By Anna Belfrage
She should have stayed in the shadows—but Leonor de Guzmán yearned for the sun
Castile in the 1330s is a place of constant turmoil. King Alfonso must contend with the incursions from the Muslim Marinids eager to reclaim Al-Andalus while struggling with repeated rebellions against his firm rule.
When Alfonso needs respite, he finds it in the arms of his Leonor—the most beautiful woman in the realm. But while he may love Leonor over all others, his lawful wife, Maria of Portugal, is tired of being constantly displaced by the fair Leonor.
Leonor loves her man. She gives him healthy sons, a place to be himself. But she is only a mistress, even if Alfonso treats her like a queen. Leonor’s enemies watch and hate.
Flying too close to the sun comes at a high price. How much will Leonor’s love cost her?
Based on the true story of Alfonso XI and his complicated relationships to wife and life-long mistress.
Praise for Queen of Shadows:
"Belfrage demonstrates a keen awareness of how power operates—not only through laws and titles, but through relationships, perceptions, and the fragile balance between influence and legitimacy. Her prose is measured and evocative, allowing the emotional weight of events to unfold naturally without diminishing their impact. The historical setting is rendered with careful attention to detail, creating a world that feels both authentic and immediate."
~ Yarde Book Promotions, 5* Editorial Review
Excerpt
They’d been so young, she and Alfonso. Sí, he’d bedded plenty of women before her, but in matters of the heart they were both utter innocents. He knew a lot about lust and desire. She did not. Neither of them knew about love, about the absolute joy and devastating pain it could bring.
Rarely did they meet over the coming months. When they did, they danced like moths around a flame. She did not think he set out to do more than seduce her, but during those first few months, something happened, and what had begun as a constant, aching desire had converted into something else, a sense of destiny, of fate.
Leonor grimaced. That sensation had faded quickly when he wed María, late in 1328. To this day, she could recall the pain, the desolation, that had her bedridden for days after he rode off to celebrate his nuptials. At the time, she’d been blind to his pain, angry with him for betraying her. Now, she knew he’d had no choice. He had to wed so as to strengthen the alliance with Portugal. Of course, one could question if that had been a wise decision; Alfonso made no secret of who had his heart, and the relationship with his father-in-law was a thorny, dangerous thing.
Leonor sighed. Loudly did King Afonso of Portugal complain about the treatment of his daughter—so enraged he openly supported Don Juan Manuel and his fellow rebels—just as loudly did some of the Castilian nobles grumble about the lack of a second legitimate son, especially given Infante Fernando’s frailty. At some point . . . No, no, she did not want to think about it! She tightened her hold on her babe, causing him to utter an indignant wail.
“Mistress?” Alma lifted Sancho out of Leonor’s arms and shushed him.
“It’s nothing. Nothing.” Nothing? Her soul howled in despair. He is mine! Only mine! But he wasn’t—not entirely. Most would say he was María’s. He would say she had his heart, but María had a right to demand he do his duty.
Sometimes, she wished she didn’t love Alfonso. Sometimes, she wondered what her life would have been like if she’d never met him, this force of nature that so easily dominated whatever room he entered, who rode as well as he fought, who was loud and boisterous but also thoughtful and caring.
A man easily dismissed as volatile and headstrong, who excelled at keeping his own counsel and rarely revealed just what his intentions were before acting upon them.
A man ruthless enough to assassinate those he considered threats, but with endless patience and gentleness towards those he loved.
As if her thoughts had conjured him, Alfonso was suddenly at her door. He was bareheaded, his light brown hair ruffled and messy. He brought with him the scents of forest and sea, of water and sun. Tucked into his belt was his falconer’s glove, and one of his favourite hounds came padding after him.
“A good day?”
“Very.” He leaned against the doorjamb and smiled at her. “Even better now.”
Six years on, and he could still make her blush just by the tone of his voice.
“Alma?” She did not look away from her man. “Take Sancho to his nurse.”
“Sí, Doña Leonor.”
The young girl darted off, clutching her charge to her chest.
Leonor patted the bed. “Come here, my love.”
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Anna Belfrage
“This is what all historical fiction should be like. Superb.”
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