fever reached its
climax, so that we were then in fear greater than all that through which we had
previously passed; and this lasted a day and a night of which I will not say that
which Saint Gregory said in the Office for Holy Saturday, more than that it was a
night of hell; so that you may believe, Father, never was the like seen amongst the
people at any time, for officials ceased their work, and none paused to speak with
another. All was pilgrimages, processions, and almsgiving, and more hearing of
confessions than ever in Holy Week.

Ferdinand was popular in Barcelona, and the Council of Justice

there condemned his assassin to a death of ghastly torment, of which
tearing the flesh with red-hot pincers formed but a part. One is
thankful that Isabel issued a special command ordering the man to
be beheaded before this barbarous sentence was enacted.
Her love for Ferdinand was the strongest of her personal
affections, growing rather than diminishing as the years passed, so
that, dying, she sought that she should not be parted from him for
long.

Let my body be interred in the monastery of San Francisco, which is in the

Alhambra of the city of Granada, ... but I desire and command that, if the King, My
Lord, should choose a sepulchre in any church or monastery in any other part or
place of these my kingdoms, my body be translated thither and buried beside the
body of His Highness.

Her wish is fulfilled, and the Catholic sovereigns lie side by side in
the Royal Chapel of Granada; but the love she gave in such
ungrudging measure was never fully returned. Isabel was fair in her
youth, not beautiful perhaps, but graceful and dignified, with soft
chestnut-coloured hair, and blue-green eyes that looked out candidly
upon the world; and to Ferdinand, arriving in disguise at Valladolid,
his blood set on fire by romance and excitement, she had seemed a
bride very worthy of his chivalrous care. Later he learned to respect
and admire her both as his wife and Queen, to love her even after his
fashion; but he was temperamentally cold and self-centred, and the
age set no high standard of fidelity. The chronicles record that he had
four illegitimate children by different mothers, of whom one,
Alfonso, became Archbishop of Saragossa; and Isabel was destined to
suffer bitterly from a jealousy intensified by her pride and strength of
will.

TOMB OF FERDINAND AND ISABEL

FROM NERVO’S “ISABELLE LA

CATHOLIQUE”

Her private life was not, however, unhappy, at least in those years
when her own children were growing up around her, and she could
find time amid the many cares of state to superintend their education
and build dream kingdoms round their future. Her ambitions and
Ferdinand’s were alike centred on their only son, Prince John, whose
birth in Seville on June 30, 1478, we have mentioned in an earlier
chapter.
“My angel” Isabel would playfully call the boy, alluding to his fair
skin and halo of curls; and she spared no pains in moulding his
character that he might one day satisfy her ideal of kingship. The
retinue that attended the little Prince of Asturias was in miniature a
counterpart of the elaborate household of officials and servants that
surrounded his father and mother; and, while from this environment
he imbibed a sense of the grandeur and aloofness of his position, he
also learned early the lesson of regal responsibility.
As president of a miniature Council of State, he listened to
frequent discussions of the economic and political problems of the
day by men chosen for their ability and experience; but it must not
be imagined that such strong diet was alone provided for his mental
digestion. Youth cries out for the companionship of youth; and
Isabel, recognizing the wisdom of this decree of nature, established a
class of ten boys, five older and five of his own age, against whose
wits the heir to the throne might sharpen his intellect in healthy
competition.
His love of music, inheritance from his grandfather, John II. of
Castile, was encouraged and developed; and often in the evenings the
choir boys of the Royal Chapel would assemble in his room, and he
and they sing together; or on other occasions he would summon his
musicians and play on the organ, or on one of the stringed
instruments of the day. Musical proficiency was a sure road to his
interest and regard.
In his position as heir to the Spanish dominions, it was natural
that Prince John’s life should stand more in the limelight of publicity
than his sisters’: but their education was in fact scarcely less
considered and planned than his. The Queen had always possessed
an intense admiration for classical learning; and it was one of
Ferdinand’s regrets that civil war had called him from the
schoolroom to the camp, when he could do little more than read and
write. He never understood Latin, the common language of cultured
Europe; but Isabel made time to study its grammar and composition
with Beatriz de Galindo, a famous teacher of her own sex, on whom
the Court had bestowed the appropriate nickname “La Latina.”
This course of education the Queen pursued with her usual
thoroughness and determination; and, if she did not achieve the true
scholar’s facility in translation and speech, she was at any rate able to
understand the orations of foreign ambassadors, and to interpret to
her husband the letters of the young Italian diplomat, Peter Martyr,
who took so lively an interest in her student’s career.